Statute of Limitations

Chapter Two

The rain beaded on the plastic cover of Deputy Mike Sisneros’s Stetson and drizzled off the brim. He kept the aluminum lid of his clipboard nearly closed, protecting the pages inside. As Estelle approached, he took a couple of steps away from the group to meet her. “I don’t think they can do much for him,” he said. “They’re giving it the old college try, though. Somebody at the motel initially called in a fatality, but he’s hangin’ in there.”

Turning in place, Estelle looked out across the wet, shiny asphalt of the parking lot. A cold, wet place, not the least bit friendly, she thought. After a moment Estelle saw her husband rise to his feet and steady one of the IV bag supports as the gurney was hoisted up onto its wheels. In a few seconds, the EMT team whisked Eduardo Martinez to the ambulance. His face, partially concealed by the oxygen mask, looked like wet alabaster. Dr. Guzman climbed into the ambulance, one hand locked on the chief’s.

Estelle felt as if she’d swallowed a pound of lead. The last time she had seen Eduardo Martinez, a chance encounter during a county commission meeting, he had smiled like a cherub, full of good cheer and excitement about the holidays.

Sisneros interrupted her thoughts. “This vehicle is stolen out of Hickory Grove, Indiana,” he said. He nodded at the Dodge sedan. “Registered to a Harlan Wilson Waid, 229 Sunset Terrace. Reported stolen from an auto parts store parking lot sometime during the evening of 12/21.”

“That’s three days ago,” Sheriff Bob Torrez said.

“That’s right,” Sisneros said, as if the correct arithmetic was a surprise. “That’s all we got on it right now. No who, no why.” He snapped the clipboard closed.

“I don’t care about this car,” Estelle said. “Where’s Eduardo’s vehicle? He didn’t drive down here tonight in a stolen car. What’s going on?”

“That’s just the point. I don’t know,” Sisneros said. “I don’t know what happened. I’m thinking the best guess is that whoever stole this piece of shit in Indiana drove it this far and then took the opportunity to grab himself a new set of wheels while Eduardo was inside or something. That’s what makes the most sense. I don’t know why he came down to the motel in the first place.”

“No one actually saw what happened?” Estelle asked. She glanced back at the ambulance. Her husband, satisfied that the EMTs had everything under control, was stepping down, ready to follow the ambulance to the hospital in his own vehicle. Had Francis seen the chief’s car leaving the parking lot? If not, they had missed crossing paths by only seconds.

“This is as far as we’ve gotten, Estelle,” Sisneros said. “But we wanted to jump on the possibility of the chief’s car being stolen as quickly as we could. He wouldn’t have walked down here from his house. Not in this weather. Anyway, Tom Pasquale headed south on 56 as far as the border crossing. Regál is closest if someone wants to hightail it into Mexico.”

“We got the roads covered,” Torrez said, cutting Sisneros off impatiently. “East, west, north, south…between us, the State Police, and the Border Patrol, it’s covered. This had to happen just a few minutes ago, so whoever took the chief’s car…if someone took his car…they ain’t gonna go far.”

“Or they might be lounging in a motel room, watching television,” Estelle said.

“Well, the chief’s car isn’t here, and he is,” Sisneros said.

“Eduardo called us at home,” Estelle said and glanced at her watch. “About fourteen minutes ago now. He was feeling ill, but he didn’t want to go to the hospital or have Francis call an ambulance for him. Francis did anyway, and then headed over here to check on him, to see what was going on. Apparently the chief had been home by himself. Family at church.” She looked across toward the sidewalk, and then the short distance to the main entrance. “Who called dispatch, do we know?”

“The motel desk clerk, most likely,” Sheriff Torrez said. “But we don’t know that, either. All we got is that dispatch had a man call it in. Didn’t leave his name.” He leaned with both hands on the head of a stout aluminum cane, ignoring the rivulets of water that matted his curly black hair and then ran down his swarthy face. He looked miserable. “He told dispatch that there was a man down out in the parking lot. Then he hung up. That’s what we got at the moment.”

