A Discount for Death

Chapter Three

The phone rang six times before the receiver was picked up. No one came on the line immediately, but Estelle could hear her husband’s soft voice in the background, sounding as if he was explaining something to a small set of stubborn ears. Her mother’s voice surprised her. Normally, Teresa Reyes didn’t bother with the telephone; the modern gadget was a chore for clawed, arthritic fingers.

“Hello?” Teresa sounded as if she were cautiously exploring the inside of a dark, unfamiliar closet.

“Hey there, Mama, ” Estelle said. By looking south, she could see the corner fence a few blocks away that marked the front yard of their house on South Twelfth Street.

“Are you all right?” Teresa asked, switching immediately to Spanish.

“I’m fine, Mama. There was a nasty accident up here on Bustos, so I’m going to be a while.”

“We heard the sirens,” Teresa said.

“I bet you did. From where I’m standing, I can see the front yard. We’re right in front of the Don Juan. How are los hijos?”

“Carlos went to bed about ten minutes ago,” Teresa said, and Estelle smiled. Her youngest son, not yet four, “enjoyed his dreams,” as her husband Francis was fond of saying. “Francisco is learning how to play chess with the grand master.”

“It’s hard to imagine that little anarchist following the rules. He drives Francis crazy.”

“He’s inventive, hija. Padrino deserves a medal for patience.”

“He’s playing with Padrino?”

“Yes. The three of them are in the dining room.”

A voice in the background, intending to be heard on the phone across the room, was unmistakably Bill Gastner’s. “Ask her if she’s going to be home in time for some cake, or if we should finish it up.”

“Tell him to finish it,” Estelle said. “We’ve got a mess.”

“There’s always something,” Teresa said. “We thought you’d be home earlier.”

“So did I, Mama.”

“Here’s your husband,” Teresa said abruptly. “I’m going to bed now.”

“Okay, Mama. I…” Estelle started to say, but the receiver was already in transit. Dr. Francis Guzman stopped what he was saying to his son in mid-sentence, and Estelle pictured him standing beside the kitchen table with the chess pieces strewn here and there, one hand on top of little Francisco’s head, ready to steer the child if necessary.

“Where are you, querida?” Francis asked.

“If you step outside the front door, you could look up the street and see me,” she replied. “Right in the intersection by the Don Juan. It’s going to be a little bit longer, I guess.”

“Bad?”

“One fatal. A girl riding a motorcycle hit the utility pole.”

“Ouch.”

“Verdad, ouch. It looks like there was something going on that involved a village policeman, so it’s getting complicated.”

“Which cop?”

“Kenderman.”

“Huh. He was chasing her, you mean?”

“I’m not sure. But it looks that way.”

“Have you talked with Chief Mitchell?”

“That’s who we’re waiting on right now,” Estelle said. “He’s on his way back from Deming.”

“And sometime soon, we hope.” She heard her son’s voice again in the background, plaintive and high-pitched, and then Francis said, “The kid wants to know when you’ll be home.”

“I have no idea,” Estelle said. “And I know how he loves answers like that.”

Francis chuckled. “We miss you, querida. Want to talk to birthday boy?”

“Of course she does,” Bill Gastner said. “Hey, sweetheart,” he added, and his voice boomed into Estelle’s ear after the quiet, almost-whisper of her husband. “Thanks for all the goodies. But no more birthdays now.”

“You’re declaring a moratorium?”

“I should have, about thirty years ago. What do you have going on up there?”

“A motorcycle smacked the utility pole on the corner of Twelfth and Bustos. A young woman was killed.”

“Anyone we know?”

Estelle looked down at the driver’s license that Deputy Pasquale had handed her a few minutes before. “Colette Parker,” she said. A small, almost elfinlike face stared up at her, and Estelle turned the laminated license slightly to cut the glare from the flashlight held under her arm.

“Colette Parker. The name rings a really faint bell,” Gastner said.

“She’s twenty-two, worked in the supermarket,” Estelle said. She remembered a slight, quick-moving figure, blonde hair cut in a pageboy and hooked behind jugged ears, a small neat girl in her old-fashioned white apron, far more fetching in person than she appeared in the motor vehicle department photo. “In that little deli the new owners put in.” She turned the license over and saw the motorcycle endorsement.

