Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Thirteen

The two beasts were busy at the kitchen table when I arrived at the Guzmans’ modest home on Twelfth Street. So engaged that they didn’t hear me drive up, their preoccupation gave me a tactical edge. The oldest boy, Francisco, just five and already having his own struggles with kindergarten, appeared to be coloring a large map of the United States.

Even at his tender age, he’d had some experience with geography after living in various parts of New Mexico and Minnesota, but why a kindergarten student needed geography studies beyond his own sandbox was a mystery to me. His younger brother Carlos, mercifully spared the harness of school, was coloring an identical map, and the states would probably go to war over the new boundaries his clenched hand was inflicting.

Both boys abandoned their art when they saw me peering through the front screen door. It wasn’t that I was interested in them, mind you. The aroma of something in the oven had curled outside to my tender nose.

“Padrino!” they shouted in unison, diving away from the kitchen table amid a welter of scattered Crayons. They charged the door, and I opened it quickly to save the screen, dropping to one knee and using my generous belly to bumper them back inside.

Dr. Francis Guzman came to my rescue. Knowing just where and what to grab, he spun both little boys under his arms like two bags of sand. “Back in your cages,” he commanded amid the cackles, screeches, and whatever it is that little kids babble faster than old ears can hear. I heaved myself back to my feet.

“Has your day improved any?” I saw Francis’ gaze flick over my features in a quick physical. He had stuck plenty of needles in me over the years, and tried to convince me to control this and that ailment with a vast pharmacopoeia that I generally ignored. He argued gently but in vain about my life-style. I knew his question was more than just polite gab.

“Well, I’m working on it,” I replied. “But whatever I’m smelling is bound to improve matters.” I saw Estelle’s mother, comfortable in her rocker over by the fireplace, swathed in an Afghan and supporting a heavy book with her fancy reading pillow. I headed her way from the foyer. Dr. Guzman let the boys slide to the floor head-first, and when little Francisco appeared to be winding up again, he clamped the top of the boy’s head with one hand, like a basketball player palming the ball.

“Mira, mijo,” he said, and the switch to Spanish, the language of discipline, caught the boy’s attention. “You guys need to clean up the mess now.”

“Such a mess,” Teresa Reyes said severely. “Those two.” But she couldn’t hide her pride and affection for the two dervishes. She presented a cheek for a kiss. With one hand locked on the back of her chair and another braced on one arm, I managed a courtly greeting. “It’s always so nice when you come over,” she said. “¡Ahora!” she snapped, wagging a finger. Little Francisco had started into the living room toward me again, but he stopped, spun around with a giggle, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Dr. Guzman sauntered back to the living room, watching the boys over his shoulder. “Estelle’s freshening up,” he said. “There’s some coffee left over from last week that’s still hot. You want some?”

“Actually, that would be perfect,” I said. “Join me?” I said to Teresa, but she waved a dismissive hand.

“I don’t drink that stuff,” she said. “You go ahead.”

As I followed Estelle’s husband back to the kitchen, little Francisco held up his map for my inspection. “Do you know these?” he chirped.

“I can name all fifty-two and their capitals,” I replied.

“Guam and Puerto Rico aren’t states yet,” the youngster said without skipping a beat and with the tone of heavy authority that he used with dense adults. Fortunately I didn’t have a mouthful of coffee when he came up with that one. I glanced at the boy’s father, since in my world, five-year-olds just don’t know that sort of trivia, no matter how precocious they might be.

“Actually, we were talking about that very thing earlier,” Dr. Francis said. “And that was part of a wide-ranging discussion about building vast suspension bridges.” He held up both hands in surrender. “You would have to be there to make sense of it.”

“If at all,” I said. Francis filled a mug for me, then held it up so I would notice the design. Deep blue lettering announced the Posadas Medical Center, and the architect’s rendering of the new clinic spread across the enamel.

“Take that with you,” he said. “About a gross of them arrived today.”

