Come Dark (25 page)

“Maybe,” Torrez said. “And then it keeps on bouncin' on down the road until it hits the pole?” He raised an eyebrow skeptically and exhaled loudly. “Look, you headin' to the city in a little bit this morning?”

“Waddell offered the contractor's jet, and I took him up on it,” Estelle said. “We leave at eight, and I'll be back by noon. Bobby, I
have
to have some time with Efrin. To talk with him. There's all this,” and she held up the collection of evidence bags, “and there's evidence he might have been at school, maybe in time to hear or see something that tells us more about Scott's murder.”

“Okay.” He reached out with a toe and thumped the back tire of the little truck. “If the kid dies, we're going to wish we had all this in evidence.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then let's get Stub back out here and get it towed in. Ladder and all. And make sure everybody keeps an eye out for numb nuts. If he's still drivin' his mother's car, he ain't goin' far, and he won't be hard to find. Pasquale seems to have a good nose for findin' things.” He looked at his watch. “That'll work. I'll get Stubby out of bed. And make sure we bag the rail ends of that ladder.”

“We'll wait until the tow gets here.”

“Nah. Go on ahead. I'll stay in the area. But lemme know what you find out in Albuquerque. ASAP.”

Chapter Thirty

Her house was quiet and dark when Bill Gastner dropped her off shortly before two a.m. Despite Francis being on-call for the emergency room rotation, Estelle had hoped that his SUV would be parked in the driveway. It wasn't, and her wistful dream of being able to snuggle against
Oso
for three hours of sleep winked out.

Light illuminated the stained-glass panels beside the front door, nice touches created by younger son Carlos during one of his many experiments in the arts. She keyed the door and swung it open to see Angie Trevino seated at the dining room table, several sheets of music in front of her. The girl offered a brilliant smile.

“What a day for you,” she said softly, voice husky. “I was just having some green tea. May I make you some?” She rose from the table, placing her pencil just so, beside her cup. The light cotton bathrobe was cinched tight, accentuating her lithe but sturdy figure.

“Absolutely wonderful.” The last thing Estelle wanted at the moment was to be conversed awake, but her curiosity won out. “What time did Dr. Francis leave?” They had agreed years before
not
to interrupt each other's work except in dire emergencies, so avoided something as simple as a phone call just to chat, or even a text message to be read at leisure.

“I think it was about midnight,” Angie said. “I heard him leave, and then couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided to finish some work. I hope that's all right.”

“Of course it's all right. It's
welcome.
” She noticed the dark circles under Angie's eyes, but resisted the temptation to glance in the hallway mirror to see how her own compared. “What's the work?”

“The cello part for your mom's birthday mass. I wasn't happy with what I had written…well, with my transcription of what
Mozart
wrote, and thought I'd spend some time with it.”

“My mother will be so pleased.”

“She is a dear. By the way, Carlos mentioned that the acoustics in the church in Tres Santos aren't very good, so I was making some adjustments for that.” She paused at the sink, teapot in hand. “You know, he is a remarkable little boy. There's a rendering of the church's interior there on the table that he drew for me. Basically the church is just a box, so that's not so bad. He says it will be like playing in a large garage.”

Estelle laughed. “My son studies these things, and he doesn't make suggestions lightly.”

“That's what Francisco said. What a pair those two are.” She looked up at Estelle. “You and your husband are very fortunate.” Angie sounded eighteen going on forty.

“Thank you. We think we have a couple of keepers.”

Angie watched the pot as the gas flames caressed the bottom. “I hope you're not angry with me for this road trip.”

“Apprehensive, maybe. Not angry. Francisco acts so mature sometimes, it's easy to forget he's only fifteen. And there are times when that includes the judgment of a fifteen-year-old.” The young woman looked down at the counter, and Estelle added, “It's hard to cut apron strings, Angie. This whole experience with the academy has been something of an ordeal for us. For Francis and me.”

“Sometimes…” she glanced at Estelle, “my dad is afraid that the only thing I'll ever hug is the cello.” She shook her head and sighed. “He's a funny guy, my dad. He really believes that there is absolutely nothing on this planet that a check in the right amount won't cure. You know—and I think this is funny, but it's pure Dad—without telling us, he went to some auction in New York and bought the most amazing cello for me. I mean, the Gignone is
amazing.
Some critics say it's better than a Guarneri.
And you know what? It'll turn out to be an amazing investment, too, if you wanted to think of it that way. Dad is well aware of that aspect of it, but he also thinks that since the cello is so fantastic, I wouldn't have to practice so much! How's that for logic?”

