Dead Weight pc-8

by Steven F Havill

  Kenny glanced at his wristwatch. “That’s where he said he was headed. His car’s on the fritz and he was hunting around for some part. He borrowed my Jeep to run a couple of errands.”

  “And then he came back and got his own car?”

  Kenny nodded and shrugged. “I guess he found what he needed.”

  “I guess he did,” I said. “We’ll check there,” I added, and started to turn away.

  “Store’s closed now, though. At six,” Kenny offered. “That’s why he was going to do some work. After-hours. He kinda likes to do that, especially when Mom’s out.”

  “I see,” I said, and regarded Kenny for a moment. If he was lying, if he actually knew what his father was up to, he deserved an Academy Award. “Thanks.”

  The undersheriff and I met in the middle of the street.

  “Kenny said his father was heading for the store.”

  “The store’s locked up,” Torrez said. “Mears is keeping an eye on it, but Sam’s car isn’t there. No sign of anyone inside.”

  “What did Howard find out at the Posadas Inn?”

  “He hasn’t called in,” Torrez said. He opened his cell phone, clicked it on, and waited while the circuits did their thing.

  “Any luck?” Bob said, and then frowned while he waited. I could imagine Howard Bishop’s slow, measured tones, never too excited about anything. “You’re sure,” Bob said and nodded as if the sergeant could hear the head motion, then added, “Probably you ought to stay down at that end.” He snapped the phone shut. “Nothing.”

  “He could have used another name,” I said. “He’s well known, all right, but if the right kid was working the registration desk, he wouldn’t know Sam from Adam.”

  “Howard said he’s going to go through the register one name at a time and check the vehicle registrations. Maybe he’ll turn up something.”

  “So,” I said, hands on hips and standing squarely in the middle of Ridgeway, “where the hell did he go? If he wants to be home by the time his wife is finished with her bowling, then he’s got until about nine o’clock.” I glanced at my watch. “Two hours and fifteen minutes. If he was taking the girl out of town, that’s not enough time.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Maybe he’s got a friend somewhere,” I said. “If Sam wanted to be discreet and rent a room, then the Posadas Inn is just about it…the only game in town. If it’s somewhere private, who the hell knows. Put out a bulletin for the vehicle. He doesn’t have much of a head start if he was heading out of town.”

  “Been there, done that,” Torrez said. “He’s not going to go anywhere on the interstate or the major state highways.”

  “And if he’s smart, he’s kicking dust somewhere on a dirt road,” I said.

  “To where?”

  I grinned. “Hell of a good question.” Torrez’s cell phone chirped again and he had it out and to his ear before I could tell him the damn thing was ringing.

  “Yo,” he said, and listened intently. I saw a grin starting to spread across his face. “Outstanding,” he said, turning toward his vehicle. “We’ll be there in about two minutes. Wait for us. And make sure Gayle is there.”

  Torrez was yanking open the door of his car even as he said over his shoulder to me, “He didn’t reserve a room today, sir.” He grinned. “It was yesterday evening. The night auditor remembers the call.”

  Two minutes was an exaggeration. We hit the parking lot of the Posadas Inn so fast we practically went airborne. Sgt. Howard Bishop was standing on the concrete skirt that wrapped around the building. As I got out of the car, he held up a key.

  “Room two-oh-seven. The night auditor said that Sam Carter reserved the room for two days for his brother and sister-in-law.”

  I heard another engine and turned in time to see Tom Pasquale pull in beside 310, with Gayle Torrez riding shotgun. “Let’s go visit this brother and sister-in-law,” I said. As Tom fell in step beside me, I said, “I thought you were supposed to be moving.”

  “We are, sir. But I checked in with Dispatch and there was so much going on that I figured I’d better get in on it.” He grinned.

  We found the outside stairway, tucked in beside the soda and ice machines, and Torrez and Pasquale were up the stairs and padding down the hallway before I’d taken five steps. Room 215 sat on the corner by the stairs, with 207 just about halfway down the hall.

  A DO NOT DISTURB sign was hooked over the doorknob.

