Convenient Disposal (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

By the time Estelle walked through the front door of the Guzman home on South Twelfth Street, the village had settled into late-night silence. Eddie Mitchell was still a passenger in a patrol car somewhere to the north, speeding down the Rio Grande valley. In the basement darkroom of the Public Safety Building, Linda Real had begun processing reel after reel of film. The “two Toms,” Mears and Pasquale, were organizing and processing what little physical evidence had been combed from the Acosta property.

Both Sheriff Torrez and Deputy Jackie Taber prowled the county, and Estelle listened to the muted, cryptic radio traffic as she drove home. And even as she juggled her house keys, Estelle turned and glanced up and down the street, as if hoping that she might catch a glimpse of Kevin Zeigler’s trim, dapper figure hustling from one island of light to another under the streetlights.

Before she could slide the key into the lock, she heard the door rattle. Her husband pulled the door open, bowing slightly as he held it for her, then pushed it closed behind her. She set her briefcase down and snuggled into his bear hug. They stood silently for a long time. Francis rested his chin on top of Estelle’s head and she swayed gently to the rhythm of his pulse.

“Nasty day,” he whispered after a moment.

“And we don’t know where it’s going, except nastier,” Estelle murmured.

“You’re going to squeeze in a little sleep, I hope.”

“Yes, Doctor.” She snuggled her face tighter against his chest.

“Are you ready for some good news?” he asked.

“Con los brazos abiertos,”
Estelle whispered fervently. She didn’t move.

“You missed
Tía
Sofía’s call a few minutes ago.”

“Ah,” Estelle groaned. “Missing her call isn’t good news,
oso
.”
She thumped her forehead against his chest. “She’s coming, I hope?”

“If it’s convenient,” Francis said.

“It’s always convenient,” Estelle said. She took a half-step back and looped her arms around her husband’s neck. “And I need to talk to her.” Francis looked quizzical, an expression that deepened when she added, “I found out about one of my husband’s family genes today.”

“Mine?”

“Oh,
sí
. At least, that’s the easy explanation, since I don’t know where mine have been. I had a parent conference with Myra Delgado, this morning.” She unlatched from around his neck. “
Los hijos
are asleep?”

“Sure.” He glanced at the grandfather clock in the dining room. “
Everyone
with any sense is asleep. I sent Irma home around nine o’clock, when I got here. So…what did Myra have to say?”

“Un momentito.”
Estelle bent down to retrieve her briefcase. She tossed it into the nearest chair, at the same time toeing off her sturdy, black shoes. The hallway leading to the boys’ bedroom sank into darkness. A year or so before, both Francisco and little Carlos had decided that a night-light gave monsters too much advantage.

The door to their bedroom was ajar, and Estelle eased it open. Enough light from the kitchen and living room filtered in that she could see the two small forms, Carlos on the left and Francisco on the right. She stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to night sounds. Francisco shifted, a little rustle of pillow and blanket. Estelle slipped over to his bedside and sat down on the edge. She was sure her eldest son was awake…he slept like a wolf pup, deep in his dreams for a few minutes, then awake to shift and rearrange position before drifting off again.

Estelle knew she didn’t have to worry about waking Carlos. The four-year-old slept the night through, polishing his imitation of a sandbag.

“Hey,
hijo
, ” she whispered. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out Francisco’s right hand, and she tickled his palm with her index finger. His hand instantly became a spider, darting a few inches away and pausing, two fingers stretched out and testing the air. Estelle smiled and reached up to stroke black hair out of his eyes. “Did you have a good day?”

He nodded. “Melody said you were at school,” he said with just a hint of accusatory whine.

She left her hand on his forehead, her thumb lightly tracing the arch of his thick eyebrows. “Yes, I was.”

“She’s funny.”

“Melody? That’s for sure,
hijo
.” Featherlight, the tips of her fingers felt the outline of his skull and, with a twinge, she realized clearly what had nagged at her for most of the day—even while the larger share of her consciousness was concentrating on Carmen Acosta and Kevin Zeigler. As clearly as she understood her son in the larger sense, she knew that she had no idea what was going on inside that small, six-year-old head.

