Statute of Limitations

Chapter Thirty-five

Estelle’s first effort to reach Monica Tripp resulted in a busy signal, and even while she was reacting with a grimace of irritation, the cell phone on her belt chirped.

“We’re at Mike’s apartment,” Sheriff Torrez said without greeting. “Are you finished up?” He didn’t bother to elaborate.

“I just tried to reach Monica Tripp, with no success. I’m going to drop Padrino off so he can pick up his truck,” Estelle replied. “He claims he has work to do.” She glanced across the office at Bill Gastner, who shrugged in apology. “We left Essie’s a few minutes ago. What she remembers jibes with the reports. I think it boils down to something pretty simple-she didn’t want to embarrass Eduardo. Or at least tarnish his memory. So wait for me. I’ll tell you about it when I get there. We may be barking up the wrong tree, Bobby.”

“Yeah, well,” the sheriff said, obviously not awash in sympathy. “Swing this way, then. And keep the old man with you.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Estelle laughed.

“See you in a couple of minutes,” Torrez said, and there wasn’t any responsive note of humor in his tone. “You on the way?”

“Yes, sir.” The phone connection broke without further comment from Torrez, and Estelle snapped her own unit closed. “Bobby wants you over at Mike’s,” she said to Gastner, whose shaggy eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Moi?”

“A ti.”

“What’d I do?”

“I have no idea, sir. It sounds like he’s talking to Mike right now. So we’ll see. Can the State live without you for a few more minutes?”

Gastner laughed. “Oh, I’m sure. They can live without me for months and years at a time, no doubt.”

A moment or two later, just beyond Posadas Hardware and Lumber, they swung onto the broken macadam side street that eventually wound behind the high school’s athletic field. Before they reached the school property, they saw two county units pulled into the Mesa View Apartments parking lot, on the far side of the building, out of sight of Mike Sisneros’s red Mustang-and the apartment window above it with the commanding view.

“He looks terrible,” Gastner said, nodding in the sheriff’s direction as Torrez slid down from the driver’s seat of the Expedition, moving slowly as if the slightest jar when his boots touched the pavement would send shock waves up through his system.

“Agreed,” Estelle said. “The more people who tell him that, though, the more stubborn he gets.”

“You know,” Gastner said as he pulled himself up and out of Estelle’s sedan, “when he married Gayle, I was willing to bet that she’d be able to reform him in about a month. No dice. Not even in five years. Not a dent.”

“It’s when Gayle turns grumpy that I’m going to start worrying,” Estelle replied.

“Hey.” Bob Torrez’s standard greeting was augmented by an expression that Estelle couldn’t differentiate as a smile or a grimace. If he had overheard Gastner’s comment, or hers, he gave no indication. Moving slowly to the front of Estelle’s Crown Victoria, he settled his left hip ever so gingerly on the front fender. He glanced at Estelle, and she saw his gaze fix for a brief instant at the base of her throat, where the black margin of the vest showed.

With one hand braced on the fender, Torrez turned and nodded at Gastner, pointing with his free hand at the tangle of gray chest hair that peeked out around the top button of the older man’s plaid shirt. “Vest,” he said.

At the same time, Eddie Mitchell slammed the back door of the Expedition and appeared holding a large, well-used vest that he extended toward Gastner. “This was still in the equipment room,” he, said. “It has your name on it.”

“And I’m sure it still fits,” Gastner said agreeably. He took the vest and laid it on the hood of Estelle’s car, then shucked his own jacket. With practiced ease, he slipped the vest over his head, pulled it down so that it covered at least a portion of his belly, and slapped the Velcro stays in place. “So,” he said, patting the center of the vest’s reinforcement pocket. He slipped the jacket back on. “What’s up? Where’s Mike?”

“We don’t know,” Mitchell said. “That’s what’s up. That’s his car, but no Mike.”

“Not upstairs in his apartment?”

“Nope.” Torrez said. “Eddie went up and rapped on the door. No answer, and the door’s locked.” His dark brown eyes were locked on the shadow where the interior foyer opened to the sidewalk. “I don’t like it much. He could just be sittin’ inside.”

Or worse, Estelle thought. “Or he might be out for a Sunday stroll, Bobby.” She touched the phone that hung on her belt, but Torrez had evidently reached his own decision. “We found out why Janet didn’t want to spend Christmas with Mike’s mother and stepfather.”

“No shit?”

“It looks like years ago, Eduardo cut a deal with Hank Sisneros, back in 1990. The chief caught Hank and young Janet together, half sloshed. And maybe doing more than just drinking. The girl was fourteen at the time.”

“Essie said this?”