“I rolled in first, then your husband, then Pasquale,” Deputy Sisneros said. “I saw right away that it was the chief lying by the sidewalk and rendered what assistance I could. I saw that this wasn’t his car, and the first minute I had the chance, I called it in.”

Estelle nodded in approval at Sisneros’s quick thinking. A junker car with out-of-state plates, the spare tire, keys in the ignition, no one around other than the chief…

“Tom got here, and then the ambulance,” Sisneros said. “The only thing that makes sense to me is that somebody was after a new set of wheels. Especially now that we know this one’s stolen.” He nodded at the dilapidated Dodge. “They’re sitting here with a flat tire on a stolen car. Eduardo rolls in, and bingo. They find a new Buick as a Christmas present, with a victim who isn’t going to resist much, or at all. There’s no sign of a struggle…no wounds or anything like that.”

There were a dozen routes that someone could use to slip out of Posadas County, but anyone unfamiliar with the bleak, rugged country would most likely stick to the main highways, taking their chances with the thin police coverage on a Christmas Eve.

Estelle slipped under the yellow tape, approaching the spot where Eduardo Martinez had lain. The chief had fallen to the tarmac on the driver’s side of the decrepit sedan from Indiana. Whether Eduardo had struggled with his assailants, or simply been so preoccupied that he had left his keys in his own car while he went inside the motel, was a puzzle. But in the chief’s delicate condition, a struggle wouldn’t have lasted long.

“Did the desk clerk see where the chief parked?” she asked. “Did he see any of this happen?”

“We haven’t had a chance to talk with anyone inside yet,” Sisneros said. “But I don’t think so.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” and he stopped, looking back toward the small portico that spanned the front entrance, a structure just large enough for a single vehicle to pull under. He shook his head dubiously. “Unless the clerk stepped outside, he wouldn’t be able to see this spot. That little wall of the foyer would block his view. There aren’t more than a handful of guests, and they’re all parked down at the other end, around the corner. No way to look out and see anything.”

“Something wasn’t blocked,” Estelle said. “Somebody saw something…some reason to call dispatch to report a man down.” She continued around the abandoned car, a four-door K-model Dodge sedan many miles and years past its prime. She paused at the front fender. The right front tire was the tiny space-saver unit intended for limited, short-distance use as a spare. She circled the Dodge slowly and saw that the keys hung from the ignition.

“Call the county barns and have someone come out and pick up this vehicle,” she said to Sisneros. “There’s not much we’re going to get from the outside, but the interior might tell us something.”

She paused and looked hard at Sheriff Torrez. He hadn’t budged, as if his cane had become rooted in the asphalt of the parking lot. In late October, during a confrontation when everything that could go wrong had, Torrez had taken a.223 bullet through the rump, at the same time suffering nasty fractures of his right forearm and right leg. A souvenir of that same incident, a white, half-inch scar marked the right side of Estelle’s upper lip.

In early December, Torrez had returned to work on a part-time basis, shuffling about with an awkward walking cast, out of balance with both arm and leg encased. The casts had been removed in time for the holidays, but Estelle knew that the sheriff had pretty much ignored the ordered physical therapy-regardless of threats, cajoling, and bribes from his wife, Gayle.

“Someone needs to go over to the hospital,” Estelle said. “If there’s a chance that Eduardo can tell us something…and maybe Dr. Guzman saw something when he arrived. We need to follow up on that.” She knew deep in her heart that the odds of that weren’t good. If Francis had seen two desperate men charging out of the lot, he would have said something already. But Sheriff Robert Torrez didn’t need to become an added complication for them by puddling in the cold rain. Something as simple as wearing a cap would have helped, but Bobby Torrez had taken being miserable to a new art form. Sending him to the hospital would at least keep him out of the weather.

“Yep,” Torrez said, and his quick agreement surprised Estelle. “And I’ll take care of lettin’ Essie know,” he added. “She’s gonna want to be with him.” He turned to Bill Gastner, who had been standing silently near the passenger door of Estelle’s sedan. “You want to ride over with me, Bill?”

