Convenient Disposal

Chapter Twenty-two

A yellow crime-scene tape crossed the outside double doors of the county offices, and Estelle used her own keys to let herself in. Sheriff Robert Torrez was sitting on the edge of Penny Barnes’ desk, munching on a convenience-store burrito.

“I sent ’em all home,” he said when he saw Estelle. “We needed some peace and quiet.” Sure enough, the county offices that ringed the commission chambers, including the wing that housed the county clerk’s and assessor’s domains, stood dark and vacant. County government had been jarred to a halt.

“And by the way,” he added, “Arnie Gray called. He wants to schedule a meeting with the county commissioners as soon as we can. As soon as we know something.”

“I can imagine he’s feeling a little uneasy right about now,” Estelle said. “He’s just going to have to be patient.” She looked into Zeigler’s office and could see Eddie Mitchell inside, kneeling in front of one of the manager’s map cabinets. “Any luck?”

Torrez shook his head, regarding the last bite of burrito before popping it into his mouth. “One thing. The blood spatter on the lamp shade? Number one, it was blood. Number two, it’s type O. And number three, Zeigler’s family doctor says that his blood type is AB positive.” Estelle caught the intentional emphasis on “family doctor” and knew that Torrez was referring to her husband. “So, you were right. Odds are good that it wasn’t our county manager who busted into the house and bashed in the girl’s skull.” Estelle couldn’t tell whether Torrez was pleased or sorry to have reached that conclusion. He chucked the burrito wrapper in the trash can beside Penny’s desk. “What’d Bill have to say?”

“That he talked with Crowley after we did. No luck.”

Torrez nodded, not surprised. “Marens?”

She recounted her conversation with Doris Marens, and Torrez listened impassively. “I think someone brought Zeigler’s truck home,” she said.

“What sense does that make?”

“To make sure that it wasn’t found somewhere else. Somewhere that might be incriminating.”

“What’s wrong with the county building parking lot?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it, Bobby. Maybe too many eyes. I just don’t know.”

“Huh,” the sheriff said. “Did you call Frank yet?”

“I was going to.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“As little as I can get away with,” Estelle said. “That Carmen Acosta is an assault victim from an unknown intruder. That she was airlifted to Albuquerque, where she’s listed in whatever condition she’s in at the moment.”

“And about Zeigler?”

“‘In the meantime, the Sheriff’s Department is investigating the apparent disappearance of County Manager Kevin Zeigler, whose truck was recovered at his residence next door to the Acostas’. Sheriff Torrez declined to comment further.’”

“Damn right, he ‘declined to comment.’” He took a deep breath. “You know the kind of speculation that’s going to be goin’ around.”

“That can’t be helped, Bobby. By now, everyone in town knows that Zeigler is missing. A little publicity might help. Maybe someone saw something, heard something…”

“You never know.” He turned and gazed into Zeigler’s office, at the same time bending down the little finger on his left hand with his right. “This is the kind of thing that we’ve found in this mess. If the administrator of Posadas General Hospital was irritated with Zeigler for ordering a rewrite of the bid specs for the new roof, he might have wanted to kill him.” He bent down his ring finger. “If what’s-his-face out at the landfill didn’t want an outside company takin’ over the county dump, he might have figured on killing Zeigler.”

A third finger followed. “If the County Highway Department was bent out of shape about Zeigler’s refusal to buy another twin-screw dump truck this year, Ralph Johnson might have wanted to kill him.” He turned to force a half smile at Estelle. “That’s the sort of thing we’re finding.” He held his entire left hand. “Zeigler was tryin’ to talk me into accepting compact-sized SUVs for the next round of patrol vehicles. I might have killed him for that.”

He dropped his hands in disgust. “What a bunch of shit. Maybe he was tryin’ to cut Bill Gastner’s pension, and Wild Bill bumped him off.”

“I thought Padrino was a little shifty-eyed at lunch, Bobby.”