“I’m impressed,” I said. I’d seen the blueprints and artist’s sketches for the clinic, of course, and walked the four acres of property a dozen times with Francis and Alan Perrone before and after I’d donated the land behind my adobe on Guadalupe Terrace. On occasions now, the back-up beeping of construction machinery awakened me as the land was prepared for the impressive building and the surrounding, landscaped parking lot.

The coffee tasted way too fresh, like something offered at a deli for three bucks a cup. I settled with a sigh in a chair by the kitchen table as Francis shooed away the boys and their fistfuls of paperwork and pencils.

“I had an interesting talk with Alan,” he said. “Not now,” he added, directed at his eldest son, who was homing in on me again. His tone of voice was just right-the little boy stopped as if he’d run into a glass wall.

I rested my arms on the table, cradling the cup with both hands. “And what’s he say?”

“George’s preliminary autopsy showed an aortic rupture just north of the heart,” the physician said. “I didn’t know if he had told you or not, but George had the makings of an aneurysm.”

“He wouldn’t mention that,” I said. “I can hear him now,” and I lowered my voice, trying to imitate my friend’s raspy growl. “When it goes, it goes.”

Dr. Francis shrugged. “You’re spot on,” he said. “George refused surgery for it, of course. Alan’s opinion was that it wasn’t an acute defect, at least not yet. One of those things that you gamble with, especially with a geriatric patient who doesn’t want the surgery anyway. Take a watchful wait-and-see approach.”

“We get stubborn in our old age,” I said, and heard soft footsteps behind me. Two hands settled lightly on my shoulders as Estelle joined us. I patted the back of her left hand with my own by way of greeting, but her husband still had my attention.

“I think…and Alan does too…that the chain of events began with the acute allergic reaction…whatever that was, that’s the key,” he said. “With the spike in blood pressure triggered by that, the weak link gave out. We’re following that theory at the moment because we’re seeing other tell-tale markers of a sudden spike.”

I craned my head around and nodded at Estelle. “That fits the scenario, doesn’t it,” I said. “He has the attack, whatever it was, right there at the table, and starts to get up, maybe headed for a glass of water or something to put out the fire. He makes it over to the counter when the aorta lets go, and that drops him in his tracks.”

“It fits at the moment,” she agreed.

“Except he didn’t grab a glass for water,” I amended. “He grabbed the delivery bag from the restaurant. I’d sure enough like to replay the tape and see why he did that.”

“I spent a long time on the phone with Tony Abeyta, sir. He’s passed along everything we have to the state lab, and he’s camping out with them. I had hoped that they’d bring in some of the university facilities, and it looks like they’re going to do that. Tony is staying upstate until he has something concrete for us. They all understand the urgency.”

“It could still be days,” I said.

“Well, hopefully not. As I said, I pulled in some favors, and so did Bobby. They’re thinking allergies now, and if we’re all on the same track, they might be able to pull up something. The whole affair intrigued one of the med techs there. He’s willing to work the hours.”

“It’s bound to be something simple,” I said. “Some little thing that we’re just not seeing.”

Estelle patted my shoulder again when she saw me glance, probably a bit wistfully, toward the stove. “Irma made lasagna,” she said. “You haven’t just eaten, I hope.”

“No, but what difference would that make, sweetheart?” I chided. “And I’m sorry I missed Irma.” The Guzman’s nana spoiled the family in all the best ways, but my waistline appeared to be the only one that suffered.

“She’s helping her fiancé celebrate his birthday,” Francis said. “If she takes another hour off this year, we’re going to have to seriously rethink the arrangement.”

I laughed. “Wait until she ties the knot,” I said. “Then you’ll really be cast adrift.” Irma’s long-suffering boyfriend, a math teacher at the middle school, somehow was able to rationalize sharing his beloved with the Guzman corporation. Even though she was paid handsomely to be on call, I would bet the farm that Irma didn’t do it for the money.

“Good for her, tragedy for us,” Estelle said.

