A Discount for Death

Chapter Thirty-seven

Owen Frieberg hadn’t achieved his status as Nate Salazar’s partner at Salazar and Sons Funeral Home by being uncooperative. When Frieberg opened the side door of the mortuary in response to the bell, Estelle was sure that his head-to-toe glance was a measurement. All she had to supply was her choice of ash, oak, mahogany, or walnut for the casket, brass or wrought iron handles, and satin or velvet lining.

“Ah,” he said as if that explained everything. He closed his eyes and shook his head, extending both hands in anticipation of that comforting, enveloping hand clasp he had practiced so often.

“Mr. Frieberg, I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman. I think you know Bill Gastner.”

“Oh, yes,” Frieberg said as his eyes reopened and flicked from Estelle to Gastner and then across the parking lot to where Deputy Tony Abeyta was striding across toward them from his patrol unit. No greeting hand had crept into his, and he brought them back to parade rest at his midriff.

“And this is Deputy Abeyta,” Estelle added.

“Heavens, I’ve known Tony for years. And Bill, it’s been too long.” He smiled benignly at Gastner, or perhaps it was an appraisal. “Something tells me that I know why you’re here, Undersheriff,” Frieberg said gently. He flashed an apologetic smile. “I was catching up on some paperwork, but I’m happy for the excuse to stop. Would you like to come inside?”

“Sure.” Lots of paperwork being done tonight, Estelle thought.

Abeyta remained on the steps as Estelle and Gastner followed Frieberg into the foyer, where the man stood for a moment, evidently trying to decide whether or not to close the door. With the toe of an immaculately white running shoe, he nudged a small cast-iron dachshund doorstop into place. “It’s really still very mild, isn’t it,” he said, and nodded at Abeyta as if entrusting the welfare of the door’s stained-glass window to him.

“I should have called you earlier, I know that,” he said. “Then you told me that you were going to try to find time to stop by yesterday afternoon, but I know how these things go. Everyone gets busy, don’t they?” Before Estelle could respond, Frieberg turned to Bill Gastner. “How’s retirement treating you, Sheriff?”

“Just fine.”

“You were saying that you should have called us, Mr. Frieberg?” Estelle prompted. She regarded him with interest, giving him her own head-to-toe examination. He had lost weight since being captured on the videotape taken at Christmas in Acambaro. His clothing hung a bit loosely from his compact frame, not as neatly tailored as Estelle remembered. As he turned and the light caught the planes of his face, Estelle’s gaze lingered on the telltale smudge of foundation makeup in the canyon between nose and cheek, shadowed by the rims of his tortoiseshell glasses.

Frieberg shot them another gentle smile and once more closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He kept his eyes closed as he talked, a habit that fascinated Estelle. Perhaps it allowed him to talk with grieving relatives without having to watch the tears. She found herself wondering if she would be able to silently walk around behind Frieberg as he talked, without his knowing.

“Let me be honest with you,” the undertaker said. “As I told Sheriff Torrez earlier, some time ago I borrowed a revolver from George Enriquez.” He held up a hand for emphasis. “Now, I don’t think that’s illegal, but I’m not sure. That’s one reason I called the sheriff when I did.”

“No, that’s not illegal,” Estelle said. “And when was that, sir?”

“Oh, gosh. Sometime before Christmas, I think. Yes, in fact it was shortly after Thanksgiving. So late November, early December.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “George purchased this wonderful Smith and Wesson from the gun shop some time ago. Actually, a couple of years ago, probably. I don’t think he ever shot it, but he was certainly proud of that gun.”

He opened his eyes to make sure his audience hadn’t drifted away, and leaned toward Estelle conspiratorially. “I don’t know why he wanted it, really. He’s not a shooter. Anyway, I offered to purchase that revolver from George any number of times. I mean, it’s a wonderful sidearm for hunting, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m sure it is, sir.” Behind her, Bill Gastner hummed something that could have been translated a dozen different ways.

“Well…to make a long story short, he loaned the revolver to me for a while, sort of a ‘borrow with option to buy’ sort of thing.” Frieberg took a deep breath, and his eyelids sank shut. “Some time ago, I decided that the revolver wasn’t something that I really needed.” He shrugged dramatically, impressed with his self-restraint.

“Did you shoot it much?” Gastner asked.

“Some. And then I discovered that I have an arthritic right thumb.” He held up his hand ruefully, spreading the fingers. He rubbed the knob at the base of his thumb. “The recoil just beats that to death.” He sighed. “So I gave the revolver back to George. I’m sorry now that I did.”

“Why is that, sir?”

He looked at Estelle with surprise. “Well, it’s my understanding that George shot himself with that weapon…that’s what happened, I understand.” When Estelle didn’t respond, he added, “I felt badly about that, believe me. If the weapon hadn’t been so near at hand, perhaps…”

“When you borrowed the revolver, why didn’t you take the wooden case with it?”

