Come Dark (30 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

“Posadas County…I'm going to have to find a map.”

“West of Deming, east of Lordsburg,” Estelle said. “About fifty miles west of Las Cruces.”

“Oh, now wait a minute. I was with a detachment at Fort Bliss for a while back in the eighties. We'd go over to Tucson once in a while.”

“Then you drove right through the heart of Posadas County, ma'am.”

Pinnacle County Sheriff Sharon Naylor laughed abruptly. “How about that. And you're the undersheriff out there.”

“I am.” Estelle reached out and adjusted the computer screen so she could see Sheriff Sharon Naylor's portrait more clearly. The eastern sheriff appeared trim and formal in her dress uniform with its five shoulder stars. Her portrait dominated a classy web page, laden with colorful photos of the New York State Finger Lakes country.

“Hold on a minute. I'm pulling you up. Got to know who I'm talking to before we get down to business here.” A pause, and then Naylor said, “My goodness.”

“Ma'am?”

“That's a charming photo of you, Estelle Reyes-Guzman. And the big buff hunk on the other side of the page is your sheriff. Mr. Robert Torrez. Is he a good man to work for?”

“The best, ma'am.”

“Can't be. I'm the best. What's your husband do? You're hyphenated, so I assume you're married.”

“He's a physician, ma'am.”

“Well, good deal. Mine operates one of the major marinas down on the lake. So…you didn't select our department out of thin air for a chat this lovely evening. And you're lucky to catch me on a Saturday. I just stopped by the office to check a few things, and then was going to head home for dinner. That's how busy I am just now. Much more of this and I'd guess that crime is going out of fashion.”

“I don't think there's a ghost of a chance, ma'am.”

She chuckled dryly. “So what can I do for you?”

“I have a brochure here for Pinnacle Estates Winery. Outside of Casaroga?”

“Nice place. I'm not a wine drinker, but I'm told it's pretty good stuff. They've won all kinds of awards.”

“The brochure lists the owners as Clifford and Elise Gordon?”

“Sure. Nice couple. They've worked their butts off renovating an old stone house and barn. Hell of a nice spot.”

“We have reason to believe that a woman from Posadas named Stacie Willis Stewart is Elise Gordon's younger sister.”

“That could be. I don't know Mrs. Gordon that well. I mean, I would recognize her in the grocery store, of course. What have we got going on?”

Estelle spread out the brochure that had been found among Stacie Stewart's papers. The photo of the Gordons, taken as the couple leaned smiling against one of the mechanical grape harvesters, showed husband and wife, he broad of shoulder with a shoulder-length mane of brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and Elise Gordon stamped from the same mold as her sister, Stacie Stewart—pretty, blond, curvaceous. Her blue jeans and waist-tied blue denim shirt appeared molded in place.

“She may be a material witness to a homicide, Sheriff.” She quickly recapped the murder of Clint Scott, the subsequent arrest of Arthur Garcia, and the concurrent disappearance of Stacie Stewart after abandoning child and dog.

“And she would be involved in this shooting how?” Naylor asked.

“I don't think she was. At first, she was a suspect simply because of circumstances. Odds are good that at one time or another, she had had an affair with the victim. Now we think she just left it all…her husband—
and
her boyfriend.
And
her two-year-old daughter.”

“What's he do? The husband?”

“He's a banker, ma'am.”

“Huh. Well, wife leaving husband has happened before. What makes you think she witnessed the shower murder, if that's what you're saying?”

“Actually, I don't think that she did. We know that earlier in the evening, she attended a volleyball game at the school. She sat with the victim, and appeared to be pretty chummy with him. Later, sometime after that game, I think she witnessed the victim beating up the two young men who were caught in the process of painting graffiti on the outside wall of the school. I would be interested to know about that.”

“Why would she have been there?”

“I think she was coming to meet with Coach Scott—the victim. Maybe to make her break with him final, maybe to rekindle, maybe…who knows why.”

