The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Thirty-three

“It takes a little bit,” Melinda Torrez said cheerfully. She turned away from the screen just far enough that she could see Estelle out of the corner of her eye. “Do I really want to know what’s going on? Do I want to have something really creative to tell the computer nerds in Santa Fe when they monitor my system and see that I opened up on a Sunday?”

“This all stems from Friday night’s crash down on the pass,” Estelle said. “A nasty turn.”

“Oh my, that,” Melinda said, and shook her head sadly.

“There’s a considerable flight risk,” the undersheriff said. “Otherwise I’d take the chance and wait for tomorrow morning.”

“Ah,” Melinda said, and nodded. She smiled and leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest as she regarded the magazine writer. There was little extra room in the crowded office, a tiny facility that rented space from the U.S. Post Office, and both Madelyn and Estelle waited at the counter as if they were in line to renew their car registrations.

When she had introduced the writer to the sheriff’s sister, Estelle had seen the instant magnetism, that uncommon attraction that occurs when two people meet and instantly like each other.

“How long are you in town for, Madelyn?” Melinda asked.

“You know, I’m not sure. When I drove up here, I had all these visions of pastoral peace and quiet…you know, the aroma of chiles roasting and piñon burning.”

Melinda laughed. “And now look at the mess Estelle and my brother have landed you in. What will the rest of the world think of us.”

“I may have to go on vacation in some quiet inner city somewhere to recover,” Madelyn said.

“Hey, take me with you,” Melinda said, raising a black eyebrow. She was obviously her brother’s sister, cast in the same Torrez mold, with a family resemblance that had once prompted Bill Gastner to remark, “Yep, they threw away the mold after they made Rafael, Elsa, Bobby, Melinda, Scotty, MaryAnne, Tiffany…” And he could continue on and name all nine of Rafael and Elsa’s children-the heart of an enormous extended family that virtually took over MacArthur Street in Posadas when the family had a reunion.

What Melinda lacked, Estelle reflected, was the wonderfully dour, deadpan expression that her older brother had perfected as his substitute for charm. Four years younger than the sheriff, unmarried, dedicated totally to her enormous family, “Auntie Melinda” had always impressed Estelle as the very definition of contentment. As supervisor of the local Motor Vehicle Department office, she was adept at guiding folks through the sometimes frustrating labyrinth of state vehicle laws.

A truck idled to the curb, and Melinda nodded, recognizing her brother’s vehicle. “Don’t say that I said so, but he was taking a nap. Here you all are working and he’s napping.” She leaned forward as something appeared on the screen, then quickly tapped in data. She relaxed back again as the computer went on digesting. “You’ll have to turn the key to let him in. I locked it.” Estelle stepped to the door and twisted the lock.

“Hey,” the sheriff said, and let a nod to Madelyn and his sister suffice.

“How’s the nap?” Melinda asked, and Torrez’s instant frown was dark.

“How do you know if I was nappin’ or not,” he said.

“’Cause Gayle said you were going to,” Melinda shot back. “And if Gayle says it, it’s true.”

“She said I was going to. Don’t mean I got to, thanks to you guys.”

“Okay,” Melinda said, and held up both hands. “We’re up and running. Who needs a new license first?” Her expression turned serious. “What do we need to know that doesn’t require a court order, which you don’t have.”

“I have a name,” Estelle said. “I need to know what vehicles are registered to her. And I need her last known address. CJ Vallejos.” She spelled the name, and both she and Melinda finished at the same time.

“Well, now,” Melinda said, leaning back again. “I need something to narrow this down. There’s a whole city of Vallejoses in the state, and when I scroll down, let me see,” and she ran a finger down the screen. “Not a single CJ. Let’s roam a bit farther. How about Constance Vallejos?” She looked up at Estelle.

“Maybe. She would be in her early twenties,” Estelle replied. “Certainly no more than thirty. The last residence we know of is in Las Cruces.”

