The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Thirty-eight

“She’s conscious and lucid,” Deputy Jackie Taber said. She pulled the door closed behind her. “And frightened. How are you doing, ma’am,” she said to Madelyn Bolles.

“Keeping up, just barely, thank you.”

“The docs are in there now doing whatever it is that they do,” the deputy continued. She looked at her watch.

“What does she have to say?” Estelle asked.

Taber made a face of exasperation. “I haven’t exchanged more than a few words with her,” she said, and held out an arm, tugging at her own uniform sleeve. “She doesn’t much like the looks of this, is my guess. She doesn’t know what we know, and she’s worried.” The deputy shook her head. “That’s all conjecture on my part.”

The door of the ICU suite behind her opened, and Jackie stepped to one side to allow the nurse out. “Hi,” the young woman said, beaming at Estelle. Moira Torrez, the sheriff’s youngest sister, was as petite as her brother was huge. Her dazzling smile included Madelyn but immediately turned sober. “You’re going to want to talk with her?”

“If we can.”

Moira took a quick step out of the way as the door opened again. Dr. Francis Guzman held the door, blocking the opening. “You want a few minutes?” he asked Estelle.

“Yes.”

Still blocking the passage, the physician let the door ease closed behind him. “She’ll be pretty loopy,” he said. “I knew you’d want to talk with her, and we’re keeping the sedation as mild as we can. We’re going to transport her to Cruces here in a few minutes. Pete Vaskos is on hand down there, and he’s going to do an eval and help us with the crushed hip.”

“Spinal damage?”

“Not good, querida. That’s what took the brunt of it. We have nasty fractures down at T-twelve and L-one, as well as a broken pelvis and femur.”

“She’s paralyzed?”

“Yes. From the waist down.”

“Is she going to stay that way?”

“My guess is that she will.” He pushed the door open and held it for Estelle, and as she passed through, she beckoned Madelyn to follow. Dr. Alan Perrone ducked his head in greeting and joined Francis out in the hall, leaving Estelle and Madelyn alone with the patient.

Consuela Juanita Vallejos looked tiny, so buried was she under braces, tubes, and wires. Her eyes were open and a little unfocused as the drugs in her system dulled the edges of consciousness. Estelle moved close to the left side of the bed and looked down at the girl, trying to imagine this desperately injured creature as the vibrant, confident young woman whose appearance had managed to shine through even in a driver’s license photo.

Estelle leaned forward, her right hand resting on the frame near the patient’s head. CJ’s eyes blinked several times as if she was trying to clear the cobwebs.

“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was husky, just above a whisper.

“I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” she said. “With the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department.”

“So, you’re a cop?”

“Yes.”

“I was going kind of fast, wasn’t I,” CJ said. She closed her eyes and tried a brave smile.

“Way, way too fast,” Estelle agreed.

“I don’t know what happened.”

“You tangled with a truck and then rolled.”

“All I could think of was that the car was going to catch on fire,” the girl whispered.

“You’re lucky.”

“I can’t feel my feet,” the girl said.

Estelle didn’t respond but let the girl struggle with that thought for a few seconds. She took CJ’s left hand in hers, avoiding the IV feed. “Can you feel my touch?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Estelle held CJ’s hand a moment longer. “That’s good, then.” She turned the fine-boned hand ever so slightly, and saw the scar that began at the corner of the girl’s left index fingernail and arched around to the center of the pad.

“I need to ask you some questions, CJ,” Estelle said.

“It was just a dumb thing to do,” the girl said. Her eyes fixed on Estelle, eyes so dark brown and impenetrable that the undersheriff had no difficulty imagining Chris Marsh and Jack Young being swept away.

“What was?”

“My driving,” CJ said. Tears welled up, and one tear tracked down an elegant cheek to stain the pillow. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Still holding the girl’s hand in her left, Estelle slipped the micro-recorder out of her pocket. She held it, a gadget no larger than a deck of cards, so that the girl could see it, then let her hand and the recorder sink to the gurney beside CJ’s head. “I want to ask you some questions, Ms. Vallejos. I know that you’re hurting, but it’s important that we do this now. You’re going to be transferred down to Cruces for surgery here in a few minutes.”

“The doctor told me,” CJ replied. “Are you and him related?”