“Go ahead. I’ll drop by the hospital after a bit,” the former sheriff replied.

Torrez nodded dubiously. “Merry Christmas.”

“You be careful,” Gastner said.

Bob Torrez managed something that could have been mistaken for a smile. “That’s all I’ve been doin’,” he said as he turned and peg-legged back toward his pickup truck.

Another Sheriff’s Department unit jounced into the parking lot. “Mike, now that Jackie’s here, I’d like another sweep of this area,” Estelle said. “Any little thing. You know the drill. I’m going inside to talk with the desk clerk. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Estelle beckoned to Gastner to accompany her. “Let’s go have a chat,” she said.

Three other vehicles were parked in the side lot beyond the lobby and office, a scattering of travelers too tired to press on, so travel-weary they were willing to spend Christmas Eve in the efficient, sterile motel rooms of the Posadas Inn. An older model van was first in line, and Estelle detoured far enough out into the lot to see that the other two vehicles were a small sports car with a ski rack on the trunk, and a white pickup truck with contractor’s side boxes and headache rack.

As she and Gastner entered the lobby, Estelle saw the night clerk in animated conversation, cell phone affixed to the side of her head, her back turned to the door. Miranda Lopez, the daughter of one of the medical-records clerks at Dr. Guzman’s clinic, was a strikingly pretty girl with angular features accentuated by too much makeup. Estelle knew that Miranda was a high-school student, and no doubt was taking the opportunity to earn extra bucks during the holidays by working the long, odd hours that no one else wanted.

With her tangled black hairdo, curvaceous body poured into tight jeans, and a white, tucked-waist blouse that left three inches of flat belly and a diamond navel stud exposed, it would be difficult to mistake her for a him.

Miranda, turned, saw Estelle and Gastner, and quickly cut off her telephone conversation.

“Miranda, is Mr. Patel here?” Estelle asked.

The girl nodded vigorously. “I called him. He said he’d be right down?” Her voice was clearly teenaged and as feminine as the rest of her. Estelle wondered who had told the sheriff that a man had called dispatch…or if someone had just made an innocent assumption.

“You mean he’s coming from home? Or is he here on the premises?”

“No. He was home, like when…,” and Miranda trailed off doubtfully. “What’s happening? All the ambulances and stuff?”

Estelle smiled sympathetically but ignored the questions. “You’re working by yourself?”

Miranda nodded.

“Did you see Chief Martinez earlier this evening?”

Miranda nodded again and bit her lip. “Is that what…?”

Estelle gave the girl a few seconds, but the nod was apparently going to suffice, the question and thought left unfinished.

“You obviously know him, then. Did you talk to him?”

“He wanted to buy some aspirin?” Miranda said. She leaned over the counter and pointed down the hall beyond the ice maker. “That vending machine right there?” Miranda’s voice was a soft singsong, marked by her tendency to make sentences into questions, the tail end of the phrase rising like a little check mark.

“Did you see him buy aspirin?”

Miranda nodded. “He wasn’t feeling so hot, I don’t think. He asked if he could use the desk phone.”

“He just came in, bought aspirin, used the phone, and that’s it? When did he go back outside?”

“Well, I had to give him change? He was all…I don’t know…all kind of like confused, and stuff? He almost lost his balance, like when he went back out the door?” Miranda glanced outside. “He used the phone to call a doctor, I think. But then he kind of just wandered, you know? Is he okay? I was worried about him. And that girl was so pregnant I thought maybe she was having her baby or something. I thought may be the ambulance was for her.”

“Which girl is that?” Estelle asked. “There was a girl with him?”

“No, no,” Miranda said. “I mean earlier? The van people? They checked in a little while ago.”

“Ah. Okay. Did you happen to see what kind of car Chief Martinez was driving?”

Miranda shook her head. “He just came in? I guess he was parked along the side, there? I didn’t see him until he came inside, though. I mean, I was talking on the phone, and turned around, and he was just like, there?”