“What, she was going to take a shower with him?”

“The only one who can tell us that is Stacie Stewart, ma'am.”

“But you have the shooter?”

“We do. We have an uncoerced confession, we have the murder weapon and matching ballistics. We know that one of the two brothers who was confronted by Coach Scott returned to the school later that night—probably less than an hour later—and then killed Scott.” She briefly recounted the issue with the confiscated gun.

“You're kidding,” Naylor said. “How did that turn out? Did he take his gun back?”

“No. One of the deputies found it stashed in one of the coach's filing cabinets.”

“Duh.”

“What can I say.”

“So this guy
shoots
the coach, and then doesn't recover the confiscated gun.”

“It appears that way. He might not have been able to find it. He might have panicked. Maybe he thought someone would have heard the gunshots.”

“And the little brother?”

“He's up in intensive care in Albuquerque right now. Broken elbow, broken ribs, ruptured spleen that had to be removed.”

“The other brother—the shooter—he wasn't hurt?”

“No. Nothing more severe than a scrape or bruise, if that. He was no match for the victim.”

“So, two young men…why didn't the coach just do the smart thing and call the cops?”

“He can't answer that,” Estelle said.

“And ain't that the way it always is, though? Testosterone for brains.” She laughed dryly.

“Likely so, ma'am.”

“So the one mental giant goes home, or out to his car or wherever, and fetches the old equalizer,” Naylor mused. “The way courts work today, you'll be lucky to win a murder-two out of this one. Look, I'm sure I have half a million questions, but let's cut to the chase. What can I do for you?”

“We've tried calling the winery, with no luck. I don't know if their phone is out of service, or it's after-hours, or what. And there's no listing for the Gordons' personal number.”

“Or they see your area code on caller ID and don't want to have anything to do with you,” Naylor chuckled.

“Sheriff, anything pending against Mrs. Stewart will end up as no more than a petty misdemeanor. No one is going to pay extradition costs for that. We simply want to talk with her. Lots of unanswered questions remain. We need to know what she did, why she did it, what she saw that night. Whether they win it or not, there's going to be a first-degree murder charge against the brother in this killing, unless there turns out to be some kind of extenuating circumstances—and she might help us uncover those.”

“Tell you what, Undersheriff. It's a gorgeous evening here, and I have never actually visited Pinnacle Estates. You have a recent photo of Mrs. Stewart handy?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Fax that to me right now, and I'll take myself a tour. See if she's there. There's a nice little restaurant at the winery, and they won't be closing early on a Saturday night. I know my husband wants to eat there, anyway. You're certain that this young lady left your town Friday at noon?”

“Yes.” Estelle rearranged her notes. “She took the bus to El Paso, and she hit that connection just right. Then the flight to Rochester, New York, with one stop in Chicago. The flight landed on time in Rochester at ten-fifteen your time Saturday morning.”

“Makin' tracks. Well, we'll just see. Fax me that photo, and I'll get back to you ASAP. Keep your cell phone handy.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“No problem. Glad to help. And by the way, if nobody is home, I'll give you a call anyway, then check again tomorrow. They're right in the middle of harvest now, so they won't have gone far.”

“Thank you again.”

In a moment, the fax of Stacie's photogenic face was etherized across the continent. Estelle sat quietly for a moment, lost in thought. A large figure appeared in her office doorway, and she looked up to see Bill Gastner regarding her. A grin spread across his broad face. “I saw your car here, and wondered if the chow was still on back at the house.”

“Of course it is,
Padrino.” She glanced at the clock. Four fifty-six in Posadas meant almost seven in upstate New York. Stacie Stewart would be exhausted from her stress, from her travels. And she'd get even more of a kick when she saw the Sheriff's Department car swing into the winery driveway.

“You know, I wondered why you were spending so much time with a broken kid up in Albuquerque when you had a homicide on your hands. The
politicos
have actually been calling
me
, trying to get a hint about what the hell was going on.”