“She remembers it well. Apparently Eduardo cut Hank a deal. Hank offered to leave town, and the chief didn’t pursue the charges. Hank must have been persuasive.”

“Christ,” Torrez muttered. He moved slightly, shifting his weight from a trouble spot on his hip. “Hank Sisneros.” He said the name and fell silent, staring at the pavement. “That’s one person who wouldn’t want an old piece of paperwork to go public.”

“But Chief Martinez didn’t make a report,” Estelle said.

“Hank wouldn’t know that, would he?” Torrez said. “And he probably doesn’t know that the statute of limitations puts him in the clear, the dumb shit. It’s just like I said.” He turned to glare at Bill Gastner. “The two old guys would remember, and that’s what he’s afraid of.”

“One of ’em, anyway,” Gastner said. “I didn’t.”

“And he don’t know that,” Torrez persisted. “Only thing we don’t know is how Mike figures in all this. I can see that daddy wouldn’t want the son to find out who’s been bangin’ the kid’s fiancée.” He jerked his head toward the apartment building. “We were waiting on you.” He patted his jacket pocket. “We have the paperwork to go in upstairs.”

Pushing himself off the car, the sheriff reached out and locked a hand on Gastner’s left shoulder. So rarely did Robert Torrez ever reach out physically to anyone that the gesture startled Estelle. “Until I know where he’s at,” Torrez said. “Until we know what the hell is going on, I want somebody with you.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Gastner said affably. “And I don’t think Mike Sisneros is a threat to anyone.” He paused and cocked his head, looking askance at the sheriff.

“It’s beginnin’ to sound like it ain’t Mike that we got to worry about,” Torrez said. “And as far as threats go…well,” and he let the rest of the sentence hang as he removed his big paw from Gastner’s shoulder. “We don’t know, do we? Mike’s car is here, and he ain’t. We don’t know where the hell he is. He ain’t in Lordsburg with his mom, and if he’s in town…well, we ain’t found him yet. And we’ve been lookin’, too. He might be sittin’ up there,” and he nodded at the stairway, “holdin’ a shotgun on the door. Or maybe he’s already used it on himself. No way to know.”

“Who talked to him last?” Estelle asked. “I had breakfast with him this morning, about nine or so. Did anybody see him after that?”

“Don’t think so,” Torrez replied.

“Does he have a bike or something? Maybe he went for a ride. To clear his head.”

“He don’t ride a bike,” Torrez said impatiently. “That’s Pasquale does that.”

“Look,” Eddie Mitchell said, “it’s his weapon that’s missing. It’s his girlfriend who got whacked with a gun of the same caliber. And Bill’s conference room key was taken…. Mike didn’t have one of his own. And now we know something about his daddy that we didn’t know before. Maybe Hank’s made a deal with his son. ‘You get those records for me, and we’re square.’”

“And it’s entirely possible that Mike doesn’t know about his father and Janet Tripp,” Gastner said. “Hank would have known that Eduardo would never put a minor’s name in the report-if he wrote one in the first place. And Janet sure as hell wouldn’t tell Mike.”

“Let me go up there, then,” Estelle said quickly. The idea of Mike Sisneros and weapons at the ready obviously was already front and center in Torrez’s mind, despite the newest revelations from Essie Martinez. Estelle didn’t believe it for a moment…except for the awful possibility that events had pounded the young cop down into such a deep depression that he had sought the quick way out.

“Let’s find out,” she said. “If Eddie covers the inside stairs, then you and Bill can back us up from down here. Is there an upstairs back window in his apartment?”

Torrez nodded.

“Then one of you in the back, and one out here,” Estelle said, glad that the stairway was enough of an obstacle that Torrez was content to cover from below-not that either he or Gastner would be of any use if a foot chase developed.

Two and two halves, Estelle thought. She reached into the car and unlocked the shotgun. “You want this, sir?”

“I don’t think I need that,” Gastner replied.

“Take it anyway,” she said.

“Why, sure,” he said agreeably, but she could see the set in his eyes. “I’ll take the back.” He nodded toward a large air-conditioning unit that sat on a concrete slab at the end of the building. “I can watch the window from there, and you, too.”

“You’ve already tried calling him?” Estelle asked Torrez.

“Yup. No answer, no answering machine. No page. No nothing. Collins and Mears are both cruisin’ likely spots, and they ain’t found a thing. It’s like he just slipped off somewhere.”

“Then let’s take a look and see what we have.”

They kept close to the building as they moved down its length, Estelle and Eddie Mitchell moving quickly, with Gastner bringing up the rear. Torrez limped to a spot directly in front of the Mustang, and leaned against the wall beside the entrance to the inside stairwell.