“Ah,” Frieberg said, and hesitated. “Well, the idea of a display case doesn’t impress me much, I suppose,” he said, and Gastner grinned, perhaps sharing Estelle’s thoughts. The mortician sold “display cases” as part of his services and obviously thought highly of them. “I happen to have a wonderful hand-tooled holster that I’d purchased years ago for another handgun. It’s a perfect fit for the.41. When I returned the revolver…I think it was last week. The middle of last week. Anyway, I took the holster along, wondering if perhaps he’d like to have it to use on the elk hunt. But he didn’t.”

“So when you left his office at that time, George had the revolver in his office, without the presentation case.”

“I think so. Well…I don’t know about the case. At one time, he had it at home, I know that. That’s where it was when I borrowed it. I went to his house.”

“And when you returned the revolver last week, did you take the weapon to his office, or his home?” Estelle asked.

“His office. And in part, that’s why I took the holster along. But he didn’t want it. I don’t think he could actually envision himself wearing the gun, if you know what I mean. It looked better to him in a wooden case.”

“What did he do with the revolver when you gave it back?”

Frieberg frowned. “Ah…it seems to me that he just slipped it into one of the drawers of his desk. I really don’t remember.”

Estelle nodded. “When you heard about George’s death, you suddenly decided that you should share this information with us?”

“I thought it only proper,” Frieberg said eagerly. “Such a terrible, terrible thing. And such a waste. I knew that George had been having more than his share of troubles, of course. I considered him a good friend, but he didn’t talk about himself much. But I guess everyone in town knew what was going on with his insurance dealings.”

“Did you know what was going on, Mr. Frieberg?”

Frieberg’s gaze shot quickly to Estelle, and then the eyelids closed at the same time his mouth opened to speak. He hesitated, as if something had lodged in his throat. “Yes, I did.”

“Did you have dealings with Mr. Enriquez yourself?” Investigators had spent more than nine months building a case against George Enriquez, compiling a history of insurance fraud that would have led to an indictment on multiple counts. Owen Frieberg’s name had not been on the list of those duped.

“I…I did. In fact, the day he died…” Frieberg stopped as if someone had stepped on his foot.

“Sir?”

“I went to see him first thing Monday morning.”

“What prompted that?” She watched as color crept into Frieberg’s cheeks. Instead of closing his eyes this time, he fixed his gaze on the tile in front of his shoes.

“I have a boat,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve seen it, out back?”

“No, sir.”

“The bass boat of my dreams. Every bell and whistle known to man.”

“If only we had a lake,” Gastner said dryly.

“Elephant Butte is only a couple hours away,” Frieberg said. “And I pull it behind my camper, too. We’ve been everywhere.”

“And the we is…” Estelle asked.

“Well, I mean I’ve been everywhere. Anyway, I insured the boat with George’s agency. He found a company that didn’t charge an arm and a leg, and I appreciated that.”

“When was this, sir?”

“Oh, it’s been a year now. And then,” he grimaced, “a wheel came off my trailer. Can you believe that? That was in April. Fortunately, I wasn’t going very fast when it happened…and in fact, it was on one of those gravel access roads to the Butte. I guess I should be thankful for that. But it was one of those magic moments when everything that could go wrong, did. When the bearing froze and the wheel came off, the hitch failed. I didn’t have the safety chains properly connected. Perhaps you can imagine what happens when a wheel departs and then a heavy boat goes wandering off by itself.” He grimaced good naturedly, pulling the corners of his mouth back and showing perfect teeth.

“So you made an insurance claim?”

“Exactly. A substantial claim. By the time the rocks in the bar ditch were finished with both boat and motor, it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

“And this claim was in, what, May sometime?”

“Yes. I can find the exact date if you need it.”

“Mr. Enriquez paid you?”

“Ah, yes. With a personal check.”

“What was your reaction to that?”

“I know that’s not the way things work, Mrs. Guzman. Before I saw the check, I had no reason to believe that George Enriquez had taken me for a ride, in company with everyone else.”

“You had a policy in hand?”

Frieberg looked uncomfortable. “No. But I didn’t actually lose anything, either. He paid me, and paid me in full. Promptly, too.”

Estelle studied the man’s flat, bland face. “So tell me,” she said quietly. “Why Monday morning? Why did you go to see him then?”

“I…” Frieberg bit off his first thought and closed his eyes.

“You knew that you didn’t have a legitimate policy with Enriquez long before this. Five months before. And by your own admission, you knew about Mr. Enriquez’s dealings and that the grand jury convened on Tuesday. What prompted the visit Monday morning?”

“Actually, it was the jury business, Undersheriff,” Frieberg said carefully. “When Enriquez paid me for the boat, I was grateful, and…” he shrugged. “Maybe a little suspicious. But I kept paying the monthly premiums. Why, I don’t know, except…”

“You got what you paid for,” Gastner muttered.

“Exactly, Bill. I paid a premium, really pretty modest, and the first time I have a claim-and it was a significant one-he paid promptly. I admit it. If I knew that George was playing the market a bit, so what? I was benefiting, so I went along. But then I started to think, when I began hearing about the grand jury, that this was going to explode into something ugly. I procrastinated, I admit it. I knew George’s office was closed for the week, but driving by on Monday morning I saw his car in the lot. So I stopped.”

