Statute of Limitations

by Steven F Havill

  Gastner heaved himself to his feet. “You can’t always tell by a phone voice,” he said. “Lots of barriers go up.” He looked at the clock. “If you’re finished with me, I need to go home,” he said. “I have a few things to do. Then I need to get cleaned up for an evening soiree.”

  “Sorry, sir,” she said. “Someone once taught me that once things get rolling, there’s no letup. I don’t think anybody’s going to be relaxing much until we find Mike—and his father.”

  “You don’t need my help for that.” Estelle heard the fatigue in his voice. “It’s five fifteen now. What time do you want me to show up? Or do you want a raincheck?” He frowned at her. “You going to take some time to eat?”

  “Los hijos are expecting, you, Padrino.”

  “Ah,” Gastner said. “They just want a music critic.”

  “No doubt, sir. How about six thirty?”

  “I’ll pencil it in on my busy calendar. You’re sure there’s nothing you need me to do?”

  “I don’t think so. Right now, it’s hide and seek.”

  “It’s a small county. You’ll find ’em.”

  “I hope so, Padrino.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “See you in a little bit,” Bill Gastner said. He paused, car door open and one boot out on the gravel of his driveway as he sifted through his keys for the one that fit the front door of his house. “Take a breather now. Give it a rest for a few minutes. Collect your thoughts. You’ve got every cop in the state on pins and needles now. Let them earn their pay.” He grinned. “God, I’m good at giving advice.”

  He turned and looked at Estelle, and the grin broadened. “You’re wired, sweetheart.”

  “Wired?”

  “Wound up. Poised for the chase. Ready to go. This doesn’t bode well for a relaxed dinner with family.” He glanced at his watch. “Six thirty. You got an hour to stew.”

  “Yes, sir. You, too.”

  He pointed at the front door. “I am home. No stewing for me. I gave that up a long time ago.” A grin twitched the corners of his mouth and he reached out and patted Estelle’s forearm. “This is going to work out.”

  “One way or another,” Estelle said. “It’s harder when it’s family.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Gastner’s hand tapped the doorsill as if he had something else to say, but then thought better of it. “Mike has a good heart,” he said. “Trust him a little bit.”

  She nodded.

  “Be careful, sweetheart.”

  “You bet.” He got out and shut the door, lifting his hand to the brim of his baseball cap in salute. Estelle watched him trudge toward the front door. The headlights weren’t much use in the late afternoon dusk, and she swiveled the spotlight this way and that, peering into dark corners of the courtyard. He keyed the massive, carved front door, and then turned to nod at her again. When the door closed behind him, she backed the car away and headed out on Guadalupe.

  At the intersection with Escondido, she turned right out of habit, letting the car drift east on Guadalupe through the winter twilight toward her husband’s medical clinic and pharmacy. The swing-by had become habit after two attempted break-ins during the past year. Situated in the quiet, dimly lit south end of town, on the back side of a five-acre lot that Bill Gastner had given to the Guzmans, the clinic and pharmacy could be an attractive target—at least until intruders ran into the heavily barred, small windows and comprehensive alarm system.

  One of the attempts had been made by a forty-seven-year-old vagrant who had been passing by on the interstate, huge knapsack laden with all his worldly possessions. He had paused at the Posadas exit to work his stranded, will work for food, god bless sign for a couple of hours, and later told the deputy who’d arrested him that he’d seen the clinic’s sign through a thin copse of elms. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he had told the deputy as he was handcuffed and loaded into the back of the Expedition, his knapsack and sign crammed in behind the seat.

  Estelle pulled into the spacious macadam parking lot and swung around, her lights flashing on two vehicles. One was the new Subaru Outback that she knew belonged to Lonnie Duarte, the pharmacist whom her husband and Dr. Perrone had hired a month or two before. That Lonnie would be working at the drug store an hour after closing time on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t surprising.

  Parked beside Lonnie’s Subaru was a contractor’s late-model pickup, with heavy side boxes and a headache rack that supported two ladders and a selection of PVC pipe sections. Estelle stopped, her first thought being that the clinic had managed to operate only a month between visits from a plumber before something went wrong again with its copper and plastic innards. The new building had proven about as healthy as an overweight sixty-year-old on nine different medications.

  Swinging into the next space, she pushed the car’s gear lever into Park and activated her cell phone. “Ernie,” she said, when Wheeler answered at the sheriff’s department, “I’ll be at the clinic for a few minutes with Lonnie.” She was pleased to hear the sound of his voice. Maybe Gayle had been able to talk her husband into going home for a while.

  “Ten four,” the dispatcher said. “You coming back in here tonight?”

  “Probably—after dinner sometime. Why?”

  “Just wondered, is all.”

  She was about to break the connection when she hesitated, her tired brain finally interpreting what she was seeing. Posadas had at least two reputable plumbing contractors, and Drs. Guzman and Perrone had always made a point of hiring them. Why would they then call—or ask Lonnie to call—a contractor from Deming, especially for a nighttime emergency?

  “Ay,” Estelle whispered. Deming. She gazed at the truck for a long moment. What was the nature of coincidence? Deming, less than forty miles east, was the nearest city of any consequence.