The stubby.45 automatic felt bulky in Estelle’s hand as she moved up the outside stairway, keeping her body against the faded siding. The air was quiet enough that she could hear a vehicle pull out of the parking lot of Tommy’s Handi-Way convenience store three blocks away. Across the alley, in full view of the stairway, the lumberyard was Sunday-afternoon empty.

She was still several steps from the door when her radio, turned down just one click shy of silent, carried Eddie Mitchell’s velvety soft voice. “I’m here,” he said, and Estelle reached down and touched the transmit button once, sending the shortest burst of squelch as a reply.

Reaching out with her left hand, she twisted the doorknob. It turned and then stuck. She jiggled it gently back and forth, then turned hard, rocking the knob at the same time. The latch released. Oh, sí, Estelle thought. This is supposed to be locked? She glanced down and saw Bill Gastner’s rotund figure. He raised a hand. Estelle looked back at the door, trying to visualize the apartment. She’d been inside once before, and nothing about the place had struck her as out of the ordinary. The door opened inward to the right, stopping against the kitchen wall. To the right was the living room and its window that fronted the parking lot. Farther down the hall was a single bedroom and a bath.

The door outside of which Eddie Mitchell waited after climbing the interior stairway opened into the far end of the living room.

From his vantage point, Bill Gastner would be able to see several feet into the apartment beyond the door. She pointed at her eyes, then to Gastner, then to the door, and he nodded, shifting position slightly. With the toe of her boot, she pushed the door as hard as she could, drawing back instantly. The door yawned open, and she glanced back at Gastner. He stretched as tall as he could, peering through the open door. He held up a hand uncertainly, then motioned all clear.

Diving past the opening, she regrouped on the opposite side of the door, sifting through the brief image she’d seen.

“I’m clear,” she said into the radio, and a second later heard the other door slam open.

Estelle stepped inside, stopped, and listened. She saw Mitchell in the shadows by a large entertainment center just inside the interior door, doing the same. It took them no more than a moment to ascertain that the apartment was indeed empty.

“You need me up there?” Torrez’s voice sounded tired over the radio, maybe disappointed.

“I don’t think so,” Estelle replied. “He’s not here.”

“Now what?” Mitchell said, holstering his own weapon. He was standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

“I don’t know, Eddie.” She surveyed the living room, then moved into the kitchen. Lived in, on the verge of sloppy, with the owner preoccupied with far more important things than a clean carpet or washed dishes-Mike Sisneros’s home was exactly what a bachelor apartment might be expected to look like after a couple of days of neglect. The sink included a fair collection of unwashed dishes, glasses, and cutlery.

She bent over toward the trio of glasses still on the counter and sniffed.

“I didn’t think Mike is much of a drinker,” she said as Mitchell entered the kitchen behind her.

“He isn’t. Actually, I don’t think that he drinks at all.”

“Did Janet?”

“I have no idea.”

She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her jacket pocket, worked her fingers into them, and then lifted a glass gingerly by the very bottom. “Someone does.”

Mitchell crossed to the sink. Estelle placed the glass back where it had been, and he bent down and sniffed all three. “Somebody does,” he repeated. “One’s had whiskey in it, or something similar. The others don’t.”

“Was the front door locked?” Estelle asked, and Mitchell shook his head. “You didn’t try it earlier?”

“I came up the outside,” he said.

“That one sticks.”

“Apparently,” Mitchell said. “I jiggled the knob, and when it didn’t turn, I assumed it was locked. Assume, assume.”

“So,” Estelle said, surveying the room. “Where’s our man? His car’s here; he’s not.” She stepped close to the glasses again, inhaling the aroma deeply, then straightened up and methodically opened one cabinet door after another. Mitchell did the same, working from the other side.

“No booze,” he said, and opened the refrigerator. “One six-pack of beer, two missing.”

“Maybe down in the car,” Estelle said. She pulled the trash can out from under the sink and rummaged for a moment. “Not in the trash.” She straightened up. “Interesting possibilities, Eddie.” She stepped toward the living room and surveyed the simple quarters, then stooped down and looked under the table and the old sofa. No empty bottles lurked in any of the logical places where a drunk might cast them away. She stood for a moment, listening, looking, and smelling.

The image came to mind of Mike Sisneros trudging down the alley in an alcoholic shuffle, shoulders stooped, the bottle of whiskey hanging from unresponsive fingers. That didn’t work. But Hank Sisneros came to mind, and the image fitted.

She turned and looked back at Eddie Mitchell, and when their eyes met, she knew that he was thinking the same thing.