“So you couldn’t see his car? You didn’t see where he parked?”

“No. I couldn’t. I think he parked, like down there?” She gestured vaguely toward the north.

“After he used the phone, and then left, did you walk over to the door?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea what happened after he left?”

“No…and then the police cars came, and the ambulance. I looked out the door then. They were all down at that one car.”

“Did you call 911, Miranda?” Gastner asked.

The girl shook her head, a quick little I didn’t do it expression.

“You’ve been here by yourself all evening?” Estelle asked.

“Sure,” Miranda said. “I called Mr. P, though, ’cause of the people in the van. He said he was coming down a little bit later? And then this happened, and I called him again. So he should be here pretty soon. You want me to call him again?”

“I don’t think so,” Estelle said. “But no one from here called 911? No one that you know of?”

“Well, I didn’t. That’s all I know. I didn’t like know anything was wrong and stuff until all the cops started showing up? I mean, maybe one of the guests saw something out the window. You think?”

“We’ll talk to them,” Estelle said. “Did you happen to see the owners of the little blue Dodge sedan that’s parked over around the side?”

“I don’t think so. Well, maybe…I’m not sure. One guy, he like came to the door? It looked like he was going to come inside? And then he didn’t? He was talking to someone else?”

“What did he look like, Miranda?”

“He was like a big guy, you know?”

“Tell me what you mean by big.”

“Well, he was just big, like huge. He had on this funny little cap. All peaky and stuff?”

“Like a welder’s cap?” Gastner asked gently, but Miranda just looked puzzled.

“He pulled the door open a little? And then it like sounded like someone yelled to him outside. I think he went back down the sidewalk?” she said.

“And you could hear someone else talking?” Estelle asked.

“You said it sounded as if someone called out to him. This big guy in the funny cap?”

“I think so. Oh, and he had this real long ponytail,” Miranda said, a trace of pride creeping into her voice. “When he turned and stuff, I could like see it? It hung right down his back.” She pivoted and reached around to touch her own back with her thumb.

“Anglo?”

Miranda nodded. “I think so.”

“Did you see this man, or anyone else, talking with Chief Martinez? In all this coming and going?”

“No. I think he like came in afterward?”

“The chief did, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“How long afterward?”

Miranda shrugged. “Just a few minutes, I think.”

“Let me make sure I understand you, Miranda. The big guy comes to the door, starts to open it, and then changes his mind when someone yells to him. Just a few minutes later, Chief Martinez comes in, buys some aspirin, uses the phone, and then goes back outside. That’s the way it happened?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gastner leaned on the counter and regarded Miranda impassively. “When you say ‘a few minutes,’ young lady, what do you mean? Are we talking, say, two minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

“I…,” Miranda started to say, and stopped.

“Just take your time,” Gastner said gently. “Relax, take your time, and remember what you were doing. Remember what you saw. We have all night.”

Miranda looked down at the computer keyboard, frowning. “Okay,” she said. “Those people in the old van-she’s the pregnant lady-she and her husband had just gone, like to park? That’s when this guy comes to the door? The big guy with the ponytail.”

“Seconds later, you mean?” Gastner prompted.

“Like, just seconds. The van was parked right there by the door, and they started up and like swung around?” Miranda pointed to her left. “I mean like, right away, they’re gone and this ponytail guy is at the door.” The words came in a rush, as if she had finally warmed up to her role as key witness. “Like he would have had to almost step out of the way when the van pulled around. And then, this ponytail guy just like changes his mind and leaves. He walks off that way?” Miranda pointed to her right. “That’s when the chief came in, just after that.”

“How long would that be?”

“Like just a little bit.”

Gastner smiled encouragement. “If you started counting from the time when Ponytail left to when the chief entered, how far would you get?”

Miranda closed one eye, the opposite eyebrow lifting. Estelle watched as the girl replayed her mental tape. “I think I’d like get to thirty, maybe?”

“That soon. Just thirty seconds?”

“Yes. It wasn’t very long and stuff.”