  She glanced at the dashboard clock. At 5:36 p.m., the pharmacy had been closed for more than an hour.... If a contractor passing through had stopped for a refilled prescription, or a bottle of aspirin, he would have been long since on his way. That someone had found a plumber who would respond to a call on Sunday afternoon was in itself remarkable.

  “Ernie, run a plate for me, okay?”

  “You got it. Go ahead when you’re ready.”

  “I’m looking at New Mexico November Charlie Thomas seven one one.”

  “Just a sec,” Wheeler said, and then in the background she heard another call, this one on the radio. “Stand by, three oh two,” Wheeler responded.

  “Don’t make him wait,” she said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wheeler said, and for the next few seconds he and Deputy Pasquale exchanged numbers, Pasquale snooping into dark corners and working traffic on State 56 just south of the village.

  After a moment, the dispatcher came back on the phone. “Estelle, November Charlie Thomas seven one one should show on a commercial vehicle, a white 2003 Chevy three-quarter ton. It’s registered to Bruce Wilcox, doing business as Peerless Plumbing and Heating.” He rattled off the address. “Negative wants or warrants.”

  “Thanks, Brent. I’ll be with the owner of that vehicle at the clinic. Apparently he’s inside with Lonnie.”

  “Ten four.”

  She pocketed the phone, picked up her heavy flashlight, and switched off the car, locking it behind her as she got put. Walking on the narrow sidewalk, she skirted the building and arrived at the front door. Through one of the narrow, grilled windows, she could see the top of Lonnie Duarte’s round, fuzzy-haired head back in the pharmacy. The rest of the store was dark. Lonnie reached up and made a notation in a large ring binder that lay on top of the counter. He was obviously alone, intent on his work.

  Estelle retraced her steps to the clinic’s side entrance, a plain, windowless door marked employees only. In a moment, she found the correct key and let he
rself in.

  Lonnie’s head appeared around the corner, and a broad smile of recognition lit up his pleasant features.

  “Well, hi there. Did you forget something?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” She closed the door behind her. “You’re working late.”

  “Always, always,” Lonnie said. “It amazes me how much paperwork there is, all the time.”

  Estelle nodded agreeably. “There’s a truck parked outside, next to your car.”

  “There is?”

  “A plumbing contractor’s truck. Was he in here earlier for something?”

  “No. No one like that. At least I don’t think so.”

  Estelle frowned. “He could have come in earlier...” She let the sentence trail off. If the plumber had come in earlier, he’d be gone by now. If the truck had broken down, someone would have towed it away.

  “Just wondered,” she said. “I was just swinging by and noticed it.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Lonnie said. “Maybe it’s a Christmas present from a grateful patient.”

  “Don’t you wish. You have a good night.” Estelle left the same way she had come, and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, regarding the truck. Frowning, she backed away, moving out into the parking lot for a different perspective. With an electric jolt, the memory flooded back. This wasn’t the first time she had seen this truck—or at least one very much like it.

  At the Posadas Inn motel, a white utility truck had been one of the vehicles parked outside the rooms...just a few spaces down from Todd Willis’s battered loaner van.

  Moving quickly, Estelle returned to her own vehicle, dialing the office as she did so.

  “Ernie, are you clear for a minute?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Check the Deming phone directory for a listing for Bruce Wilcox, and also Peerless Plumbing and Heating, please.”

  “You got it.”

  She could hear him humming tunelessly as he scrolled through the electronic pages. “I have a Bruce and Alma Wilcox on Rincon Drive. Is that the one? It’s the only Bruce Wilcox listed.”

  “We’ll see.” He gave her the number, as well as the two listings for Peerless Plumbing and Heating. “Thanks, Ernie. What’s Tom’s twenty now? Still south of the Spur?”

  “He’s out at mile marker thirty-one on State 56. A confused tourist, I think. He was going to head on down and check both the saloon and a couple of places in Regál when he finished up. He says that one of Mike’s buddies lives down that way. Art Sanchez?”

  “Okay. When he’s clear, have Tomás start up this way.”

  “Where do you want to meet him?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Just have him stay central until I get back to you.”

  “You got it. Captain Mitchell is right over on Bustos. He and Lieutenant Adams are checking all the alleys and stuff. And Jackie’s over making sure the school complex is clear.”

  “That’s good,” Estelle said. “I’ll let you know.” When she dialed the number for Wilcox, the phone was answered on the second ring by an answering machine, and then almost immediately that was cut off. A brusque voice said, “Yup?”

  “Mr. Wilcox?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sir, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman over in Posadas. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  “In Posadas, you said?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Well, what can I do for you?” He sounded as if he was eating something while he talked, and Estelle could hear a television in the background.

  “Sir, let me make sure I have the right party. Are you owner of Peerless Plumbing and Heating?”

  “Sure am.”

  “I was curious about one of your trucks that’s parked over here in Posadas.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “One of your trucks, sir.”

  “Marko, turn that thing down,” Wilcox shouted without bothering to cover the telephone mouthpiece. “Now, say again?” he said to Estelle.