  Bishop had the key in hand, but I held up a hand. “Why don’t we just knock?” I said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom Pasquale drift off to one side, and his hand was on the butt of his service automatic. If he drew the damn thing, I didn’t want him standing behind me.

  I rapped on the door just loud enough that the occupant, if there was one, would hear it even if in the bathroom. There was no response, and I knocked again. This time, a small voice said, “Who is it?” The three words were enough. I could picture the kid standing on the other side of the heavy door, scared and alone. It sure as hell wasn’t Carter’s sister-in-law.

  I glanced at Gayle and she nodded. “Jennifer? It’s Sheriff Gastner.” That brought no response, and I added, “We met down at your grandpa’s place. Remember? Yesterday, or whenever it was?” I tried to imagine what the girl was doing while the crowd of law enforcement types stood outside her door. Unless she wanted to climb out the window, this was her only exit.

  “Jennifer? Are you all right? You need to open the door.”

  She didn’t answer, and Howard reached out with the key. I didn’t know why, but at the moment it seemed important to me that Jennifer open the door herself, if she could. I waved Bishop off and said, “Jennifer, it’s over. Nobody else is coming. It’s just us. Your mother’s waiting for you.”

  I tipped my head, listening hard. I thought I could hear the padding of feet coming across the carpet. Sure enough, the dead bolt snicked back and the door opened an couple of inches against the security chain. Jennifer Sisson’s round face peered out, and I felt such a surge of relief that an audible groan escaped from me.

  “You OK?” I said. How any scared kid stuck by herself in a motel room could be OK looking out into a hallful of sober-faced strangers was beyond me. She managed a small nod. “Gayle and I want to come in, all right?”

  Jennifer pushed the door shut, slipped the chain, and then pulled it open. I stepped into the room, and Gayle slipped in and wrapped an arm protectively around the girl. “Did Sam say that he was coming back in a little bit?” I asked.

  “Sam who?” She was a rotten liar. “I don’t know any Sam.” She retreated back to one of the black vinyl chairs tucked under the window table.

  “Sam Carter picked you up at the burger place across the street from your house. He reserved this room yesterday, sweetheart. So yes. You know Sam Carter. When’s he coming back? Tonight sometime?”

  “Yes.” I saw the blush spread up her neck, turning her plump cheeks crimson. “He said he’d be right back.”

  “Did he tell you who he was going to get?”

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “And then what? Where were you going after that?”

  “Nowhere,” Jennifer said, almost inaudibly. “Just home. I told Mom I’d be out for a while. I figured she wouldn’t care all that much.”

  “Well, she does. She cares about you and she cares about the baby. I wonder…” Jennifer didn’t have a chance to learn what I wondered. The small handheld radio on my belt barked loudly, “Three ten, three oh seven on channel three.”

  I pulled the radio off the clip and keyed the mike. “Go ahead, three oh seven.”

  “Three ten, be advised that a black Ford Explorer, license three-seven-three Victor Charlie Kilo, is parked on Rincon Avenue, just behind the Register.”

  “That’s a just a block north of the supermarket,” I said to no one in particular. “Three oh seven, are there any occupants?”

  “Negative, three ten. The back door of the
store is unlatched, though.”

  “Stay put. We’ll be there in about a minute and a half. If the owner of the vehicle shows up, take him into custody.”

  “Ten-four.”

  I pulled the door open and beckoned to Tom Pasquale. “Thomas, you and Gayle take Miss Sisson home. Gayle, you stay at the Sissons’ until you hear from me. I don’t care what Mrs. Sisson does or doesn’t say. And, Thomas, as soon as you’ve dropped them off and you’ve made sure that Deputy Taber is with them, post yourself over at the Carters’ place on Ridgeway. I don’t want Kenny going anywhere until this mess is sorted out. If he argues, take him into custody.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turned to Bishop. “Howard, you need to stay here in case someone shows up. Who the hell knows. Whoever it is, take ’em into custody, too, and charge ’em with conspiracy for starters. Hell, we might as well just round up the whole goddamn town.” I took Torrez by the elbow. “Let’s see what Carter’s up to.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  We didn’t waste any time. At thirty-two minutes after six, I pulled into the empty parking lot of Sam Carter’s supermarket. Monday through Thursday, the place opened at 6:00 a.m. and closed twelve hours later. On Friday and Saturday, the store stayed open until 8:00. It was probably one of the few supermarkets left in the world that was closed all day on Sunday.