“
Tía
Sofía is coming,” the little boy whispered, as excited as if he were announcing an imminent Christmas.

“I hope so,
hijo
.” One of Estelle’s favorite photographs was framed on the fireplace mantel in the living room. It showed three figures, sharply side lit by morning sun and dwarfed by the yawning vista before them. Sofía Tournál, her husband’s aunt, sat on the very edge of a rock ledge jutting out from the rim of Cat Mesa, north of Posadas. On either side of her square, strong form stood the two boys, Francisco leaning an elbow on Sofía’s left shoulder, Carlos encircled by her right arm.

That day had been quiet, the wind nothing but a whisper, just enough to sweep away the heat as the sun warmed the jumbled limestone. Estelle had snapped the picture, then returned to the van to reload the camera. She’d lingered there, loath to interrupt the quiet moments between Sofía and the boys.

“I thought that maybe Sofía might help us find just the right piano,” Estelle said. Francisco didn’t reply, but she watched his hands curl together under his chin and felt the slight hunch of his shoulders. She knew that body language well, that curling inward with delight lest a hand too quickly stretched out might destroy the moment of anticipation. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes.”

She smiled at the one-word response. “I think it would be nice to have a piano,” she said. She covered both of his hands in hers. After a moment she bent down and brushed his cheek with her lips, lingering for a moment by his left ear. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” she whispered.

Before leaving, Estelle crossed the bedroom and bent down to unwad the blanket from around her younger son’s head. Carlos slept deeply. If a four-year-old could ever be described as introspective, that would describe Carlos. The clandestine rendezvous with the school piano wouldn’t have surprised Estelle had it occurred in two years’ time with her younger son. But for the extroverted Francisco to keep the secret was a genuine surprise.

Her husband had settled onto the large sofa in the living room. “So,” he said as Estelle reappeared. He watched as she shrugged out of her jacket and then slipped the bulky, holstered automatic and handcuff case off her belt. She dropped everything in a pile at the opposite end of the sofa and then eased down beside her husband, sitting on the very edge of the cushion.

“So tell me what the kid’s teacher had to say,” Francis said. “A six-year-old forcing his teacher to call the cops is quite an accomplishment.”

Estelle smiled and dug a knuckle into her husband’s ribs. “You know,
mi corazón
, I see so many kids in trouble that that’s the first thing that crossed my mind when the school called.” She shook her head, and then recounted her visit to the elementary school. Francis listened with a bemused expression.

“He just sneaks out at lunch?”

“Well,
sneak
isn’t the right word,
oso
. He just goes. He never told his teacher that’s what he’s doing. She always thought that he was going to the restroom, just across the hall.”

“All by himself?”

“Solo.”

“That in itself is amazing for a first grader. They tend to be herd animals, don’t they? I can imagine Carlos sitting off by himself, but not Mr. Motion.” Francis caught Estelle’s hand and entwined fingers. “And he bangs on the piano down in the band room.”

She shook her head doggedly. “Not
bangs
. I listened to him. It sounds like he’s working out particular sounds and combinations.”

“Huh,” Francis said. “Every day for three weeks?”

She nodded. “Every day.”

“And why doesn’t Myra just tell him to get his little butt back to the class? Or group.” He grinned. “The herd. They generally don’t let first graders roam much, do they? Isn’t that the grade where they all line up along the wall to be counted? Seems to me I remember something like that.”

Estelle paused. “Myra was struck by how much it meant to Francisco to be able to do that. To be able to go off by himself.” She turned to face Francis more squarely. “When you think about it…”

He nodded. “I can’t imagine him keeping it a secret. That’s remarkable.”

“But he has. He hasn’t told his teacher, he hasn’t told any of his classmates as far as we know, he hasn’t told me or you.”

“What’d he say when you mentioned your visit?”

“I didn’t mention it. Melody Mears told him that I’d been at the school.”

“Ah.”

