The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Five

The traffic light at Bustos and Grande turned, and Estelle braked the county car to a stop. Lights blasted in her rearview mirror as a late model pickup truck pulled in behind her, red and blue emergency lights in the grill wiggle-wagging. With a grin, she reached out and keyed the mike transmit button twice in greeting.

A right turn on Bustos and then a block past the Posadas State Bank she turned into the parking lot of the Public Safety Building. The pickup followed and pulled into the spot reserved for sheriff Torrez.

Formerly a Posadas County sheriff himself, and now a New Mexico livestock inspector, Bill Gastner took his time climbing out of the shiny new truck, a mammoth thing sporting chrome grill guards, extra spotlights, and enough antennas projecting from the roof that it looked like an imitation of a mountaintop bristling with radio, cell phone, TV, and microwave towers. The New Mexico Livestock Board’s shield was centered neatly on the door.

Estelle patted the hood of the giant truck, waiting for Gastner to climb down.

“Quite the heap,” she said. “You’ve been promoted, or what?”

“‘Or what,’” Gastner replied. “They thought the old one looked disreputable. Probably like its driver. You just getting in from the pass?”

“Yes.”

“Just the one?”

“As far as we can tell, he was alone when he went off the highway. After that, we’re not so sure, padrino.”

“Local guy?”

“Las Cruces.”

“Nasty,” he said, and leaned against the fender of the truck, crossing his arms over his large belly. “Ready for some breakfast?”

“Because after all, it is after midnight,” Estelle added dryly. “Technically morning.”

“You’re learning, sweetheart. It’s Friday, or was, and the Don Juan stays open until two. We have an hour.”

“Uh,” Estelle groaned, thoroughly familiar with the old man’s prodigious eating habits, at any time of day or night. Gastner combined eating-especially foods that were high octane with green chile-and insomnia as his secret for longevity. “I really don’t, padrino. What I really need to do is go home to bed.”

“Tough country out there, and a nasty night for mountain climbing. You did okay?”

“I did okay,” she said, but sounded unconvinced. “The truck went off that really steep spot right at the top.”

“That cliff on the east side of the highway?”

“Exactly. Right where the Mexican car hauler got hung up on the guardrail last summer. But there are some things that don’t fit.”

“That pass kills its share of people. What’s not to fit?”

She grinned. Gastner’s curiosity was easily whetted. “He might still be there if Connie Ulibarri hadn’t been as sharp as she is.”

“You ought to pillage the highway department and hire her away,” Gastner said. “She saw the crash?”

“No, but the guy hit a deer, padrino. A doe wearing a collar. Connie stopped to collect the collar, and saw the skid marks. The truck’s down the hill, out of sight of the highway. It looks like maybe a day or two? The victim’s a twenty-one-year-old boy. He’s been lying out there all by himself, broken all to pieces, staring up at the sky. But…”

Gastner raised an eyebrow.

“But I think someone else was down there at the crash site. No…” She tapped the hood of the Dodge. “I know someone was. Whoever was there planted a boot on the victim’s hand.”

“What do you mean, sweetheart? Like stepped on him, you’re saying?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Now why would he do a thing like that, other than tripping over his own clumsy feet?”

“That’s one of our questions.”

“Ah,” Gastner said. “Well,” and he pushed himself away from the truck. “You know how that goes. Someone witnesses the accident, climbs down to see, and sees too much. He doesn’t want the complications of that, and just leaves. People do funny things. Sometimes damn unattractive things. Trippin’ around in the dark, he might not have even known he stepped on the kid’s hand.” Gastner polished an insect speck off the hood’s air dam. “Now, I had something to tell you, but damned if I don’t remember what it was.” He inspected the fancy grill of the truck. “Oh,” and he straightened suddenly. “Had a call from some woman who wants to do a story on you. For A Woman’s World. You read that rag?”

“No. But I got her e-mail a couple weeks ago requesting that she be allowed to spend some time with us. She’s coming today.”

“You agreed, you mean? I’m surprised. Goddamn delighted, but surprised, sweetheart.”

Estelle laughed and shrugged. “What could I say, sir. We’re a public agency. If she wants to come and see what we do, then fine. She’s free to do that.”

Gastner regarded her for a long moment. “It’s not the department that she’s interested in, sweetheart. It’s you. Our star.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m tellin’ ya,” he continued.

“And she called you?”

“Uh-huh. I’m to be the ‘deep throat’ in all this. She wanted to know if she could interview me for background…about your early years with the department.” His flinty blue eyes twinkled. “What you were like before your meteoric rise to power.”

“That should take a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll stretch it,” Gastner said. “I just wanted to clear it with you. If you don’t want to talk to ’em, I’ll tell ’em to take a hike. The Constitution is a wonderful thing, you know. The press can ask to their heart’s content. We don’t have to answer.”

Estelle frowned. “There is one thing, though.”

“And that is?”

“She…the reporter…included some pictures from some of my misadventures that have been in the papers-I guess to show that she’s done some research. I didn’t mind that. But there was a photo of Francisco that was taken during his performance in Cruces at the Christmas concert with the university orchestra. I want to give anything that involves him a lot of thought. And I want to discuss it a lot with Francis.”