“It'll make its own music.”

“Exactly. For a man so smart, he can be really dumb sometimes.”

Estelle thought of the early hours alert for a flight crew to prep the jet parked at Posadas Municipal—Mr. Trevino would appreciate Miles Waddell's checkbook approach to challenges.

“There are lots of situations where money is what starts the ball rolling, sometimes good, sometimes not so.” Estelle said. “What does your dad do, actually?”

“He sells breeding interests. Doesn't that sound exciting? This bull, that bull—this stud, that stud—he makes sure that they stand for the highest prices. And he's
very
good at what he does. He's sort of a realtor for livestock services. An agent, he prefers to call it.” She smiled brightly. “And on top of that, he's a financial investor. A very, very successful one.”

“And your mom—she's provost at the college.”

“Yes. A more unlikely couple you'll never find. He dotes on me, she makes sure the barbed-wire fence around me stays in good repair. I guess that's her version of the apron strings idea, right?” She held up both hands, balancing. “He thinks I practice too much, she thinks I don't practice enough.” She grinned. “Mom is the one who had trouble with my turning eighteen.”

“Third cupboard.” Estelle directed. She found it pleasant to be waited on, and sat at the center island while Angie found the cups, the bulk-tea spoon, and the canister of tea.

“And how much
do
you practice each day?”

“Well, that depends on your definition of practice
,
I suppose. I'm involved somehow with things musical most of the time, in one way or another. But actually sitting with the cello, working specifically on some aspect of performance? I suppose five or six hours a day. More, if I can find it.”

She turned and looked at the counter clock. “I haven't played since we arrived, and I didn't play in the car. So that's something of a record for downtime. But almost the whole trip, Francisco and I were thinking, working, talking music. It's not something that just starts up when we pick up an instrument.”

“Of course not.” She studied Angie as the girl relaxed at the kitchen counter. The long, heavy eyelashes that seemed to stroke the air with each blink were natural, the skin of her face so smooth as to invite a caress. And the eyes…lavender in this light, an unusually dark shade that would shift and morph. Estelle wondered, if she were to ask her son, how Francisco would describe his girlfriend's eyes, for surely he would have become lost in them a time or two.

Estelle lifted the tea holder out of the water, letting it drip for a moment. “You and Francisco have spent time with each other since…?”

“We met last year after one of our recitals. I mean, from a distance before that, but the recital in Little Rock was our first sorta date, I guess.”

“A sorta date?”

Angie smiled, just a tinge of blush touching her cheeks. “Leister is pretty strict in that regard.” She blushed a little brighter. “Well…that sounds silly, doesn't it? I mean, here we are, right?”

“Here you are.”

“But Leister thinks we're at my house in Kansas. We didn't ask them if we could do this trip. We just did it.”

“One of those ‘easier to ask forgiveness than permission' moments.”

“That's exactly right,” Angie said in her careful, thoughtful way. She glanced down as Estelle shifted a bit on the kitchen stool, her suit jacket swinging out to reveal the holstered handgun, badge, and cuffs.

“You know, yesterday afternoon, when we first came into town? That was the first time in my entire life that I've talked with a police officer. Sergeant Taber seems like a really nice person.”

“She is. We're fortunate to have Jackie on staff. She could work anywhere in the world. But here she is.”

“Francisco said that she was shot two years ago? That Mr. Gastner saved her life?”

With her knuckle, Estelle reached up and knocked a couple times on her own vest. “It was one of those moments during a traffic stop when everything goes to hell in a heartbeat. The charge of birdshot hit her square in the chest.” She tugged a bit at the top of her vest. “There's a ceramic insert there, so she wasn't hurt. But the blow knocked her down. Bill Gastner
happened to respond as civilian backup, and became involved.”

Angie grimaced. “The man died, Francisco said.”

“Yes, he did.”

Shaking her head slowly, Angie refilled Estelle's cup. “How awful that must be.”

“More so if Officer Taber had been hurt. The man made a choice. He fired once at Jackie, then turned the shotgun toward Padrino
.
That was it. The lawsuit afterward took up too much of our time, but turned out all right.”

“How could they
sue?”