“What’s a six-year-old going to think,” Estelle said, lowering her voice. “If the adults find out that he’s where he’s not supposed to be, what are they going to tell him to do?”

“Get back in line.” Francis mimicked the order.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think he’ll just talk to you about it, if you ask him?”

“I don’t want that,” Estelle said quickly. “Myra thinks it’s fine. I think it’s fine.
I
want to leave it alone. He’s found this private time for himself.” She hesitated. “But we need to buy a piano,
oso
.”

Francis untwined his fingers and clamped his right hand on her left thigh in his strong grip. “Probably we do.” He grinned. “Next thing you know, they’re going to want a puppy or something.”

“Then the dog can howl in concert,” Estelle said, “and Carlos and I can be one big case of hives from the dog hair. Did Sofía say when she’s coming?”

“Ah,” Francis said again, making the connection. “She thought this weekend, if we weren’t busy.”

“Were you going to call her back?”

“I was…or you can.”

“Would you ask her to come Thursday or Friday? That way we can drive to Cruces when the piano store is open.”

Francis grimaced. “Wouldn’t one of those small electronic keyboards work? I mean, to start with?”

“If it will, that’s what they’ll decide,” Estelle said. “But I want to do this right,
oso
. Sofía will know.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” Francis agreed. Of his vast, extended family, Francis Guzman was the only member who lived in the United States. His Aunt Sofía, widowed for more than two decades, had enjoyed a long, distinguished, and highly profitable career as an attorney in Veracruz…and had been the major financial force behind the new Posadas health clinic.

“But she mustn’t buy it,” Estelle added firmly. “I want to do that.” She leaned toward her husband. “Or we want to do that. But Sofía knows Francisco, and she knows music, and she plays beautifully. That’s why I want to talk with her.”

Francis looked bemused. “And suppose that this old lady and the six-year-old kid together decide in their own mystical way that the only thing that will do is a fifty-thousand-dollar Steinway, just like the one Sofía has in her parlor in Veracruz?”

“That won’t happen.”

“She said,”
Francis quipped.

Estelle laughed. “If it does, I’ll find a part-time job.”

“Something you can work between midnight and three
AM
”

“Is that the time slot that’s available?”

“Just about.”

Estelle took a deep breath. “If they lose interest in the piano, we can always sell it.” She covered his hand in both of hers, feeling the heavy scar that crossed from the base of his thumb to the base of his ring finger, a souvenir from a biking accident several years before. “It would be good for you to play again, too.”

He laughed. “Oh, sure. It’s been so long I don’t know where middle C is anymore. Anyway, this is going to be interesting. What if the only time Francisco will touch the piano is when he’s alone? Are we all going to have to stand out in the backyard when he practices?”

“I don’t know,” Estelle said. “One step at a time. First, I want to talk with Sofía.” She relaxed back, comfortable against her husband. For a few delicious seconds, her mind roamed among thoughts of her children. And then the image of Melody Mears danced back into her memory, and Deena Hurtado, and the limp, bloody form of Carmen Acosta. She groaned and leaned forward.

“What?” Francis said. He ran a hand up her back as she leaned over toward her gear at the end of the couch. She retrieved the small cellular phone.

“I need to see if Eddie Mitchell is back yet,” she said.

“At midnight?”

Estelle grimaced in resignation. “He’s bringing back evidence that’s going to determine what direction we go come morning,” she said. “It can’t wait.”

“And come morning, you’ll be really sharp without any sleep,” Francis said.

“This won’t take long.”

“She said.”

Chapter Thirteen

The blue jeans looked small and oddly pathetic in the evidence bag. Estelle glanced at the photograph of the girl lying facedown on the bed, with two pale-faced paramedics kneeling by her head. Eighteen hours before, Carmen had poured herself into those jeans, tight enough to hinder the circulation.

“Her mother says that she’s right-handed, if that’s any help,” Chief Eddie Mitchell said. He stood with his spine pressed tightly against the wall, trying to straighten out the kinks in his back after four hours in a procession of cramped, speeding patrol cars.

