Convenient Disposal (14 page)

“I don’t turn over my tapes to anybody,” Crowley said. “They’re not for the government’s use.”

“Would you consider letting us see the tape in your presence?” Estelle asked. “That way, the tape would never leave your custody. If you don’t want us on your property, we could view them at the sheriff’s office.”

Crowley shook his head deliberately from side to side. “I don’t work for the government,” he said. His expression had lost any trace of affability, the lines of his jaw set hard. Estelle could see clearly that she was wasting her time. “Get yourself a court order.” He drew himself up a bit, unable to resist tossing in the challenge. “And then see if you can serve it.”

Estelle looked at him curiously, but Bob Torrez just grunted a chuckle.

“Relax, Milt,” he said. He bounced the wire again, as if dismissing the entire conversation and finding the fence far more important. “I thought the Forest Service was going to put in a solid gate for you.”

“This one’s just fine.”

“I’d think messin’ with this wire every time you want to go in or out would be kind of a pain in the ass.” He gave the wire a final flex and then held up his hand. “We got to go. You have a good day, Milt.” Torrez stepped close to Estelle as he passed. “We got some interesting results back from the crime lab that you’re going to want to see,” he said, obviously not caring whether Crowley heard him or not.

Chapter Eighteen

A gap in the pinons allowed just enough room to turn the vehicles around, and Estelle noticed that Milton Crowley didn’t bother to remain at the gate to watch them leave. As they reached the intersection of Forest Road and State Highway 78, Torrez pulled the Expedition over and got out. Estelle parked in the middle of Forest Road.

The sheriff settled on the front fender of Estelle’s unmarked Crown Victoria, arms crossed comfortably.

“Two things,” he said. “No usable prints on the lug wrench. Mears says that it’s either been wiped or someone used gloves. And it’s sure enough wallboard plaster on the nose, along with some traces of blood and hair. The blood is type AB, same as Carmen’s. We’re going to have to wait on the lab for DNA, but there’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Nothing new on her yet?”

“She’s holding her own. Believe it or not, it’s the rap to the back of her skull that’s going to be the hurdle.”

“We need to talk with the boys, Bobby.” She recounted her conversation with Deena Hurtado earlier that morning.

“Mauro the little tool smith,” Torrez said. “The little sack of shit isn’t about to admit diddly. He’s probably scared shitless.”

“And he wasn’t in school yesterday afternoon. Neither was his brother.”

Torrez made a face. “I see those two around all the time. School just ain’t real high on their list of favorite places. But they didn’t have nothin’ to do with the attack on Carmen.”

“I don’t think they did either, Bobby, but we need to talk with them. There’s that two-hour black hole between the time when their father left home and then returned to discover Carmen in her bedroom. The boys weren’t in school during that time. I’d like to know what they were doing.”

“That’s the other thing,” Torrez said, nodding. “The stain on the bedroom wall? You’ll be interested to know what that is.”

“Yes, I would.”

“How about heavy grease.”

“Grease?”

“Yup. ‘Contaminated’ petroleum grease, the lab calls it. In other words, dirty.”

“You’re talking like automotive oil?”

“
Grease
. Old, used grease.”

Estelle frowned. “That’s bizarre.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There’s no grease on the wrench handle?”

Torrez shook his head. “And see, that’s the other thing about the boys. If Mauro was out back workin’ on his car—and that sure as shit is full of
contaminated
grease—I can’t see him puttin’ on gloves just at the one moment he loses his temper and lets fly with the wrench.”

“So if the grease came from Carmen’s attacker, it wasn’t on his hands. That’s interesting.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, there’s no grease on the wrench. That means the grease wasn’t on his gloves…and if he had greasy hands, it’s a bit much to expect that he would chase Carmen through the house, peeling off his gloves as he went. And I’m thinking about where the grease was on the wall.”

“Fifty-seven inches off the floor,” Torrez said.

“Right. Maybe Carmen caught him off balance somehow. If the attacker fell against the wall, he might try to catch himself by throwing out a hand. But not this time, apparently. It might have been on his clothes.” She reached out and touched Torrez on the shoulder of his light jacket. “A shoulder against the wall. I can see that happening.

“One small catch,” Torrez said. “Nobody’s established yet that the grease, or whatever the hell it was, is fresh to the wall. It might have been there all along. Maybe from one of the boys a month ago, swingin’ around a dirty rag. We don’t know.”

“No, we don’t. I’m just going from the general condition of the room. It’s clean, Bobby. That smear is so out of place. Freddy or Juanita will know.”

“Maybe.”

She looked down, idly drawing small circles in the dust on the fender. “Did the lab have results for the blood on the lamp shade?” The sheriff shook his head and glanced at his watch.