“Don’t remember. But I don’t hang out in delis much, either. I probably know her folks.”

Estelle heard the small voice in the background again, and Gastner said something unintelligible. “Your bonehead son thinks his bishop is a rook,” Gastner added. “There’s something about diagonal moves that escapes him.” Estelle heard a giggle and then a conspiratorial conversation between the little boy and his father.

“Don’t let him con you, sir. He plays with Francis all the time. He knows what the rules are.”

“You’d never know it. And they’re playing two against one, so that tells you how fair the whole setup is in the first place. Anyway, you about to wrap things up down there? Are we going to see you this evening?”

“Ah, no…probably not. We’ve got a problem or two.”

“There’s always those,” Gastner said, and Estelle grinned at the broad implication in his tone-they’re your problems now, sweetheart. “I’m about to wrap up this important tourney and head for the hills. Anything I can do for you?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sorry I got held up. I had the best intentions.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. I know how these things go. Give my regards to Roberto.”

“I’ll do that.” She turned to glance toward where Sheriff Robert Torrez had been standing talking to Perry Kenderman, and was startled to see that two additional figures had arrived and were hunkered over the motorcycle. “I’ll see you tomorrow, probably.”

“Sounds good. Be careful.”

Estelle switched off the phone. She looked across the intersection again and saw that District Attorney Daniel Schroeder had turned his attention from the bike to her. He regarded her thoughtfully from across Twelfth Street. If he was actually listening to what the man standing beside him was saying, he gave no indication. Estelle started across the street, and Schroeder reached out a hand to contact Chief Eddie Mitchell’s shoulder. Mitchell looked up and saw Estelle. The two men waited by the motorcycle as she approached.

Mitchell stood with both hands on his hips, blunt jaw clamped askew as if daring his opponent to throw his best punch. At one point, both Estelle and Eddie Mitchell had been sheriff’s deputies before roads diverged. Mitchell had left to join the Sheriff’s Department in Bernalillo County, an area that included the huge metroplex of Albuquerque. He had passed the lieutenant’s exam and then abruptly quit to return to the village of Posadas to take the chief’s job when Eduardo Martinez retired.

Whatever forces drew Mitchell, a native of Pittsburgh, to the tiny New Mexican village was anyone’s guess. Other than innocuous remarks like “Pretty country,” he’d never bothered to explain.

A stocky bear of a man, Mitchell was as quick on his feet as a dancer. He waited, hands on his hips, brows furrowed.

“Evening,” Schroeder offered. As usual, Schroeder’s suit was immaculate, and the light from the street lamp winked off the polished gold rims of his glasses. The same height as Mitchell, the district attorney gave up a good fifty pounds to the chief of police.

“Hello, sir,” Estelle said. “Chief.” She nodded at Mitchell, and he extended his hand. His grip was firm, and he didn’t let go. His light blue eyes locked on Estelle’s, and for a long minute, he stood silently, as if trying to read her mind.

“Bobby says he’s going to impound the patrol car,” Mitchell said finally. His voice was a light tenor. He released his grip.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there something to make you think that there was contact between the car and the cycle?”

“No. It’s just a very good possibility.”

“A possibility?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mitchell searched Estelle’s impassive face for a moment. “Kenderman tells me that the cyclist ran a stop sign at Highland, right in front of him.”

“That’s not true, sir.”

“Tell me what’s true.”

“She may well have run a stop sign, or half a dozen of them, during the time he was chasing her. But it didn’t happen the way he says it did.”

Schroeder ran his right hand through thinning blond hair. “Did the Volvo lady see anything?”

“Her name’s Maggie Archer. The bike crossed directly in front of her, but she had time to stop. There was no contact. Even as the bike hit the pavement and started somersaulting, the patrol car entered the intersection, right in front of Mrs. Archer’s car. She had a grandstand seat. Mears is talking with her right now.”

“I see he is,” Schroeder said. He thrust his hands into his pockets. “Tell me what you think happened, Estelle.”