Estelle frowned at Gastner. “That’s why he chose to park along the side, rather than pulling under the portico. The van would still have been in the way.” To Miranda, she said, “I’d like the room number of the van folks. May I see their registration card?”

The girl hesitated. “She was really pregnant?” Her hand drifted down to her own flat belly. “For a minute I thought all the ambulances and stuff was for her.” She slid the card across the counter toward Estelle. “They’re in 110? That’s the room down at the end. That’s where Mr. P said they should go.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I had to call him, ’cause they said they didn’t have any money and stuff? And she wasn’t feeling too good?”

Estelle looked at the card. “He filled this out? The man did?”

“Yes.”

Neat block letters filled the card. “Todd Willis,” Estelle said. “Las Cruces.” She glanced at Gastner. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

He shrugged. “No bells in this old head.”

“They seemed like nice people. I was kind of afraid that she was going to have her baby like right here in the lobby,” Miranda said.

“Are you up on first-aid procedures?” Gastner chuckled, and Miranda flashed a quick, nervous smile.

“Not hardly.”

Estelle continued to examine the card. “They both came into the lobby to check in?” she asked without looking up. Miranda glanced first at Gastner and then at Estelle, as if unsure whether or not to answer the question.

“I think they did ’cause they couldn’t pay. Like maybe they thought…” Miranda let the rest of the thought trail off.

“Good technique,” Gastner said.

The door behind Miranda opened, and a dapper, swarthy man in razor-creased tan slacks, white shoes, and salmon-colored polo shirt stepped into the office.

“Mr. Patel, good evening,” Estelle said. She reached across the counter and shook the man’s hand-his return grip so light and limp that it wouldn’t have supported a pencil.

“Hey, Adrian,” Gastner said. “Good to see you.”

“Miranda tells me there has been a problem,” Adrian Patel said precisely, with just a hint of rolled r’s in his speech.

“Yes, sir,” Estelle replied. “Chief Eduardo Martinez was just taken to the hospital. We think with a coronary. It also appears that his vehicle may be missing.”

“You mean all this while he was here at my motel?” Patel asked.

“Yes. Apparently he came into the lobby to purchase some aspirin. There’s a possibility that he may have had a confrontation with someone outside, in the parking lot. But we don’t know yet.”

“This is all most unfortunate.” Patel heaved a deep sigh. “A confrontation, you say? With a guest?”

“We don’t know.”

“Ah. What may I do for you, then?”

“For one thing, sir, we need to talk to two guests who might have seen the incident. We understand that they’re in Room 110, down at the end.”

“Ah,” Patel said, and nodded. “Yes. We have those from time to time. Sometimes a bed and a meal may make a world of difference to them.”

“Yes, indeed,” Gastner said.

“I should think that they would still be in their room at this time,” Patel said. “Should you need to talk with them.”

“Just a couple of quick questions would be helpful,” Estelle said.

“I will remain here,” Patel said. “Should you need to talk with myself or Miranda again about this, you will feel free.” He nodded as if to add, and that’s that.

“We appreciate your help,” Estelle said. She paused, regarding Miranda. “They didn’t call 911 from the lobby. Is that correct?”

“No, ma’am,” Miranda said promptly.

“And not from their room?”

“I don’t think so. The panel here lights all up and stuff if a phone line is in use?” Miranda said.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Once outside, Estelle stood under the portico, hands thrust in her pockets. “Interesting,” she said.

“Yep,” Gastner agreed. “Interesting and stuff.”

“The young couple can’t afford to pay for a room, but they have their own cell phone and van.”

“These are the times we live in, sweetheart. And stuff.”

“That new baby is going to have an interesting life.” Estelle grinned. “And if you’re going to talk like that, you have to have a bare midriff, sir.”

He looked down at his gut. “Scary thought.”

Estelle hunched against the drizzle, breathing the clean, wet air outside, relieved to be clear of the aroma of carpet cleaner and disinfectant. The two of them walked back to the county car and then drove the length of the motel toward Room 110.