“
Oh, that's the last refuge, Angie. It wouldn't have mattered if the guy had managed to shoot three or four
more
people. When he gets hurt, the family sues. Go figure.”

“But they didn't win…”

“No.”

“Wow.” Angie shook her head in wonder. “How long have you known him?”

“Padrino? Since I was a little kid in Tres Santos, Mexico. He and my Great-uncle Reuben were friends. And then I started work for the department when I was twenty-one, when Padrino was undersheriff.” She stopped abruptly and sipped the tea, eyes fast on Angie Trevino. “I'm supposed to be interrogating
you.”

“But I'm boring,” Angie said. “I've been playing the cello since I was six. And if you ask my dad, that's
all
I've been doing. He pictures me old, gray, wrinkled, sitting in a rocking chair, clutching my Gignone as my only company.”

“It all depends on what you do between now and that rocking chair, Angie. I'd say that you're off to a dramatic start. You and my son both. You both have an incredible amount to share with the world. That's the responsibility with talent like yours.”

Angie looked down at her cup pensively. “Hmm,” she murmured. Estelle let the moment grow without interruption. Finally the violet eyes lifted and locked on Estelle's. “Do you ever regret the directions you've taken over the years?”

“Not for a heartbeat.”

The young woman smiled. “That's what I want…to be sure, and then to be content with the way things work out.”

“And the great thing is that there's no way to be sure until after the fact,” Estelle said. “That's what keeps us up at night.” She yawned hugely. “
Por dios,
I have to curl up for a little while. I have a flight at eight, so it's a short night.” She stood up, nodding at the sheet music. “Good luck with that, Angie. I have to find a way to stop the world so I can step off and find time to hear it on Sunday.” She started to walk past the girl, but paused. She stroked the back of her hand down the girl's cheek, looking down at her as if trying to X-ray every cell. “I'm glad you're here, Angie. And I'm going to ask that you be thoughtful with my son. And that he be thoughtful with you. And I mean that in the deepest sense of the word.”

As she left the kitchen, she saw Angie pour another cup of tea and settle once again at the table. In the bedroom, Estelle took two minutes to shed her heavy belt and its accoutrements, then stripped down to her underwear, enjoying the huge relief of shedding the weight of belt and vest. The sheets were cool and fragrant, and for several minutes she lay on her back, her left arm over her eyes, blocking out the faint ray of light from around the bedroom door. In a moment, she groaned.

“Shut off, brain,” she whispered, and reached to the nightstand for her phone. The wireless Internet connection was always slow, and she waited for it to boot, running light fingers over the tiny touch-screen. Her first attempts garnered nothing except to understand what the name
Gignone
meant to string players. Another moment or two of persistence took her to the website of an exclusive violin dealer/auctioneer in New York, and under “recent notable sales,” found a brief report of the most recent purchase of a Pietro Gignone cello. The instrument had somehow avoided the penchant for instrumental nicknames, but had sold in auction for 1.9 million dollars. The buyer was listed as Derwood Trevino of the United States.

Chapter Thirty-one

Estelle tried to relax in the Cessna's plush seat, already knowing that she wouldn't be able to doze while in flight. After her husband had returned home, just moments before three a.m., she had managed two hours of rest as his strong fingers dug the kinks out of weary muscles. She'd finally drifted off, but when the alarm intruded, her eyelids felt as if heavy bags were attached. On board the corporate jet, she rested her head against the seat back. She willed each set of muscles to welcome the brand new sun that flooded through the jet's small windows.

Waddell had requested “wheels up” at eight, and sure enough, the two Rolls Royce engines began the spool-up at seven-fifty. Miles Waddell had been busy with paperwork, not trying to engage Estelle in conversation, but he put the folders aside as the engines lit. “We'll be off in a couple of minutes. Coffee? Tea? Soda?” He looked around the surprisingly spacious cabin, designed for work around an oval table. “Hell of a rig, huh?”

“Spectacular.” Estelle tried to sound cheerful, but accepted flying only as a necessary expediency. “And nothing, thanks.” Her phone vibrated and she fished it out of her pocket.

“Good morning.”

“Hey,” Sheriff Torrez said. “You in the air yet?”

“About to be.”