Torrez grunted with amusement. “Yeah, right. And maybe in a day or so someone in the clerk’s office will find a half million in petty cash missing, and we’ll know Zeigler’s sittin’ on a beach down in Colima, sippin’ tequila.” He managed a full-fledged smile. “And then Mr. Page will track him down and kill him.” His face almost immediately settled into its usual serious mask. “Jackie and Linda finished up out at the house. Nothing.” He held out a hand. “And Jackie told me about the photo of Mauro.”

“I don’t think it means anything, Bobby.”

“Maybe not.” He gazed at Estelle, eyes heavy-lidded. “You think Mr. Page might be a little torqued to think Kevin’s got another boyfriend?”

“That doesn’t matter, Bobby-if that’s what it means in the first place. And we don’t know that for sure, either. But we do know that William Page was in Socorro when Carmen was attacked and when Kevin went missing. He had nothing to do with it.”

To her surprise, Torrez relaxed back against the desk and nodded in agreement. “I know that. We’re not lookin’ at a solution that simple. Might be nice, but it ain’t going to happen.” He shrugged. “Where are you headed now?”

“I’m going to take ten minutes and type out a press release for Frank, and hand deliver it. And then go looking, I guess.”

“Everybody who isn’t pinned down with another job is out searching for Zeigler, Estelle. Come here a minute.” He turned toward Zeigler’s office, where a large map of the county rested on an easel. “I got this from the county assessor before I sent him home,” the sheriff said. He reached out and smoothed the plastic overlay. As he did so, Eddie Mitchell stood up, a manila folder in hand.

“Here you go, Holmes,” Mitchell said to Estelle, and held out the folder without waiting for an answer. “The village was trying to convince the county to sign an agreement with the Village of Posadas for maintenance out at the airport,” he said. “It’s a municipal airport, but the land where it’s situated is outside the village limits. So the county collects the gross receipts tax for things like fuel sales, hangar rental, all that stuff, but it’s the village that has to do the maintenance.”

“Whoopee,” Torrez commented dryly.

“Well, it’s one more thing,” Mitchell said. He flipped open the folder. “‘The county is not prepared to assist with Municipal Airport funding at this time,’ “he read. “Signed by Mr. Zeigler.” He shrugged.

“We’ve got a billion letters signed by him, for one thing or another,” Torrez said. He turned to the map and tapped the overlay, where a series of quadrant lines had been drawn slicing up the county. “This is where we’re lookin’,” he said. “Hell, I even sent Linda out.” He covered the far southwestern corner of the county that included the village of Regal. “She took her own vehicle down here, cruisin’ wherever she can get to.”

Estelle grimaced. Linda Real was a civilian photographer, not a deputy. Torrez caught her expression.

“She’s got a radio, a phone, and she’s not in a county vehicle, Estelle. She’ll be all right. She wanted something to do. Anyway, she’s down there. Pasquale is checkin’ all the roads, two-tracks, arroyos, and whatever the hell else, right in here.” He indicated the open country between the fork tines formed by the three state highways, Fifty-six to the south, Seventeen parallel to the interstate, and Seventy-eight, northwestbound out past the airport.

“Bishop is up north around Newton, Taber is takin’ the area around the mesa, and Mears is snoopin’ around between County Road Nineteen and Forty-three, to the northeast. Just lookin’, lookin’, lookin’. Mike Sisneros is staying in the village, checking every alley, every Dumpster, every empty building, every vacant lot, every culvert. He’s got Dennis workin’ with him.”

The sheriff slapped the lower-right corner of the map. “And Abeyta is down in Maria.” He stepped back and looked at Estelle expectantly. “That’s all the people we got, Estelle. And in between, the State Police are giving us all the help they can. If there’s a better way to organize it, I need to hear it.”

“That’s all we can do,” she said. “Is Zeigler’s truck in the county yard?”

“Yep. We took it over there after Mears was through with it.”

“I want to take a digital picture of one of the wheels,” Estelle said. “Each deputy should have one.”

“A killer’s going to bury a body,” Mitchell observed. He nodded approval at Estelle. “They aren’t apt to bother with a flat tire.”