“Could be a big deal.” Gastner nodded. “That’s the temptation, of course. National exposure like that doesn’t come along every day. That magazine has one of the largest circulations in the country. Hot stuff.” He shook his head. “We all knew this time would come, didn’t we. The coverage at the Cruces concert was a hint of that.”

“Por supuesto, padrino, but it’s coming too soon.”

“Everything comes too soon. Christ, all this philosophizing is starving me. Anything I can do for you? You have someone sitting the wreck? They’re not going to tow it up out of there tonight, are they?”

“No. Jackie’s watching over it. You can cruise down that way and keep her company, if you want.”

“Might do that. I saw you zipping up the street, and wanted to check with you about this celebrity stuff.”

“Ay, celebrity stuff,” she laughed.

“She wants to interview me at one o’clock,” Gastner said.

“One? As in today at one? This afternoon?”

“That’s it. Striking while the iron is hot sort of thing. Won’t be long before your little one’s mug is on the front pages of the newspapers in the grocery store checkout racks, right there with all the alien abductions.”

“Stop it.”

He laughed. “How’s your mom, by the way? She recover from having a birthday?”

“Just,” Estelle replied. Teresa Reyes had turned ninety-five years old the week previous, and had grumbled about the attention the special day had brought. A visit from Román and Marta Diaz and two of their children from Tres Santos had been an unexpected treat for Teresa. Román and Marta, her former neighbors in the tiny Mexican village where she had lived and taught school, had purchased Teresa’s modest little home and the twelve acres surrounding it five years before.

“I wish I knew her secret,” Gastner said. “I’m seventy-three and feel like crap most of the time. She’s got me by twenty-plus years and seems to be getting younger every goddamn day.”

“She’s had her bouts,” Estelle said.

“Well, yeah…she has. Anyhow, I’ll let you go. I’m about to faint from hunger.” He reached out and squeezed her arm. “And I will swing by and chat with Jackie a bit later. This story lady is going to talk with her, too? That’s the impression I got.”

“Sin duda. And Linda. And Gayle. And Leona, I would imagine.”

“Well, damn. And it’s all my fault, isn’t it. I started it all by hiring you. Look where it got us.”

“Sure enough, sir.”

He touched the brim of his baseball cap in salute. “Well, I did good, if I do say so myself. Behave yourself. You’re sure there’s nothing that you don’t want me to tell the story lady?”

“Positive, sir. She’ll find out for herself.”

He waved a casual salute and swung up into the truck. She watched him drive off, the diesel engine emitting a low, guttural clatter.

Inside the Public Safety Building, the air was institutional, stuffy and tinged with disinfectant. The “fresh evergreen scent” advertised on the side of the jug of cleaner that the custodian dispensed into the mop bucket bore little resemblance to the real thing-the damp air of Regál Pass, tinged with piñon and juniper.

Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler had gone home as his shift ended, replaced by Brent Sutherland. Brent looked up as Estelle entered, and lifted a hand in salute.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“It’s going. Everything else quiet?”

“More or less.” He leaned forward and looked at the log. “Since I came on, I’ve had a handful of calls. Edith Mallory is still arguing with her husband, who is still drinking. The schnauzer over on Tenth Street is still barking, and Mrs. Sanchez is still irritated at that. And the clerk over at Portillo’s called to say that he’s got a bunch of rowdies who can’t find anything better to do than gather in his parking lot. Abeyta is going to swing by there when he’s finished with the Mallorys.”

“Wonderful. Did Dennis go home yet?”

“I think he’s still in the workroom.”

The telephone rang and Brent reached up to swing the headset boom back into place. “Posadas Sheriff’s Department. Sutherland.” Estelle turned away, headed for her own office. She heard Brent say, “We’ll have someone swing by there in just a few minutes, Bernie.” He listened for another minute. “No, don’t do that. Just hang tight, all right?”

Estelle stopped with one hand on the doorknob of her office. At the same time, Dennis Collins appeared, a sheaf of papers in hand. He dropped several of them in the office in-basket, then headed for the bank of filing cabinets across the room.

“Just a minute,” Sutherland said. “Estelle,” he called, “this is Bernie Pollis over at Portillo’s again. He’s got a group of kids over there chuckin’ rocks at each other.”

“As long as it’s at each other,” Deputy Collins observed.

“Jackie’s down in Regál, and Pasquale is way the hell and gone down by María.”

Collins sighed and shoved the remaining papers into the file. “I go right by there on my way home. I’ll stop by and send ’em all home. I don’t know what the heck kids are doing out at one o’clock in the morning.”

“Thanks, Dennis,” Estelle said.

“You betcha.”

As she closed the door of her office, she heard Sutherland back on the phone, assuring Bernie Pollis that an officer was en route. Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way convenience store was three blocks away. Had Estelle stepped outside to the front steps of the Public Safety Building, she knew, she would have been able to hear the kids yelling back and forth.

Settling behind her desk, she turned the police radio down, then out of habit more than anything else awoke her computer. The list of e-mails included nothing that required immediate action, and most of them were taken care of with the delete key. With her office window closed, she could not hear the single gunshot that came from three blocks away, nor did she hear Deputy Collins’ frantic ten-sixty call.