“Revenge is the most natural motive in the world.
When I found out that Arthur hadn't gone to the hospital with his brother and mom, it wasn't rocket science to figure out what his agenda might be. He didn't come to us to report the beating. He went back to the school to take care of things himself. His one big magic moment. I almost got sidetracked.”

Gastner raised an eyebrow.

“What Stacie Stewart did—just dropping everything and running—put a shadow over her. It just complicated things. I never thought that she was the shooter—the crime was just too brutal and cold. There was rage there that didn't make sense for her. She wouldn't have done it. Maybe her husband. But his behavior didn't fit either. So,” she held up her hands in surrender, “I had no better course than to go talk to Efrin. See what he knew, what he might have seen. I guess that panicked Arthur. He thought he'd already been fingered.”

“It's a good thing most criminals are blabby,” Gastner said.

“Yes. In a way I guess I admire him. Not for shooting Scott, of course. But when he knew it was all over, he wanted to protect his brother after all. Efrin has talent, Padrino
.
Even Arthur knows that, and tried to protect him. To him, the threat to Christina Prescott wasn't even real. His revolver wasn't loaded.”

Gastner nodded. “He's a lucky boy, then. Lucky that our esteemed sheriff has ice water running through his veins.” He looked pointedly at his watch. “See you at home?”

“Yes. The Mass of Celebration is tomorrow at ten in Tres Santos, by the way. Are you going to make that?”

“If they can stand a heathen in the crowd, sure. The more interesting question is, are you?”

She looked heavenward and offered a heartfelt, expressive shrug. “I've given up planning. But I think, yes. And I have a proposal for you.”

“Uh oh.”

She reached out and took his right hand in both of hers. “How would you like an all-expenses paid trip to Missouri?”

He frowned, one eyebrow creeping upward.

“I can't let the two kids drive back to school by themselves.” She lowered her voice. “I just can't do that.”

“So…”

“Look, Angie is eighteen. She can do what she wants. But no. Not Francisco.”

“And your proposal is…?”

“You drive my car with Francisco, and I'll ride back with Angie. That way, we have the chance to talk about all kinds of things. If she won't go for it, I'll drive Francisco myself. But he loves to talk with you, and he'll keep you awake.”

“I'm not about to drive nonstop to Leister,” Gastner said. “Francis needs a little vacation, anyway. Volunteer him.”

“He can't. I already asked him. He's got…well, he just can't. That's the way it is.”

“Bobby can spring you loose right now?”

“Sure. There's the phone if he needs anything.” She gave his hand an additional squeeze. “We can leave Sunday afternoon and stay the night in Amarillo, or someplace like that. On to Leister on Monday. You and I turn around and come home Tuesday and Wednesday.”

The crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Gosh, what fun.”

“Better than worry,” Estelle said. “If something happened to them, I couldn't live with that.”

“And what if Angie says no…no chaperone riding shotgun with her?”

“Then so be it. Then Francisco and I will drive back in my car. But that's not going to happen.”

“It's not?”

“No. I can be persuasive, Padrino.
And no matter which way it goes, I will be able to spend some uninterrupted time with my son. Win, win. And right now, that's all I'm in the mood for.
”

Chapter Thirty-eight

By seven p.m. New Mexico time, or nine o'clock in New York state, the phone had remained blissfully silent. At 7:02, just as Francisco was making himself comfortable at the piano and Angie Trevino was uncasing the bizarre electronic cello, Estelle's phone vibrated. She fished it out, and saw that it was Todd Stewart's cell.

“Hold that thought,” she said to Francisco, who was in the middle of introducing
Teresa's Century,
a concerto in B-flat for flute and piano.

“Ma, you got to throw that thing in the disposal,” the boy said, almost good-naturedly. Earlier, he had accepted her ultimatum about the trip back to Missouri without argument. For her part, Angie had only nodded without comment.

“The disposal would be a good place for it, but homicides change all the rules,” she offered as her only excuse. She stepped out onto the back patio and slid the door closed behind her.