  By driving around behind the building, I could look up the alley that ran behind the supermarket and Tommy’s Diner, then crossed Rincon to pass behind the large metal building that housed the Posadas Register. I caught a glimpse first of the big white-on-blue lettering on the side of the newspaper building and thought with grim amusement that if Frank Dayan was working late the day before publication, it would pay him to step out his own back door to catch the scoop of the year.

  Tom Mears’ Bronco sat squarely in the middle of the alley beside the dumpsters. From that point, he could watch the back door of the supermarket and the black Explorer parked on Rincon just west of the alley. He couldn’t see the front doors of the grocery store but had wisely chosen the two targets most removed from casual view by passersby.

  He got out of the Bronco and met Torrez and me as we approached the back door of the store.

  “I walked around,” he said in a husky whisper. “The front doors are the kind that you have to open with a key, even if you’re inside. There’s no push bar.”

  “All right. And this one is open?” I stepped to the back door and could see for myself. The door may have been locked, but it was ajar about a quarter of an inch.

  I stood at the door, my ear to the metal. “Nothing? Did you hear anyone?”

  “No, sir. Not since I drove up. I tried the front door and then came around here. I could see that the door might be open, so I didn’t touch it. And then I caught a glimpse of the Explorer.”

  I stepped away from the building and looked down the alley. “Someone just driving by on Grande wouldn’t be apt to notice his vehicle, parked off to the side like that. And if they did, there’s no reason to think anything about it.” I turned to Bob. “What do you think?”

  He pulled a hefty pocketknife out of his pocket and reached up high on the door, within an inch of the top corner. He inserted the blade and gently twisted. The door moved a fraction, held tightly in the jamb. It hadn’t been slammed quite hard enough to catch the bolt in the striker plate. Torrez slid the knife down a bit and twisted again. The door moved a bit more. He knelt and repeated the maneuver down at the bottom, and at the fourth twist, the steel door popped open.

  “Uh-oh,” he whispered and grinned. Using the point of the knife, he tipped the door open far enough that we could enter without touching it.

  No sooner had he done that than he held up a hand sharply, gesturing upward. Looking past him, I could see the lights on in Sam Carter’s upstairs office. The three of us stood in the door, listening. The outer door of Carter’s office, positioned right at the top of the short stairway, was open. If he was in there, even talking quietly on the phone, we’d hear him.

  “I’ll check,” Mears said, and he moved across the concrete floor to the stairway, then ascended two or three at a time. He stopped in the office doorway, turned, and shrugged.

  “Nobody,” he said.

  I moved to the bottom of the stairs.

  “He might be planning to come back,” Torrez said quietly.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe he just didn’t pay attention when he closed the door.”

  “Sir,” Mears said, reappearing in the open office doorway, and this time there was some urgency in his voice. “You might want to look at this.”

  I made my way up the stairway, with Torrez patiently following Mears waiting until I’d reached the landing, then stepped into the office, moving quickly to the one-way glass that overlooked the store. He pointed. Over to the left, near one of the glass cases that held the refrigerated beverages, was a considerable pool of liquid on the floor-perhaps water, maybe soda pop or beer.

  “The glass in the cooler door is broken, too,” the deputy said, but I had to take his word for it. It looked fine to me.

  I took a moment and scanned the rest of the store. Everything appeared in place.

  “Take a look,” I said. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  The papers on top of Carter’s desk interested me, and I took out my pen and used it as a probe to move things slightly, looking at this and that, being careful not to start a landslide. There were order forms, inventory, correspondence with vendors, time sheets…all the sorts of things one would expect to find on a store manager’s desk. Sam would have been delighted to see me rummaging, I’m sure.