“It’s early yet.”

“We have to know that,” Estelle said, more to herself than to the sheriff. “Penny Barnes said that one of the errands Zeigler mentioned was stopping by the county barns. She didn’t know what for.” She looked at Torrez. “The flat tire,” she said. “If he’d just changed a tire, it might be possible to come away with some grease. Maybe on his clothes.”

Torrez shook his head. “You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t?”

The sheriff offered one of his rare smiles. “No, you don’t. You don’t think that Zeigler had anything to do with what happened to Carmen. So why look for grease on
his
clothes? And besides that, where’s the grease with a flat tire? Maybe if he pulled the old tire off, and leaned against the wheel bearing? Nah, I don’t think so. Road dirt, more than likely. Grease, no. Not unless he fell against the truck during the process.”

“Well, that’s possible.”

He laughed. “Almost anything is possible, Estelle.” He pushed himself away from the vehicle. “The obvious thing is the simplest. Zeigler’s truck shows up at his house, but he doesn’t. So…what’d he do, drive home, and then was grabbed by somebody? Are we going to be seein’ a ransom note before long?”

“If that means that Zeigler is still alive, I’ll settle for that,” Estelle said.

Torrez scoffed. “Well, don’t hold your breath.” He looked hard at Estelle. “His lifestyle is what needs lookin’ at.” When Estelle didn’t respond, he added, “Mama Acosta is stayin’ in Albuquerque. Freddy and the two boys are comin’ back later today. At least that’s the plan. I’ll have a talk with Freddy about the grease. He’s apt to be curious about why we hacked a chunk out of his wall, anyway. I’ll let you know when they’re back in town, if you want to sit down with Mauro.”

“I need to do that.” She shook her head in frustration.

The sheriff nodded back toward the mesa. “Is that your first chat with the old weirdo there?”

“Yes.”

“Ain’t too many like old Milton Crowley, that’s for sure. I guess maybe that’s a good thing.”

“I’d like to look at that tape.”

“It probably wouldn’t tell you a thing you don’t already know,” Torrez said. “But there’s no point in jerkin’ Milt’s chain. Even if you could talk Judge Hobart into giving you a court order, Milt’s still going to refuse to hand over the tape, and if the judge throws his ass in jail for contempt of court, old Milt will just use that as front-page news in his little newspaper.” Torrez wiggled his fingers in the air. “The evil government tramples his rights one more time. He’s a freaky one. Leave him alone, and he’s harmless, though.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Yeah, he is. He talks a good talk.” Torrez grinned. “I like that sign of his. I’ve always wanted one of those in
my
driveway.” He shrugged. “I’d kinda like to stay on his good side, just the same. There’s nobody who knows that mesa country the way he does, and he’s been a help to us on a search or two. Sometime when you got nothin’ better to do, ask Wild Bill about the incident with Crowley’s ‘garden.’ He’ll tell you some interesting stories.” The sheriff dusted off his hands. “You’re on your way to the county barns now?”

“That, and I wanted to talk with Doris Marens again. She told the deputy that she didn’t hear or see anything, but if we don’t count Freddy, Mrs. Marens was the
only
one at home on that block about that time. Maybe there’s some little thing…”

“Did Mr. Flamingo give you anything yet?”

“He has nothing to give, Bobby. William Page is in the dark as much as we are.”

“How long is he staying in town?”

“Until we know about Kevin.”

Torrez grimaced. “That could be a long, long time.”

“I know, Bobby. But I don’t know what other direction to take.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Lemme know what grease you get into at the county barns.” He wagged his eyebrows, but didn’t smile. “I gave the go-ahead for Taber to go through Zeigler’s house again, one speck of dust at a time.”

“I don’t think the answer’s there, Bobby.”

“We’ll see. It’s something to do. That’s about where we’re at. Jackie asked if she and Linda could do it.” He shrugged. “I said what the hell. If there’s anything there, they’ll see it.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’m meetin’ Eddie at Zeigler’s office at ten o’clock. We’ll tear that place apart, one piece of paper at a time. And I don’t think we’ll find anything there, either.” He lifted a hand in salute. “Keep in touch,” he said, and Estelle watched him climb back into the Expedition and drive off toward Posadas.

As she settled behind the wheel of her own county vehicle, the radio clock flashed to 9:46
AM
Less than twenty-two hours before, Estelle had been chatting with Kevin Zeigler outside the elementary school. She started the car, jabbing at the ignition key with impatience, irritated with herself for wasting time counting the minutes, irritated at wasting time hoping for an innocent explanation of the events that had caught up the county manager, impatient with the waiting while a lab tech removed and tested the tiny blood spatter from the lamp shade.