“Something is bound to show,” Bob Torrez said. “But even if it does, I’m not sure that it tells us a whole lot.”

“Every little bit,” Estelle said. She arranged the fabric of the left leg of the blue jeans under the low-power stereo microscope. An instant later, it took no imagination to see the uniformly stretched threads along the inseam. The loops of thread that marched along the seam in the jeans were normally so tight as to be pulled right into the stiff fabric. Under the lens of the stereoscope, Estelle could see the stitching stretched up into a small loop, every half inch or so. She straightened up and beckoned the sheriff toward the table. “Want to place bets?”

Torrez planted both hands on the bench on either side of the microscope and bent over, then released his grip to adjust the oculars. “Huh.”

“You can see the loops,” Estelle said.

Torrez gazed through the eyepieces for another few seconds, then twisted to one side as Eddie Mitchell ambled over, hands pressed to the small of his back. With a sigh, he bent down and examined the inseam for himself.

“Regular little holster she’s got there,” Torrez said. “Why not just stab it in twice—once going in, then again a few inches down the pike to hold the tip?”

“That’s not very secure,” Estelle said. “Thread the hat pin through loops every little bit, and it’s going to be held in place, keeping the tip on the outside of her jeans, out of her leg.”

“Right now, we’re thinking that the hat pin was Carmen’s,” Mitchell said, and straightened away from the counter. “That makes for an interesting scenario.”

“
If
she was wearing it when she was attacked,” Torrez said. “We don’t know that.”

“Let’s suppose that she was,” Estelle offered. She stepped across the small room and tapped the drawing on the white board. “There’s no blood in the kitchen—just furniture that indicates a struggle, a chase of sorts. Whoever attacked Carmen got through the door, busting the already broken screen. Maybe she tried to push the table between herself and her assailant, buying a few seconds.”

“Didn’t work out,” Torrez said.

“No, it didn’t. The assailant takes a swing, maybe connects, maybe not. By this time, they’re in the dining room, and the assailant takes a good lick with the lug wrench, maybe while Carmen is scrunched up against the wall trying to dial nine-one-one. Or maybe she’s holding her hands up, trying to fend him off. The wrench connects with the wall, hard enough to smash the plaster.”

With her finger, Estelle traced a ragged line toward the bedroom. “They fight through the living room, back to here. The last stand,” she said. “She makes it to the bedroom pretty quickly. If any of the blows to her head connected either in the kitchen, the dining room, or while crossing the living room, she didn’t leave a blood trail. And then…” Estelle paused, gazing at the schematic. Without turning around, she reached out, pointing at the jeans under the stereo. “What if she has the hat pin in her jeans. See”—and she looked at Torrez—“that’s what we don’t know. If she
did
, then she pulled it out somewhere during the fight. She might have been able to cut her assailant with it, a raking blow. Or”—and she shrugged—“maybe she got lucky and stabbed him a good one.”

“Just enough to make him mad,” Mitchell said. “He either connects at that point with the wrench, or just manhandles her around, wrenching the hat pin out of her hand. And then,
boom
. ”

“Boom,”
Estelle repeated.

“Our contact with APD is Frank Hershey,” Mitchell said. “He posted one of his detectives at the hospital for us. When the doctors can spring loose, we’ll find out some more. But I tell you, I don’t see that Carmen’s going to do much after taking the blow to the head. She pulls the hat pin, maybe jabs him with it, and that sets the guy off. He’s pissed, and
whammo
. That’s when she gets it, hard through the ear.”

“I think that’s when he hits her,” Torrez said. He leaned against the counter. “She’s down on the bed, stuck through the ear. She’s maybe makin’ noise, panicked, not knowing what’s happened, still fighting. He hits her in the back of the head because that’s the target that he’s got.”

“That’s consistent with the blood,” Estelle said. “She didn’t move an inch after that.”

“We’re all set for someone to take a run to the state lab in the morning?” Torrez asked.

Estelle nodded. “Tom was going to see what he could do with the blood spatter on the lamp shade. He wasn’t really optimistic. There’s just not enough there.”