“Ah. That helps.” Melinda leaned an elbow on the computer console and waited as the cursor searched.

“Do we have license photos?”

“Sure we do.” Melinda reached out and pivoted the computer screen so Estelle could see it by leaning over the counter. “This is Ms. Constance. Her DOB is five five eighty-two. That makes her twenty-five, coming up on twenty-six.”

“I don’t think so.” The photo showed a homely young woman whose fleshy, teardrop-shaped face glared into the camera. The rims of her tiny granny glasses nestled grooves into her heavy cheeks. The photo showed the top swell of wide shoulders.…No stretch of the imagination could call this woman willowy.

“Well, then,” Melinda said. “In the same pew, we have Consuela Juanita Vallejos. That’s a nice, old-fashioned name, isn’t it. Ms. Consuela Juanita…” She looked up at Estelle. “CJ for short, maybe? She shows a DOB of eleven nine eighty-four. That makes her twenty-three come November.”

Estelle’s heart jumped. It took a special kind of composure to look beautiful in a driver’s license photo, but Consuela Juanita Vallejos managed to do it. The young woman had cocked her head at the last moment so her face avoided that pasted-on look of Post Office bulletin board photos. Long black hair pulled back, her face finely sculpted, she had allowed the hint of a smile to touch her full lips.

“I see a light,” Melinda said, smiling at Estelle.

“Who the hell is this?” Torrez asked.

“It could be one of Irene Salas’ classmates at State,” Estelle replied. “A lab partner, in fact.”

“Irene give you a description?”

“Of sorts. This one fits enough that I need to run it down to Irene to make sure. Melinda, may I have a copy?”

“Um…,” Melinda said, thinking. Then she shrugged. “What the hell. I’ll give you the photo without all the personal data. How’s that?”

“That’ll work as long as we can have her address,” Estelle said. “And that,” she said, pointing at the phone directory. While the photo printed, she found Serafina Roybal’s number and dialed, stepping away from the counter. “Come on,” she said, waiting as the ring count mounted. After eighteen, the phone connected with a clatter. Serafina’s voice was distant and sounded fragile.

“Hello?”

“Serafina? This is Estelle Guzman bothering you again.”

“Yes, dear. How nice.”

“I need to ask you…has Irene come back from the Riveras’ yet?”

“Well, you know, I think they’re outside working on my old car. Would you like to speak with her?”

“If that’s possible, yes.”

“Let me call her.”

“Take your time, Serafina.”

“Oh,” and the old woman chuckled. “That’s a certainty.”

As Estelle waited, she looked across at the others. “We need Irene to make a positive ID before we do anything else,” she said. “If this isn’t the girl, we’re back to square one.”

The sheriff raised one hand. “I got some preliminaries from Mears, too,” he said. Estelle nodded, and in the background over the phone she could hear voices.

“This is Irene,” a strong voice on the phone said.

“Irene, this is Estelle Guzman again. Look, I hate to keep bugging you on your holiday, but I have another photo I need you to look at. Will you be at your grandma’s for a while longer?”

“Sure, I guess.” She didn’t sound overly enthusiastic at the prospect of more morgue shots. “You bet. I wasn’t going back to Cruces until morning.”

“Perfecto. It should be about thirty minutes, then.”

“I’ll probably be back over at the shop,” Irene said. “There or here.”

“I’ll find you. While I’m at it, do you have a cell?”

“Oh, sure. You want that number?”

“Yes. It’s hard for Serafina to get to the phone.” Estelle jotted down the number. “Thanks.”

She snapped the phone shut. “Okay.” She stepped back to the counter. “Bobby, I’ve been beating this same horse to death. I just keep circling around to the notion of how Serafina Roybal’s name was chosen for this sweepstakes thing. I know, I know…we’re probably all on every list in the world. But Chris Marsh was up to something, and he knew where she was-where Joe and Lucinda were, too. This is the first link.” She held up the photo. “Almost certainly, Irene would have talked to this girl about Serafina. She and CJ Vallejos were partners in an anthro class during the fall semester.”