“What time was that?” Estelle asked.

“Oh, shortly after eight, I think. I went in and told him that I would need to look elsewhere for my insurance.”

Gastner chuckled, shook his head, and turned away, studiously examining the glass of the front door.

“It’s true,” Frieberg said with a flash of irritation.

“And what did Mr. Enriquez say in response to that?” Estelle asked.

“He wrote me a check for six hundred and twelve dollars…six months’ worth of premiums.”

“You still have that check?”

“Well, my bank does, I suppose.”

“And that’s all?” Estelle asked. “You complained, he cheerfully refunded half a year’s premiums, and that was it?”

“Well, in essence. We exchanged some words, of course, but I don’t know how well you knew George Enriquez. It was hard to stay mad at him for very long.”

“You hadn’t really lost anything, had you?” Gastner asked.

“No. And I think that’s to George’s credit, too. I hope that comes out. I hope that what I’ve been able to tell you is some help.”

“Well, sir, we actually didn’t come over to talk about your boat insurance,” Estelle said. “And I don’t think that’s why you went to see George Enriquez on Monday morning, either.”

Frieberg cocked his head quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s talk about tonight.”

“Tonight?” He looked around the foyer as if a wet dog had been allowed to slip inside the funeral home along with the three visitors.

“About nine-thirty, give or take?”

“I don’t understand. I’ve been working here most of the evening. Now wait a minute. What’s going on?” His eyes shifted to Deputy Abeyta, the only uniformed officer present. For the first time, he appeared to realize that there were three police officers confronting him, not just two acquaintances.

“Mr. Frieberg, did you allow someone to borrow your vehicle this evening?”

“Of course not.”

“Temporary tag seven forty-one, two eighty-six, expires ten twenty-eight this month, a silver 2003 Dodge Caravan,” Gastner said, looking at Frieberg over the top of his glasses. “That’s yours?”

“Yes, that’s mine. What’s your interest in my car, Bill? I thought you were working for the state now.”

“I am,” Gastner said. “And your car doesn’t interest me in the least. Where your car was just might.”

“What are you two talking about?”

“Mr. Frieberg,” Estelle said patiently, “earlier this evening, your van was reported at the pharmacy, after hours.”

The mortician pushed up his glasses and then thrust his hands in his back pockets. “I don’t see…”

“You just said that you hadn’t been out all evening.”

“I wasn’t.”

“But your vehicle was? It drives itself?”

He pulled his hands free and held them up, palms outward. “Hold it, hold it.” He smiled engagingly. “I was out for a bit. All right? It slipped my mind.” He took off his glasses and held them out toward Estelle. He pointed at the soft rubber cushions attached to the nose piece. “These have been driving me crazy, but I keep forgetting to get them fixed when I visit the optometrist in Deming. I knew that Guy had some in his store, so I buzzed down.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Like to drive me crazy. You know, something like that starts to bug you, and pretty soon you can’t think of anything else.”

“Guy?” Estelle asked.

“Guy Trombley. At the drugstore. What, someone thought I was robbing the place, or what?”

Estelle held up the small aluminum clipboard that she carried and slipped two documents free. “Mr. Frieberg, I have a warrant to search the premises here and at your home, as well as to search your vehicle.”

“You’re joking,” Frieberg stammered and then promptly choked on inhaled saliva. Estelle waited until his coughing had subsided and he’d wiped his eyes. “I mean…you can look around here all you want, but,” he dabbed his eyes again, “I have the right to know what’s going on,” he finally managed.

“Yes, sir, you do. Earlier this evening, your vehicle was seen parked at the Posadas Pharmacy and Clinic. You were seen leaving the pharmacy with several cartons that we know contained contraband pharmaceuticals obtained from a supplier in Mexico. I have an inventory of those pharmaceuticals from Mr. Herrera.”

Owen Frieberg stared at her incredulously, his eyes still watering from the bout of coughing. He cleared his throat. “You’re kidding.”

Estelle’s left eyebrow drifted upward a fraction. “No, sir, I’m not. We know about Acambaro. We know about the Christmas and Cinco de Mayo trips. Mr. Frieberg,” Estelle said gently, “you can either cooperate with us as well and maybe save yourself some grief, or we’ll plow through this thing one step at a time. It’s your choice.”

The silence hung heavily, and after a moment Tony Abeyta shifted his weight. The leather of his Sam Brown belt creaked, and that small sound was loud in the foyer. “My God,” Frieberg whispered. “You think that I killed George Enriquez, don’t you?” Estelle didn’t respond. “That’s what this is all about. You think that I went to see George on Monday, and killed him.”

“You didn’t go to talk about boats,” Bill Gastner said dryly.

Estelle watched as the mortician tried to clear his throat. He blinked rapidly but ignored the tears on his cheeks.

“Mr. Frieberg, what makes you think that George Enriquez was killed on Monday?”

What little color had been able to show through the makeup drained from Owen Frieberg’s face.