Briefly, Estelle recounted what she had first heard, and then seen. “It was a chase over several blocks, sir. If Mrs. Archer traveled six blocks during the time that I heard the police car and the bike, then they could have covered twice that distance.”

“You heard them turning this way and that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mitchell shook his head and gazed down at the bike. He toed the back tire with his boot. “So if Kenderman says that he initiated chase at the corner of Twelfth and Highland, he’d be lying.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you can’t see any way around that.”

“No, sir.”

Mitchell puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “And no lights or siren.”

“No, sir.”

“And no conversation with Dispatch.”

“No, sir. The radio in the patrol car was turned off when I looked inside. Even if he had it on during the chase, he didn’t use it. The sheriff was home, monitoring the channel. He says that Kenderman wasn’t talking to Dispatch.”

The chief rocked the cycle’s back tire back and forth against the small amount of slack in the drive chain. “I think we all need to confer with Officer Kenderman,” he said finally. “I’d like both you and the sheriff in on it.”

“Certainly.”

“Right now, Kenderman thinks that it’s his word against yours…and I assume he doesn’t know where you were standing when you heard the chase-or even if you heard it, for that matter. Is that correct?”

“I don’t see how he could.”

“Good. Then let’s leave it that way for a little while,” Mitchell said with a curt nod. “There’s always a chance that there’s a great big unknown in all this mess. We need to give Kenderman every opportunity.” He looked hard at Estelle. “After all, there is the possibility that what you heard wasn’t related to this accident.”

“No, sir, that’s not a possibility,” Estelle replied, but Mitchell shrugged.

“We’ll talk to the officer again and see. Is it all right if he rides down with me?”

Estelle hesitated. She liked Eddie Mitchell and trusted him, but she wanted nothing to inadvertently bolster Perry Kenderman’s confidence. “I’d prefer that he rode in with one of the deputies, sir.”

“In custody?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“All right.” Mitchell pivoted at the waist to survey the intersection. “Let’s get this mess cleared up.”

As the chief stepped away from the bike, Dan Schroeder held out a hand and touched Estelle on the arm. “I need to talk with you for a minute.” So far, he hadn’t said a word about the fatality, and it was evident to Estelle that he’d been patiently waiting for that business to be wrapped up.

Schroeder watched Mitchell’s blocky form retreating across the intersection toward Bob Torrez and Perry Kenderman. For a moment he remained silent with his thoughts. “Are you ready for grand jury tomorrow?”

Estelle sighed. “If I fall asleep on the stand, poke me.”

Schroeder managed a tight smile. “Long day, eh.”

“Very.”

“I had a call from George Enriquez last night.”

Estelle raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A long-time Posadas resident and owner of an insurance agency for more than twenty years, George Enriquez qualified as a town father as much as anyone. But beginning at nine o’clock Tuesday morning, a grand jury would start reviewing evidence that Enriquez had engaged in fraudulent insurance practices for more than a decade. District Attorney Schroeder would be seeking indictments on twenty-eight separate counts of insurance fraud, including one count that involved deputy Thomas Pasquale as a victim of the scam.

“Enriquez wants to deal.”

“Deal? I wouldn’t think he had much of a bargaining position, sir,” Estelle said.

“In part, it’s the same old song and dance…give him a few weeks, and he’d clean up the mess, make financial amends-the same sort of nonsense that we’ve heard from him too many times before.”

Estelle nodded and waited.

“And then he said that he wanted to meet with me today.” Schroeder turned toward the utility pole and looked at his watch. “At two PM in my office in Deming. That was seven hours ago.”

“What did he have to say?”

Schroeder straightened his sleeve carefully over the watch. “He never showed.”

“Maybe he changed his mind.”

“That’s possible. But he’s not home, and the answering machine at his office says that they’ll be closed until Friday. It gives an 800 number for emergencies.”

“You mean he skipped?” The idea of George Enriquez uprooting himself and fleeing Posadas was ludicrous. Whenever she saw him, Estelle thought of stuffed animals. Enriquez had the same hugability, the same sort of flannel personality, as a favorite old polyester pet. He wasn’t the kind to go furtive, slipping across the border to life on the gold coast. After state insurance investigators had finished pawing through his office files during the past months, there wasn’t much left to hide.