“He’s my husband.”

The girl’s lips moved to form an oh without actually saying the syllable.

“Tell me about Chris Marsh,” Estelle said.

At first, it appeared as if CJ Vallejos hadn’t heard her. She turned her head away and closed her eyes, the room full of the gentle hiss and beep of gadgets. When she spoke, her voice was small and distant. She turned and looked at first Estelle and then Madelyn, her gaze wary and at odds with the sick child’s voice.

“I haven’t seen Chris since before Christmas,” she said.

“Is that right.”

“I think he went home or something.”

“You didn’t hear about his accident, then.”

“Accident?” The sick child’s voice went a note or two higher. “My God, what happened?”

“That’s what we’re investigating, CJ. His truck crashed on Regál Pass Wednesday evening.”

“Oh, no. How…”

“It appears that he hit a deer, CJ.”

“Why was he…?” She stopped as Estelle pulled her cell phone from her belt. It took a moment for the undersheriff to scroll down through the numbers she wanted, and as she did so, CJ whispered, “I don’t understand.” Estelle waited for the connection.

“Abeyta.”

“Deputy Abeyta,” Estelle said formally, making no attempt to shield the conversation from CJ, “are you still at the Vallejos residence?”

“Affirmative,” Abeyta said. “I was going to call in a few minutes. Gayle said you were over there.”

“What have you found?”

“A couple of quick things that maybe you can use. Number one, I let the boyfriend go.”

“That’s fine. I don’t think Jack Young has anything to do with any of this.”

“And second of all, we found a bunch of stuff that probably was in Chris Marsh’s truck…had to have been. In a black plastic trash bag under the bed.”

“Under the bed,” Estelle repeated, and as she said just those three words, it looked as if someone had reached into CJ Vallejos’ skull and turned the rheostat down for the light in her eyes. “What was in it?”

“For one thing, the electronic signature device,” Abeyta replied. “We also have the door plaques…pretty professional-looking job, too. Also a white baseball cap with the Global Productivity Systems logo. There’s an empty aluminum clipboard, and an empty manila nine-by-twelve envelope.”

“You didn’t turn on the computer?”

“That’s negative. I’m going to bring it along for Tom to mess with. I don’t want to erase anything, which with my enormous computer savvy is exactly what would happen.”

“Deputy, I’m going to put CJ Vallejos on the line with you. All I want you to do is run down the same list you just gave me.”

“You don’t need to do that,” CJ whispered.

“Go ahead,” Estelle said, and held the phone close to the girl’s ear. CJ closed her eyes again, tightly this time, and Estelle watched the water squeeze out from under the girl’s elegant eyelashes.

Estelle pulled the phone away. “Thanks, Tony. Keep me posted.”

“Is she going to make it?” the deputy asked.

“Probably.”

“Such a waste,” he said. “She was a good-lookin’ kid. I mean, you know what I mean,” he finished lamely.

“Yes, I do,” Estelle said. “Thanks. Keep in touch.”

She slipped the phone back on its belt clip. “And CJ…one more important thing,” Estelle said. She reached out and took the girl’s left hand again, tracing the index finger scar. “We have your prints on the beer can.”

A strangled cry issued from the girl as she jerked her head sideways, and her left hand out of Estelle’s light grip. CJ cried freely then, great gulping sobs. The hospital room door opened, and Dr. Guzman slipped in, but he didn’t interfere.

“How…how could you know?” the girl sobbed. She raised her right hand and thumped the gurney once in anguished frustration.

“Chris was still alive when you reached him, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, God,” CJ wailed, and she drew the word out into a multi-syllabic howl.

“Why didn’t you help him?” Estelle asked. “Why didn’t you call for help? You had a phone.”

CJ’s mouth contorted as the tears flooded. “He was so stupid,” she managed. “Oh, God, so stupid. He was going to take the money from me.”

“Really,” Estelle said, without much sympathy. “And what money was that?”

“You know what money,” the girl said with surprising venom.

“How did you know that he was going to take it?”

CJ sniffed back a sob and made a strangling sound. “I just…know. He joked about it all the time. But I knew.…”

“You knew he wasn’t joking?”

CJ nodded. “Oh, God,” she wailed again. “He called and said he was heading up the pass, and when he didn’t show, I drove down to meet him. There was this deer…lying in the ditch, all kicking and still alive. I could see the skid marks.”

