Before She Dies

Chapter 13

Not so many hours before, Linda Real had smiled at me from across the Sheriff’s Department parking lot as she walked toward the patrol car, lugging her camera bag, notebook, and God knows what else reporters carry. And then the last time I’d seen her, on that Sunday night when she should have been on her way home from a date with a nice, friendly kid who knew how to behave himself, she was a torn, bloody rag doll.

Now, lying at the mercy of all the hissing, clicking intensive care gadgetry, she seemed tiny, frail, childlike. Her head was bandaged with the exception of her right eye and cheek. Drip tubes stabbed into the back of her right hand. Her left hand was curled at the wrist, as if she were trying to hold on to something.

Holman, Estelle, and I had arrived at the hospital shortly before nine that Monday evening. We entered through the back service entrance, and outside the double doors of the intensive care unit I was relieved to find only the village cop who was working security.

Standing beside the hospital bed, I watched what I could see of Linda’s face and wondered where she was.

I could remember distinctly a long, complex dream that I’d had sometime during the swim to the surface after open heart surgery three years before. After hiking for hours along an abandoned narrow-gauge railroad bed, I’d found a red glass crystal bell from a Shay locomotive. Then I’d spent days trying to find an antique dealer who would give me an honest appraisal for the imaginary artifact.

Maybe Linda’s mind was off somewhere, engaging itself in adventures of its own while her assaulted body recuperated.

Estelle reached over and took Linda’s left hand in hers. There was no response.

I glanced over at Dr. Francis Guzman. Estelle’s husband looked as weary as the rest of us. A full head taller than I was, he leaned against the wall, hands thrust in the pockets of his white coat.

“Any changes?” Martin Holman asked. He stood at the foot of the bed looking like a priest in his dark suit. If Linda awoke suddenly and saw him, she’d know she was in trouble.

Francis pushed himself upright and nodded toward the door. We went out in the hall; Patrolman Tom Pasquale looked up hopefully.

“Why don’t you go get yourself a cup of coffee,” I said, and Pasquale was off like a shot. He wanted to be out chasing bad guys, and there weren’t going to be many in the hospital hallway. Dr. Guzman crossed his arms.

“She’s stable. That’s about all the good news there is.”

“Stable?” Holman asked.

He nodded. “We’ve got the bleeding under control. That was our biggest worry.” He put his hand on the left side of his neck. “Two pellets did significant damage to the vessels in her neck. That was worrisome. One of them caused…” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “Well, a traumatic aneurysm is the best description. Fortunately for her the pellets were low velocity, comparatively. One of them nicked the wall of her left carotid. We had a balloon forming there.”

“She was lucky,” I said.

The physician nodded. “Another millimeter and the artery would have ruptured. That would have been that.”

“When do you think she’ll be able to talk?” Holman asked.

Francis managed a tired smile. “I can’t read a crystal ball, sheriff. She’s had nine hours of surgery so far. You assault the body that much, and it retreats. With the pain she’s going to be in when she regains consciousness, she’ll be under heavy sedation anyway.”

“Nine hours for a neck injury?” Holman said, puzzled.

“Not just the neck. She’s lost her left eye and the outer orbit is fractured. One of the pellets broke off two front teeth and did all kinds of damage before rattling around in her left sphenoidal sinus.” Holman winced, but Guzman didn’t stop. “And another pellet hit her jaw just under her cheekbone, an inch or so under the eye. Nasty, splintery fracture. There’s going to be lots of cosmetic surgery required down the road.”

“A long struggle ahead,” I said.

“You bet.” Francis took a deep breath. “A long, painful road. There’s a pretty long list of minor injuries that we haven’t even begun to think about yet. If she pulls out of this, there’ll be more surgery, more physical therapy. And with the loss of vision and the disfigurement, you can count on some psychological trauma as well. And by the way, Frank Dayan was here just a few minutes ago. He told me that his company is going to offer a ten-thousand-dollar reward. Did he talk to you about that?”

“I haven’t seen him since last night,” I said. “But anything will help.”

“Any leads?”

“None to speak of,” I said. “All we can guess is that the deputy stopped along the shoulder of the road for some reason, maybe to assist what he thought was a stranded motorist.” I held up my hands. “Shots were fired from across the highway, and then from right beside the patrol car. Three shots. That’s it.”

“No radio calls?”

I shook my head.

“Then Miss Real may be the only witness, is that right?”

“That’s it.”

“So there may be some risk for her.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “My gut feeling is that the killer is long gone. Some scumball just passing through.”

“But you’ve arranged for an officer to be posted here for the time being…”

I nodded. “Just a precaution. And to be here in case Linda regains consciousness and can answer a few simple questions. Someone needs to be here.”