  After no more than thirty seconds, my radio startled me as Mears’s disembodied voice broadcast in a harsh whisper, “Sheriff.”

  I moved my pen and let an invoice from Royalty Line Food Specialties drop back in place, then stepped to the window and looked down. Mears and Torrez stood at the near end of aisle 12, and I could tell by their posture that they weren’t looking at a puddle of spilled mountain spring water.

  Despite a hammering pulse, I took my time negotiating the steep stairway. I turned into the store and came up behind Mears, who looked as if he’d been flash-frozen in place. Torrez turned to me, one eyebrow raised. Sprawled on the floor with his blood mixing with whatever liquid was running out of the drink cooler was Posadas County Commission Chairman Sam Carter.

  “Oh, for God’s sakes,” was about all I managed to say. Mears lifted a foot to move closer and Torrez snapped, “Watch your step.” By moving along the opposite side of the aisle, staying close to the shelves of pretzels and chips, Torrez avoided the puddle. He knelt near Sam’s head and reached out to check the carotid pulse.

  “He’s dead,” Torrez said. He regarded the blood under Carter’s head. “Hasn’t been long, though.” Remaining on his haunches, Torrez pivoted slowly, scrutinizing the area around the body. “It looks like he took one in the back of the head, kind of a grazing shot. That would do it.”

  “And look at this,” Tom Mears said, pointing at the cooler door. “Ricochet, maybe. Or maybe the one that killed him. It isn’t a clean hole in the glass. Whatever it was exploded a couple quart bottles of beer.”

  “Christ,” I said, “I can still smell the gunpowder.” I looked at Torrez. “You smell it?”

  He nodded. “Look over in the corner there.” I did so and saw the blue plastic bank money pouch, zipper gaping wide open. “Somebody came in right at closing, maybe.” He made a hammer-and-trigger motion with his right hand. “Pop. Take the money and run.” He stood up with a loud crack of the knees. “Or at least that’s what we’re supposed to think.” He backed away from the body.

  “Explain the door to me, for instance,” I said.

  Torrez nodded. “The cooler door is closed. The broken bottles are behind it. So how does the beer spill so far across the aisle if the door is closed, with only a little bullet hole through it?”

  “Unless Carter grabbed it when he
fell,” Mears said. “Maybe pulled it open some, then the door closes after he tumbles away.”

  “Could be,” Torres said. “Could be.” He was gazing at the floor, and held up both hands as if he were blocking traffic. “Stay put,” he said, and brushed past me, staying close to the racks.

  “Christ, Sam,” I muttered, “what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

  In a few moments, Torrez returned with his flashlight. The evening sunshine was still bright outside, streaming in through the advertisement-plastered store windows. The specialty stock, piled high in pyramids at the end of each row, bounced and shadowed the slanting sunlight so that most of the cavernous store, especially the rear portion where we were standing with its high fluorescent lights turned off, was gloomy.

  “Just a thought,” Torrez said. “The killer didn’t run out the front door, unless he had Carter’s keys…and he’s not likely to spend time fumbling there and risk being seen. And we found the back door ajar. That’s what makes sense to me. You’ve got to really give that door a good hard push to make sure it latches securely. So if whoever it was goes out the back way after tussling with Carter, he either goes down this same aisle, maybe even having to step over the body, or goes up front, cuts across, and then down another aisle.”

  “We don’t know if there was a struggle or not,” I said. “And we don’t know how Sam was standing when he was shot.”

  “No, but we’ve got a trajectory in the cooler there, from door to bottle. That’s a start.”

  “We’ve got to take this one step at a time now,” I said, apprehensive that the undersheriff was just eagerly charging ahead without any clear notion of what he was looking for. “We need to call Perrone over here,” I said to Mears. Trying to reach conclusions without even preliminary findings from the medical examiner always made me nervous.

  Sam’s corpse hadn’t been touched yet. I looked down at him, wondering if his keys were in his pocket, wondering if he’d had a weapon when he came down the stairs to confront the killer, wondering who the hell had pulled the trigger, wondering all kinds of things in a confusing blizzard of questions.