A few minutes later, with no recollection of the twelve-mile drive into town from Forest Road 26, she pulled through the chain-link gate of the county maintenance yard off County Road 43, just north of the Hutton Street intersection on the outskirts of the village. She parked in front of the office, swinging wide so she had an unobstructed view of the yard and the equipment stored there.

To one side of the towering shop doors, a veteran Highway Department dump truck was parked, its left rear hindquarters jacked high and all four wheels rolled to one side. The massive brake drums had been removed.

Across the yard, two men, one on a front loader and another on the ground, were wrestling a twenty-foot-long, four-foot-diameter section of drainage pipe toward a flatbed trailer. The shop doors were open, and Estelle could see three vehicles inside.

A young man appeared in the shop doorway, a Styrofoam cup in hand. He watched Estelle as she got out of the car and offered a tentative, snaggle-toothed smile as she approached.

“Good morning,” Estelle said. “Is Ralph around today?”

“Nope. He’s at a meeting.” The young man sawed the edge of the hand that held the cup across the back of his other hand, the skin no doubt irritated by the substantial amount of “contaminated grease.” Estelle read the stitched name tag on the breast of his dark green work shirt.

“Do you know where that meeting is, James?”

“I think it’s with somebody from the State Highway Department,” he said. “He was having to drive over to Deming.” He crumpled the cup and tossed it in the general direction of a fifty-five-gallon drum near the corner of the building.

Estelle turned and surveyed the yard. It was the sort of place that the meticulous Kevin Zeigler would manage from a distance. “You guys look a little shorthanded today.”

James laughed. “We’re
always
shorthanded, Sheriff.”

“Did the county manager stop by here yesterday?”

“What time?”

“Anytime.”

“Oh,” he said with sudden comprehension. “That’s
right
. ”

“What’s right?”

“No, I mean I heard about Zeigler goin’ missing. One of the guys was talking about that when he came in this morning.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.” James removed a can of tobacco from his hip pocket, and carefully charged his lip. “Weird, huh?”

“I wonder how he happened to hear about it.”

“Scotty? His brother’s with the ambulance thing there.”

“Ah.” Estelle wondered if there was a single soul in Posadas who
didn’t
know about Kevin Zeigler’s disappearance. The “ambulance thing there” had been called to attend to Carmen Acosta—and at that time, Zeigler had done nothing more curious than fail to return to the afternoon session of the commission meeting. James turned and spat brown juice. He wasn’t very good at it, and wiped his chin with a greasy hand. “So,” Estelle persisted. “Did you happen to see Zeigler yesterday? Did he stop by here?”

“Ah, you know…I don’t know,” James said vaguely. “I don’t pay much attention to who comes and goes. I got me this big old bastard to get out of here.” He nodded at the dump truck with the shattered axle. “You could ask Hobie, over there. He kinda keeps tabs on things when Ralph’s gone.”

“Hobie?”

“The guy on the front loader. Hobie Tyler. He’s one of the foremen.”

“Thanks,” Estelle said. “What’s your name?”

“J.T.,” he said. “Well, James.” He patted his name tag.

“James…”

“Oh. Volpato.” He spelled it quickly without being asked.

“You’re related to Katie Volpato?” Katie had worked as a custodian in the county building for years, a silent presence who kept the building looking fifty years younger than it was.

“She’s my mom.”

“A grand lady,” Estelle said. “Thanks, James.” Across the yard, the huge section of culvert crashed onto the trailer. As the undersheriff approached, the front loader backed off with a blast of black diesel smoke and shrill beeping of its caution horn. The hoist chain dangled from its lower lip.

As he maneuvered the machine away from the trailer, the driver saw Estelle and immediately jabbed the brakes so hard the ponderous loader rocked on its fat tires. The engine died and Tyler swung the cab door open.

“Morning!” he called. “What can I help you with?”

Estelle skirted an impressive puddle of something that would have raised the eyebrows of the EPA and walked up close to the loader. The tires were nearly as tall as she was, and the beast ticked quietly as it cooled, exuding a rich aroma of hot rubber, diesel fuel, and grease.

Tyler leaned out, looking down from on high. At the same time, the other county worker tossed the tie-down chains across the culvert section with a mighty clatter.

“Good morning, sir,” Estelle greeted. She rested a hand lightly on one mammoth tire cleat. “I understand that you might have talked to the county manager yesterday.”

Tyler shot a quick glance at his companion, then eyed Estelle warily. “Well, he stopped by, is all.”

“What time was that, sir?”

Tyler pulled off his left glove and rubbed his cheek with a stubby finger. “He come by yesterday morning early.”