“Guzman.”

“Undersheriff, this is Todd Stewart? I finally made contact. Stacie said that you called some sheriff back in New York? Near where her sister lives?”

“Yes. Sheriff Sharon Naylor.”

“Well, thank God Stacie's all right. I finally got through to her. Look, she says that she's going to visit her sis for a little while. She wouldn't say how long.”

“She called you?”

“Yes. I have her new cell phone number, if you need it.”

“Yes, I
do
need it.” She jotted down the number as Stewart dictated. “She didn't say whether or not she was coming home?”

A silence followed that. “No. She didn't say. She
wouldn't
say.”

Through the closed door, she could hear the surprisingly mellow sound of the cello being tuned in sync with the piano. The tiny amplifier, no larger than a soccer ball, produced sound of startling clarity.

“You asked?”

“Yes.”

“She didn't answer the question?”

“No. She started crying. God.” He sighed deeply. “I guess it's better knowing where she is than not, but…I don't know. She said that she didn't want me flying back there.”

“Did she tell you why she ran?”

“No. She just kept saying, ‘I have some things to straighten out.' And then I asked her how she could just up and leave Ginger like that, and that set her off again. Hell, Estelle, I don't know. She said that she was planning to call you, though. Apparently the sheriff told her she needed to do that first thing. Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Is all this tied in somehow with that murder at the school?”

“I don't know how it's related, Mr. Stewart, but my guess is that Stacie knows
something
about the circumstances of Scott's murder. That makes her a valuable witness. We think that she was at the school sometime after the game. We're not sure, but it's likely. I don't think that she actually witnessed the killing. But she might have been at the scene at some point, and can fill in some details. It might make a difference in how the murder suspect offers a plea.”

“My God. She's not a suspect…”

“No. We have that person in custody.”

“Thank God for that. Is it someone I know?”

“I doubt it. The killing was unrelated to any relationship Stacie might have had with Clint Scott.”

“Relationship?” Stewart almost couldn't finish the word, then he said in a half-mumble, “I suppose I'm a little naive.”

Just a little,
Estelle thought. “When she does call, or when I reach her, we'll see what she has to say for herself.”

“You'll let me know?”

“Absolutely.”

“Call me anytime. Anytime.”

“I'll do that.”

“I guess I should say ‘thanks,' but I'm not feeling all that thankful at the moment, Sheriff.”

“Your daughter is safe and snug at home, and now you know where your wife is. That's a start.”

“I guess.”

Back inside, the tiny audience looked at her expectantly, but she made an “it's-nothing” gesture and sat on the fireplace hearth, settling her left hand on her mother's right. Her husband sat to Teresa's left, taking care of that hand.

“I need to go to bed,” Teresa whispered.

“Just this,” her daughter said.

“A quick eleven minutes,” Francisco offered. Estelle noticed that Angela Trevino had settled heavy manuscript paper on her slender, portable music stand. Dressed in a simple, sheer black dress with a silver-and-turquoise belt, Angie looked ready for the concert hall. She sat in one of the antique bentwood straight chairs from Teresa Reyes' home in Mexico, and the modern cello offered a startling contrast.

True to form, the music rack in front of Francisco was bare. So gentle they were hard to hear, he stroked the four perfect fifths of the cello's tuning, letting the high A linger for a moment while Angie made some small adjustments to her instrument.

“We spent almost all afternoon tuning this beast.” Francisco played a four-octave arpeggio and then nodded at his brother, Carlos. “Me and the man.” He looked across the piano toward Angie. She nodded.
Teresa's Century
began with a single D in the treble, a note that grew from nothing until it swelled with power, a solo note so mellow and rich, one could become lost in it—and of such duration that it seemed impossible that a single bow stroke could play it.

Estelle slipped her hand into her pocket, found the tiny button, and turned off her cell phone. She closed her eyes and let the music carry her back to rural Mexico.