Guzman looked absently down the hall in the direction the patrolman had gone. “My guess is that tonight is going to be the critical time. You might want an officer here who’s a little more…ah…concerned? Pasquale has the bedside manners of a pickup truck.”

I smiled. “Gayle Sedillos is coming in at ten, doctor. And the rest of us will be in and out.”

The young physician reached out and took Estelle by the elbow, shaking it affectionately. “How’s Sofia?”

Estelle grimaced. “Eating fried chicken and feeling left out of things.”

“I bet. I’m going to run home for a few minutes while Dr. Perrone is on the floor. I’ll ask Lucy Padilla to come over to the house and give a hand. I didn’t mean for Sofia to get stuck as nana.” He looked over at me. “My aunt likes children at a distance.”

“I noticed that,” I said.

“Maybe Sofia can come up with some interesting ideas,” Francis added, and I shrugged. I was open to anything.

Estelle Reyes-Guzman retreated to her tiny cubicle at the sheriff’s office to dust the lug wrench for prints. Holman and I were within fifty yards of Nick Chavez’s house on Fourth Street, behind the high school, when the radio crackled.

“PCS, this is three ten,” I replied, and shot Holman a glance. “Now what,” I muttered.

“Three ten, ten-nineteen.” I recognized Estelle’s voice then, and immediately pulled into a handy driveway to turn around.

“Why doesn’t she just say what she wants on the radio instead of asking us to drive all the way back to the office?” Holman asked.

“Because she doesn’t want half the county to hear the conversation,” I said. “And it’s only a few blocks.”

It wasn’t Estelle who wanted us. The sheriff and I walked into the dispatch room to be greeted by Howard Bishop, who looked almost awake.

“I thought you’d want to know,” Estelle said, and nodded at Bishop.

“Sir,” the deputy said, “NCIC has a hit on a stolen 1996 Chevrolet Suburban, white over blue.” He stopped and I impatiently beckoned him to continue. “Taken from Todd Svenson Motors in Albuquerque sometime between eight P.M. Saturday and nine A.M. Sunday morning. The only reported auto theft of a new vehicle since the previous Monday.”

“This one was taken right off the lot?”

Bishop nodded. “The manager’s name is Kenny Wilcox. I called him a few minutes ago. APD took the report shortly after nine Sunday morning, when Wilcox drove by the car lot on his way to church and noticed the Suburban was missing.”

“Keen eye.”

“Well, he said he had it parked on one of those inclined ramps for show.”

“How was it taken?” Holman asked.

Bishop frowned. “No broken glass. If they jimmied the door or window, they didn’t leave any traces behind. Wilcox said he had one of those steering wheel bar-locks on it, and that the axle was chained to the ramp.”

“The chain was cut somehow?”

“Yes,” Bishop said, puzzled by the obvious question.

“How was it cut, Howard?” Estelle prompted quietly.

“Wilcox didn’t know. They didn’t leave the chain behind.”

I looked at Holman. “Now there’s neat and tidy, Martin.”

Holman’s eyes narrowed. He was happy to be on familiar turf. “Did they have a lockbox on the truck?”

Bishop shook his head. “Wilcox said they don’t use window lockboxes anymore. Too easy just to crush. Even kids were swiping the keys. Wilcox said they take all the keys in at night.”

I sat down on the edge of the nearest desk. “Did you happen to ask the man what kind of tires the truck had on it?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t swear to the brand. That wasn’t on the invoice. Two other vehicles that came in the same shipment from the factory had Generals. But the size was listed on the invoice, and we got a match with the cast the sheriff worked on. Sixteen-inch LT235/85Rs. Standard size for that type of vehicle.”

“Bingo,” Estelle said softly, then added, “it’s something, sir. The first real lead we’ve had to follow. It may be just coincidence that the wrench we found is the same kind that comes as standard equipment on those vehicles, but it’s worth pursuing.”

Holman let out a high-pitched chirp of delight when the full import sank in. I smiled at Bishop. “Good job, Howard. Get on the horn to the Federales in Chihuahua and tell ’em what we’re looking for. If the killer was headed over the border, he’s had all the time in the world. He could be halfway to Mexico City by now. But they may turn something up.”

“I’ll have prints off the wrench in another few minutes,” Estelle said. “You might call Wilcox back and have APD dust down that ramp, if they haven’t already. We might get a match.”

Bishop nodded and I slapped Holman on the arm. “Let’s go talk with Nick Chavez.”

Holman glanced at his watch, ever the politician. I chuckled. “It doesn’t matter about the hour, Martin. This is the best time of day to work. You don’t have to worry about crowds.”