Besides, nearly every incident of fraud that Estelle and state officers had investigated had been penny ante, the sort of incomprehensible crime for which the monetary rewards were counted in occasional hundreds. In Deputy Pasquale’s case, George Enriquez had told the young man that his motorcycle policy was held by a major company. Each month, the financially naive Pasquale had paid his premium directly to Enriquez. When Pasquale had made a minor claim, Enriquez had made prompt settlement with a personal check. Pasquale was pleased, and completely nonplussed to discover later that he had no policy, that in all likelihood his monthly insurance payment was going directly into Enriquez’s pocket. Other instances with other customers were sometimes lesser, sometimes greater in financial risk.

“Skipped, schmipped,” Schroeder said with a shrug. “We don’t know. Neither does his wife. He left the house this morning. That was the last time she saw him.”

Estelle had talked with Connie Enriquez several times and had found the woman an enigma. She wasn’t the kind who would sit home and twist rosary beads around her knuckles as her husband’s world fell apart. At one point in the investigation into her husband’s affairs, she had simply shrugged her gargantuan shoulders and said, “He made his bed. Let him lie in it.”

“He didn’t give any hint about what else was on his mind? When he talked to you on the phone? You said ‘in part’ it was the same old story.”

“Uh huh.” Schroeder made a face. “Let me just tell you what he said, word for word. First, I said that I didn’t see that we had anything to talk about, that he could ask to testify before the grand jury if he wanted to but that he didn’t have to. I made it clear to him that he didn’t need to be there, that his attorney didn’t need to be there. He understood all that. I told him that the grand jury session would probably take most of the week and that he had at least that much time to put all his ducks in a row. That’s when he said, ‘I can give you something.’ I said, ‘Something like what?’ And then he went off on this long song and dance about all his little shenanigans being so inconsequential.”

“The Popes would have liked to have heard that when their house burned down,” Estelle said. “Had anyone survived to file a claim.”

“I know, I know,” Schroeder said impatiently. “And we’ve been through that. When he finally wound down, I said again, ‘Something like what?’ And this time, he said, ‘I can give you Guzman.’ ”

Estelle heard perfectly clearly, but out of stunned reflex said, “Give you what?”

“ ‘I can give you Guzman.’ That’s what he said. ‘I can give you Guzman.’ ”

“I can give you Guzman,” Estelle repeated.

“Correct.”

“And then what did he say?”

“Nothing. He said he couldn’t talk on the phone. That he’d see me at two PM in my office in Deming. End of story. He never showed. Like I said, he’s not home now.” Schroeder looked at his watch again. “Or at least he wasn’t fifteen minutes ago.”

“So what did he mean by that?” Estelle regretted the question as soon as it slipped out.

“I don’t know,” Schroeder said. “I was hoping you could shed some light.”

“I’m the leadoff witness tomorrow for the grand jury. He’d be able to figure that out.”

“Of course. You’re the officer who put the case together before my office horned in.” Schroeder managed another half smile. “The implication is obvious-that he knows something about you that I need to know-something that throws your grand jury testimony into question.”

“Or that he was just bluffing.”

“That’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.” He took a deep breath and hitched up his slacks, then smoothed his suit coat back into perfection. “Keep me posted on what happens with Kenderman,” he said. “And we’ll take Mr. Enriquez one step at a time. Maybe he just buried himself in a hole somewhere with a good bottle. Being told that you’re the target of a grand jury investigation is a fearsome thing, Estelle. It shakes lots of scary things out of the tree. Run and hide isn’t an unusual reflex.”

Estelle nodded, her empty stomach still clenched in a knot. She watched Deputy Tom Pasquale slide into the village police car, start it, and pull away, headed toward the county maintenance barn and the secure bay the sheriff’s department kept there. Perry Kenderman stood and watched, flanked on one side by Sheriff Robert Torrez and on the other by Chief Eddie Mitchell. The ambulance had already departed with the pathetic bundle that had been Colette Parker.

“Shake the tree,” Estelle muttered as she stepped off the curb.