  “One of your trucks is parked at a business here in town, and the driver isn’t with the vehicle. Does one of your staff live over here, or were they over here shopping? Something like that?”

  “I don’t think so,” Wilcox said.

  “How many employees do you have, sir?”

  “Just five of us at the moment. We’re a little short-handed. But listen, I don’t understand this thing about one of my trucks.”

  “A white 2003 Chevy three-quarter ton, sir. License November Thomas Charlie seven one one. It’s got toolboxes on the side of the bed, a couple ladders, and a small load of PVC pipe. It looks like somebody’s doing a job over here or something. Except no one’s around. The truck is untended.” She stepped out of her car, and walked the length of the white pickup. With a great deal of care, she reached out and opened the driver’s door. “It’s also unlocked,” she said. She leaned inside without making any contact and inhaled deeply. The smell of whiskey was pungent. As if her response was triggered by that aroma, she closed the truck’s door and then turned quickly in place, surveying the shadows of the parking lot.

  “Huh,” Wilcox said, and then there was silence for a heartbeat. “Oh...,” and he chuckled quickly. “I’m sorry—this just slipped my mind. One of the boys borrowed that to pick up some stuff over there the other day.” The relief at solving the mystery was palpable in his tone. “Hank had a couple of errands he needed to run up that way, and I loaned him the truck. He said he had some furniture to move. Something like that.”

  “Hank, sir?”

  “Hank Sisneros.” He laughed again. “He used to live over that way, I guess. He asked if he could use the truck, and with the holiday and all, I thought, ‘What the hell.’ No big deal.”

  “Ah.”

  “But you said the truck’s abandoned? I don’t understand what that’s all about.”

  “Well, parked, sir. At a local business that’s closed. No driver.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. He’ll turn up, I guess. Old Hank, he likes the bottle. You might check one of the watering holes.”

  “I’ll do that, sir. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem.” Oh yes, it’s a problem, Estelle thought. “You know what he looks like, dontcha?” Wilcox said. “He’s short, kinda wiry. Mexican fella, I think. No wetback, though.”

  “An older man?”

  “Well,” and Wilcox laughed again. “That depends on your point of view, Sheriff. I would guess that he’s about fifty-five. I don’t consider that to be particularly old anymore. You sound like you might, though.”

  “Thanks for your help, sir.”

  “No problem. I guess the good news is that if he’s wrapped himself around a bottle somewhere, at least he isn’t driving my truck.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you run into him, tell him to bring my truck the hell back here. We got jobs to do in the morning.”

  “I’ll do that, sir.” Estelle switched off and stood quietly beside the truck. She reached up with her left hand to rub the back of her neck, and realized the odd feeling was the hair on the nape of her neck standing erect.

  Her heart thumping in her ears, she returned to the car and looked through her log. On Friday night, Tony Abeyta and Jackie Taber were the deputies who had been assigned to talk with the rest of the motel’s patrons.

  She punched in Jackie Taber’s number, and the deputy answered promptly.

  “Jackie,” Estelle said. “On Friday night, when you and Tony talked with the other patrons at the motel? I need to know about the owner of the white contractor’s truck that was parked there.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, forcing her memory. “Willis’s van, then the sports car, and the white truck. Down a
few spaces.”

  “Nobody was in that room,” Jackie replied. She hesitated. “We didn’t talk to ’em.”

  “No one there, but the truck was?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you remember how the plate came back?”

  “Just a sec.” Estelle could hear the rustle of paper. “The tag was November Thomas Charlie seven one one. Appears on a white 2003 Chevy three-quarter ton. Registered to Bruce Wilcox out of Deming.”

  “Ay, he was there,” Estelle whispered.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Hank Sisneros was driving that truck,” Estelle said. “I’ve got it over here in the pharmacy parking lot. Just the truck. No Sisneros.”

  “I’m on my way,” Jackie said.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on,” Estelle said. She could hear the sound of the deputy’s vehicle in the background. “But I think I’ve got an idea. Silent approach, Jackie. Stop at the trailer park on Escondido. Okay? He doesn’t know we’re here, and I don’t want him to know.”

  “Copy that. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  What was now the parking lot of the clinic had formerly been a tangle of choked undergrowth. Guadalupe Trail curved around the five acres that had been Bill Gastner’s backyard, but now asphalt replaced the stunted oak, thistle, New Mexico olive, and ragged juniper. A narrow hedge of those unruly plants, perhaps fifty feet wide, separated the back border of the parking lot from the weeds around what had once been Gastner’s flagstone back patio—before he had stopped trying to keep up with the invasion.

  Estelle stood between her county car and the plumber’s truck, surveying the parking lot, listening to the gentle breeze and the occasional hiss of traffic on the interstate a block to the north. Through the hedge, Estelle could see the faint glow from Gastner’s kitchen window. She dialed dispatch again.

  “Ernie, I’ll be out of the car at Gastner’s for a few minutes. Is Tom clear yet?”

  “He is. He’s inbound now.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to him. You’ll hear him say that he’s headed to Regál for a few minutes. Just acknowledge that, Ernie.”