“You got something else?” Torrez asked, openly dubious.

“We’ll see. Irene remembers that Chris Marsh came by that anthro class from time to time to pick up his girlfriend.” Melinda handed her a printout of the photo. “Thanks. She describes CJ as looking about like this.” She passed the photo to the sheriff.

“And?” Torrez said, still unimpressed.

“Can you tell me what vehicles this one has registered?” Estelle asked.

“Most recent is a 2007 Ford Mustang, color blue. License…oh, this is cute. ‘MY PONY.’”

“Ay,” Estelle whispered. “There we go. She did buy it.”

“‘There we go’ what?” Torrez said.

“That jibes with what Marsh’s neighbors at the trailer park told Tony. This is the girlfriend. She’s got to be.” She read the address. “Off campus, for sure. I want Irene to confirm this photo,” she said.

“Betty Contreras has one of those phone-fax-copier thingies,” Melinda said. “Might be quicker than driving all the way back down to Regál.”

“That’s an idea, but it’d take almost as much time to include Betty in the loop as not. Besides, I need to see Irene Salas face-to-face when she IDs the picture.”

“Mears finished dusting the beer can, by the way,” the sheriff said. “He was goin’ over to the county boneyard to finish with the truck. I’ll give him a heads-up.”

“We have to have that,” Estelle agreed. “By itself, this is nothing.” She looked at the photo. “Just because she was Chris Marsh’s girlfriend for a while doesn’t mean she had any other connection with what he had going on. But if her prints are on the beer can, then that puts her at the scene of the accident.”

“Abeyta’s still over there? In Cruces?” Torrez asked.

“Yes. He was scouting car dealers.” Estelle leaned toward Melinda. “One more tiny little thing?”

“Oh, here we go,” Melinda said. “My retirement out the window.” She smiled. “What?”

“Did she buy the Mustang from a local dealer?”

Melinda made a face and scrutinized the computer screen. “Just a sec.” In a moment, she sat back. “The dealer code is New Mexico.”

“And?”

“Sonoraland Ford, Lincoln, Mercury. You need the address?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Why not,” Melinda said, and read it off.

“We’ll need this down the road, maybe,” Estelle said with satisfaction. “Right now, Tony needs to hotfoot it over to the last known address.”

“From a distance,” Torrez said. “When you talk to him, make sure he don’t go runnin’ in there by himself. I’ll tell him the same thing.”

“Nobody does anything, yet,” Estelle replied.

“But you’re thinkin’ that way,” Torrez said. He turned to his sister. “Any wants or warrants?”

“Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said. “One step at a time. You’re headed back to Regál to ID this picture. If we get a hit there, then we got enough cause to question this Vallejos.…Come up with a print match from something from the crash site and that’s it. I’m going to head that way after I talk with Mears and see what else he’s got. Lemme know.” He rapped the counter with his knuckle. “Thanks,” he said to his sister.

“Wow,” Madelyn said as she settled into the car once more. The sheriff had already left, his truck trailing blue smoke. “I was watching your face when the young woman’s face came up on the screen.”

Estelle didn’t reply. She had been calculating the time it would take Bobby Torrez to drive to the boneyard to talk with Sergeant Tom Mears, and then on to Las Cruces, an hour away even flying low. She hadn’t told Irene what photo needed to be identified, and that was good. Still, there had been enough questions asked about the accident victim, Chris Marsh, and his girlfriend, Consuela Juanita Vallejos, that Irene Salas, a member of the modern cell phone generation, might be prompted to make a quick telephone call. Even if done in compassionate innocence, it would be all the tip-off needed.

If she was home in Las Cruces, CJ Vallejos was half an hour, maybe an hour, from the border crossing at El Paso. It was conceivable that she was already waiting in line.