“Okay. Keep me posted. Taber and Pasquale are headed over to Stewart's place this morning. We'll see what they turn. Todd Stewart says he'll cooperate. Me and Mears are hittin' Scott's in just a couple of minutes. Gayle put out an APD on Garcia.” Gayle Sedillos Torrez, the sheriff's wife and the department's office manager, had taken time off with the arrival of baby Gabe. Now, she found time to occasionally visit the office, where she accomplished more in an hour than most would in a day.

“See if the coach kept a datebook, Bobby.”

Torrez fell silent for a moment, then said, “He'd be one to keep score, wouldn't he?” He grunted in what could have been frustration. “We don't know what rock Arthur Garcia is holed up under. Maybe he found a way up to the city.”

“We'll see about that in just a few minutes.” She felt the aircraft start to drift forward. “We're taxiing now. An hour up, an hour there, another one back. I'll be home by eleven. We'll touch bases then.”

She hung up, and tried to relax as the fancy rocket sled turned to line up with the east-west runway. Miles Waddell sat facing her, a wide grin lighting his features.

“I get such a kick out of this bird,” he said. “Great way to see New Mexico.”

Before she had time to frame an answer, the massive acceleration forced her back into the seat. The climb-out to the west was so steep that Cat Mesa, the massive bulwark north of the village, became little more than a modest lump as it disappeared well below and behind them. The day was perfectly clear, and the view, with the X-Cessna's sharply swept wings, unobstructed. In what seemed like only a couple of minutes, she caught sight of the wink of Elephant Butte under the glare of the rising sun.

The cabin leveled a bit from its initial impossible angle, but the climb continued as if the Cessna wanted to stick its slick nose out into the black of space.

Somewhere south of Socorro, the ferocious ascent relaxed a little, and Waddell lifted one side of his ear phones. “You can listen to the cockpit chatter on these, if you want,” he offered. “We're starting our descent to Albuquerque in about eight minutes.”

Estelle looked at her watch, then looked again. Down below, the Rio Grande ribboned south, the verdant farmland boundary just a narrow hint of prosperity against the harsh New Mexico landscape. Far to the east, she caught a glimpse of enormous crop circles, watered by the overhead irrigators.

Waddell leaned forward so he didn't have to raise his voice. “The kid is in a bad way, the docs tell me.”

Estelle turned away from the window. “It's frustrating, Miles. At the moment, he's the one person who might be able to tell us what happened.”

“Might.”

“That's right. We have no single path that we know we should be following. It's like a maze. Lots of things that shouldn't be, but none of them pointing us in an obvious direction.”

“You don't actually suspect Efrin Garcia of playing a part in the shooting, do you?”

“No. Right now, I think that he's a case of being a young man in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm interested in what he might have seen or heard
.
We know now that he was in the area, but we're not sure exactly
when
he was there. There's always a chance that he saw something that could help us…but I don't hold my breath on that, either. If he saw the killer, if he somehow witnessed the crime…then he's lucky he's not dead as well.”

The whine of the jets didn't change, but the nose relaxed downward a few degrees, and they flashed north, the ribbon of the interstate far below.

“Mr. Waddell, we'll be touching down in about six minutes.” The pilot's voice on the intercom was gracious. “You have a ride waiting for you at the Goodman-Banks hangar just southwest of the terminal. We'll be standing by for the return flight whenever you're ready.” The “Fasten Seat-Belts” message board chimed just as the engines retarded a bit more and they started a gentle swing to the west.

“A fellow could get used to this,” Waddell said, and pushed his seat-back vertical. They had time for a brief view of the western side of the city, including the landfill, the racetrack, and a scattering of developments before they crossed the river and the interstate and their tires scorched tracks on the runway. Braking hard, they turned off at one of the several intersections and taxied rapidly for what seemed like miles before slowing for a hard turn toward a private hangar.

The hangar doors gaped. The pilot slowed the jet's taxi to a crawl, and Estelle felt the nose wheel trundle over the door's bottom track. The engines spooled down to silence, and she saw that a white crew-cab pickup truck waited off to one side inside the open hangar, just far enough inside to be out of the sun.

Waddell reached out and handed a card to Estelle. “I know you have one of these, but just in case. When your business is finished, away we'll go. You won't have to wait on us.” He rose from his seat and watched as the pilot made his way to the door release.

The Cessna was nosed halfway inside the hangar, the engines and tail assembly brilliant in the morning sun. As Estelle stepped out into the cool shade of the hangar, she felt the gentle bump as the tow bar was attached to the nose gear. The pilot touched her elbow as she made the final step down to the hangar's polished concrete floor. His name tag labeled him as PD Ackerman.