In a few moments the table was set, I refused wine in favor of more coffee, and the lasagna, salad, and fruit compote arrived in front of me, along with a long loaf of hot Italian bread generously slathered with butter and garlic. The two little boys could hardly sit still, fidgeting with anticipation. I had six more decades of practice in honing my own steely resolve. I sat between them, an arrangement that the boys’ parents okayed as long as I didn’t serve as a bad influence. Estelle’s mother sat across the table, a good strategic spot-her black eyes could flash warnings at the urchins at the least provocation.

A telephone buzzed over on the kitchen counter, and Estelle sighed, glancing at her watch out of habit.

“That thing,” Teresa scoffed. “The world used to be a peaceful place.”

“Con permiso,” Estelle said, rising from the table to pull the little cell phone out of its holster. “Guzman,” she greeted, and then listened intently for a moment. “No, he’s right here,” she said, glancing my way. “Ah,” she added, and listened some more. “Why don’t I have you talk with him, then. Hang on.” She held the phone out to me, and I pushed myself away from the table, using the top of little Francisco’s head for support. “It’s Bobby,” the undersheriff said.

That in itself was a surprise. The taciturn sheriff of Posadas County didn’t chit-chat on the phone with anyone-not with his wife, not with his colleagues, not even with his long-time hunting buddies. I could feel my pulse kick up a notch, and it wasn’t from the coffee.

“I can run but I can’t hide,” I said into the phone.

“Nope,” Torrez’s quiet voice said, and that ended his version of casual conversation. “The truck’s gone south.”

“The truck,” I said, left behind.

“Herb’s Torrance’s rig,” he added. “Truck and trailer both.”

I digested that for a second or two, but my silence didn’t prompt anything further from the sheriff. “Who reported that?”

“Doyle Armijo saw it go through the crossing. Two occupants, one male, one female.”

“Armijo knows the Torrances?” That seemed odd, since although I didn’t know much about the young Border Patrol agent, I did know that he’d been in the area for just a few weeks. I didn’t bother to ask why the rookie hadn’t stopped the truck because I knew why. Who cares who leaves the country, after all. But the Mexican side hadn’t stopped them upon entering, apparently. My guess was that Mexican agents reasoned that adding a shiny new truck and stock trailer to the Mexican economy couldn’t be a bad thing.

“Don’t think he does know Herb,” Torrez said. “He just remembers the truck and trailer, and the female who was driving.”

“Well, shit,” I said. The female. I couldn’t think of a single innocent reason why Pat Gabaldon would let a girlfriend of the moment drive Herb Torrance’s rig to Mexico. “Did Armijo recognize the girl?”

“Says not.”

“But her passenger was Pat?”

“He doesn’t know the Gabaldon kid. It could’ve been. Anyway, I just thought you’d want to know that we got that much now to go on. You want to be the one to tell Herb?”

“Sure. I can do that. Did you talk to the other side yet?” While officers on the U.S. side might not ask exit questions, Mexican officers were usually curious about who was coming into their country, and with what-a cynic would say that they needed to make sure that the proper hands were greased.

“I’m about to,” the sheriff said without elaboration. “You going to be there for a while?”

“I had planned to be. You’re in Regál?”

“Headin’ north. See you in a bit, then,” he said, and that was that.

I switched off the phone and turned to look at Estelle. “Pat Gabaldon is your problem now.” Still mystified, I told her what Sheriff Torrez had reported. “I don’t know him all that well,” I added, “but Pat always seemed like a level-headed kid to me. I’d have bet that he was content working for the Torrances. I’d have to think this is a real kick in the teeth for old Herb.”

“But Armijo couldn’t say for sure that the passenger in the truck was Pat, right?” Estelle asked. “Those two had probably never met.”

I shook my head. “Armijo was just pulling in to park for his shift, and it wasn’t any of his affair to stop the truck. Nothing suspicious caught his eye, except maybe the pretty girl who was driving.”

“And he’s sure about that…a girl at the wheel, not Pat?”

“Nope, not Pat. And-” I took a minute and refilled my coffee cup-the way things were shaping up, there was no telling when I’d find the next one.

“There are other possibilities,” Estelle said.

“And none of them particularly attractive.”