“And the crap on the wall?”

“That has to go to the lab. That’s way beyond what we can do here.”

“Which ain’t much,” Torrez added.

“One of the docs I talked to at University said that if Carmen survives the attack and the follow-up surgery and everything else, that it might be days before she can answer questions about what happened,” Mitchell said. “Maybe weeks.”

“And maybe never,” the sheriff said.

Estelle picked up the stack of eight-by-ten photos, the first installment sent upstairs from Linda Real’s darkroom. “We’ve got a good start for morning,” she said.

“What do you want us to do?” Mitchell asked. Torrez reached out for the photos and began shuffling through them methodically.

“It’s important to exhaust every possible place that Kevin Zeigler might have gone,” Estelle said. “He’s the key. I really believe it. It’s just way too bizarre otherwise. We need to talk to all the county folks…again. Maybe something he said in passing during the morning, any little thing. Check with the county barns, see if any of the maintenance crews saw him. Or someone from the village. In the course of a normal day of county business, he must see two hundred people, maybe talk to fifty or a hundred. We need to double-check with every one of them.”

“You going to talk with the pink flamingo again?” Torrez flashed a brief smirk when Estelle’s face went blank. “Mr. Page,” he said. “He’s still camped out in the lobby.”

“He needs to go home,” Mitchell said. “Shit, it’s almost one o’clock.
I
need to go home.”

“At the moment, he
has
no home,” Estelle said. “Zeigler’s house is still off-limits. He said he’d get a room at the Posadas Inn.”

“Then maybe you’d encourage that very thing,” Torrez said. He held up a single glossy print, a close-up of the hat pin taken from Deena Hurtado in the principal’s office of the middle school. “You brought the weapon back from Albuquerque, right?”

Mitchell nodded. “Linda took a preliminary picture with it still in the bag. After we get it back from the lab, she’ll shoot it again.”

The sheriff flipped quickly through the prints again.

“You don’t have that photo yet,” Mitchell said. “Linda’s still working downstairs. Those you have there are just the first batch.”

“She workin’ all night?” Torrez glanced at Estelle.

“Most likely.”

He shrugged. “Won’t hurt her. She’s young yet,” Torrez said. He handed the photos back to Estelle.

“Until we know something to the contrary, we need as many people on the road looking for Kevin as we can spare,” she said. “The first step is to comb every piece of county property, every piece of county equipment and real estate. That’s a start. And then every other connection we can dig up from Kevin’s personal life. Everyone he knows, everyone he’s talked to recently. And in that respect, William Page might be of some help.”

“First thing we need to do is call it a day,” Torrez said. “Every time I try to blink, I got to pull my eyelids back open. You two don’t look much better. Who’s on the road tonight?”

“Jackie and Mike Sisneros,” Estelle said.

“Well, they both know what to look for,” the sheriff said. “Maybe come eight tomorrow morning, the county manager will walk through his office door and surprise the shit out of us all.”

“That would be a nice surprise,” Estelle said. She carefully repacked the blue jeans and then snapped off her gloves.

“And it isn’t going to happen,” Eddie Mitchell said.

Torrez watched Estelle retag the evidence. “What direction are you takin’?” he asked after a moment.

She sighed, staring at the evidence bag in front of her. “What makes the most sense to me is that Kevin Zeigler walked into the middle of something,” she said. “Carmen is no angel. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit that the minute she learned that her daddy was taking a walk to the pizza place, she knew she had time on her hands. No one else was home; mom’s working, brothers and sisters are all at school…or supposed to be. And then…” She hesitated. “We don’t know what happened. But it looks like Kevin came home for lunch at the wrong time. Page told me that they’d witnessed fights at the Acostas’ before. And he told me that on at least one occasion, when the two boys were fighting and no one seemed willing to say anything, Kevin wanted to go next door and see what he could do.”

“But he didn’t,” Torrez said.

“No. Page said he talked Kevin out of it. It wasn’t any of their business.”

Torrez let out a loud grunt that could have meant any number of things. “Sure as hell is now, though.”