“That was a very smooth landing,” she said. “Thank you.”

He grinned. “I learned to fly in a Luscombe before the military got a hold of me.” He left it to Estelle's imagination to figure out what a Luscombe might be, but she had seen a Luscombe 8 that Posadas manager Jim Bergin had owned—a tiny two-seater with high wing and manners that encouraged a gentle touch on the controls. Ackerman nodded across the hangar toward the parked pickup truck. A trim young woman waited by the front fender. “Marion will take you wherever you need to go, ma'am. When you're ready to return, just tell her. We'll be ready to roll the minute you arrive back here.”

He escorted her across the gaping hangar as if she somehow might get lost in the intervening hundred feet.

“Marion, this is Posadas Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman,” Ackerman said. “We're on a round-robin without much downtime.” Marion's grip was firm and professional. Just as the doors of the white Ford F-250 sported Goodman-Banks logos, so did her pressed white shirt and the ball cap that tried to keep her thick blond hair in some sort of order. Her ponytail reached nearly to her slender waist.

“Marion Banks,” she said. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff. Did you have a good flight?”

“Just a little pokey.”

Marion blinked, and then beamed. “It
is
amazing, isn't it?” She glanced at her watch. “But not bad. Not too pokey.” She reached out and opened the truck door. “I understand we're headed to UNMH?”

“Yes, please.” Estelle looked back toward the plane. Rather than accompanying them, Miles Waddell was striding toward the back of the hangar, where a series of doors lead to offices and lounges. As she slid into the pickup, Waddell turned, grinned at her, and touched the brim of his Stetson. Estelle reflected that the rancher, now rancher/developer, was losing no time in getting used to this lifestyle. She wondered if he would enjoy meeting Derwood Trevino, Angie Trevino's father with the quick and deep wallet. Miles might not be impressed, but Derwood? Certainly.

“I appreciate you doing this,” Estelle said as the girl guided the truck out of the hangar and headed for the frontage road at the posted speed limit plus twenty.

“Anything to get out of the office,” she said. “And I'm standing in for my dad. He wanted to meet you, but he couldn't spring himself loose. So you have me.”

“And your dad is…?”

“I'm sorry. I thought maybe you had met him. Paul Banks? He's half of the Goodman-Banks team.”

“And I'm delighted. How long have you worked for the firm?”

“My second week.” She smiled again. “I've been away at Caterpillar in Peoria for a while, trying to learn all there is to know about the parameters of digital wear indicators.” She raised an eyebrow at Estelle as she maneuvered deftly through traffic. “Sounds exciting, huh?”

“Anything can be exciting in the right circumstances.”

“Well, one way to make money is not to spend it needlessly,” the girl said. “If you have an app on your computer that tells you that the drive links on your D-9 are close to failing, it makes a lot more sense to fix it while it's ambulatory than have it sit crippled in the field.”

“An ambulatory D-9. I like that. So your background is in engineering, then.”

“BS, MS, Purdue.”

Estelle laughed. “You're overqualified as a chauffeur, but I appreciate it. I assume you've met Mr. Waddell?”

“Oh, several times.” She beamed. “What a character. You know, as soon as he heard about this project, my dad told Bayard Goodman that we had to win the bid, whatever it took. I think it was building the narrow gauge out from the village to the facility that intrigued my dad the most. That and Mr. Waddell's insistence that every step of the way…every step, we tip-toe. He didn't want the land ripped up any more than necessary. And you know, it's funny. We're a big company, but for this one? We're almost not big enough. We've had to search out some specialists.”

She turned the truck deftly into the driveway of the hospital, a place where there was no apparent easy parking. “You've been here before?”

Estelle nodded. “Too many times.”

“Oh, no. Not as a patient, I hope.”

“Both sides of the bed.”

“Ah…I'm sorry. Then you know where you're going. I'll wait for you in the front lounge after I find a place in the shade to park.” She fished out a business card. “That's my cell. Just buzz me when you're ready to leave. Or if something unexpected comes up and you need a ride somewhere else.”

“Marion, thank you. This is wonderful. I won't take long. I really need to get back to Posadas.”

“Great. Me too. I'm flying back with you folks. I look forward to hearing your take on this whole thing. This project of Mr. Waddell's.”