“So you looked down the cliff, saw the truck, and climbed down.”

“He was lying in the rocks,” CJ whimpered. “Just gurgling and hurt. And I could smell the beer. He drinks all the time.”

“You want to tell me why? Why drown him in his own beer?”

“If he went to a hospital, they’d find out. He’d talk. I know he would. He’d been drinking.…I figured that’s what everyone would think when they found him.”

“Why did you step on his hand?”

“I didn’t.…” And she cut off the protest. “He kept pushing at my hand, and I could hear the bones grating.” She shrieked the last word, the stuff of her own private nightmares for years to come. “And then he choked, and it seemed like something broke inside him.” The girl looked beseechingly at Estelle, eyes now bloodshot from crying. “He would have died anyway, don’t you see?”

“Maybe so,” Estelle said.

“What will happen to me?” CJ asked. The sobs had subsided to little gulps and spasms.

“You’ll receive the best medical care available,” Estelle said. She straightened up, reached out, and guided a strand of elegant black hair away from the girl’s eyes. Estelle turned to regard the heart monitor that beeped on the wall behind the patient’s gurney. “And when you’re physically able, you’ll be arraigned in district court on a variety of charges. Including murder.”

The girl’s face crumpled in anguish again, and Estelle found it difficult to determine how much of it was finely honed acting skills.

“But I’m paralyzed,” CJ Vallejos pleaded. Her voice sank to a whimper. “I may never walk again.”

“That’s true,” Estelle said. “And the more you cooperate with us, the easier your road will be. You think hard on that during the next few hours, CJ.” She turned to Francis, who was tactfully scrutinizing the wall tiles. “Thanks, querida.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Francis said, and she reached out a hand to each cheek, cupping his face. She rocked his head gently and their eyes locked, blocking out the rest of the world.

“Madelyn and I are going to get something to eat,” she said after a moment.

They left the hospital via the emergency room, walking the half-dozen steps to where Estelle had parked the county car just outside of the ambulance lane. As if their minds were in sync, they both stopped, one on each side of the car. Estelle leaned against the door, folding her hands together on the roof. She didn’t say anything, and for a long moment Madelyn stood silently, watching her.

“Can I ask a question?” the writer said.

“Sure.” Estelle pushed away from her trance and opened the car door.

They both settled into the car. “This is the first time you’ve actually seen this young woman, isn’t it? Other than a fleeting glimpse when she blew by us at eighty-five miles an hour on the interstate. And that seems like a lifetime ago, I have to say.”

“Yes. We have a picture of her. That’s it,” Estelle replied.

“Is that the way it usually is?”

“Usually?”

“When you have a case like this. You’re chasing a stranger?”

“Actually, it’s the opposite. Most of the time, we’re working with folks we’ve known for years. Joe Smith down the street makes a mistake, and we become involved. Or someone steals a load of bricks. That sort of thing.”

“That’s not what happened this time, and it’s not what happened last year, is it?” The “last year” didn’t need an explanation. Madelyn used the expression, and right on cue, Estelle’s ribs under her right arm twanged.

“No.”

“So every once in a while,” Madelyn Bolles said, “what happens out there in the real world taints the quiet, pastoral paths of Posadas. How’s that for poetic.”

“Not bad,” Estelle laughed. She started the car and pulled it into gear.

“What happens now?”

“Now, we hope CJ Vallejos makes it through the next week or so. It’s going to be rough for her. And I don’t mean just the physical injuries. And tomorrow, when the banks are open, we’ll get some answers. I hope some information will be forthcoming from Calgary. We’ll see what tidbits are in her address book, or in her computer files. We go from there.”

“Do you think she’ll actually go to jail? When she’s all cleaned up and looking gorgeously vulnerable, do you think a jury will be able to send her away?”

“That’s not my province,” Estelle said. “Thank heavens.”

“You don’t worry about that happening? Her getting off?”

“No.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Not even a little bit. Not an iota, Madelyn.” She smiled, starting to relax. “What do you care to eat?”

“Leftovers?”

Estelle frowned, and Madelyn added, “At your house. I know what’s there, you know. And you need to go home. That’s the fastest way to get you there.”