Privileged to Kill (14 page)

“It looks like just the two of them,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to call Estelle, or do you want me to?”

“I’ll do it,” I said. As I turned to walk back to 310, I wondered if Vanessa Davila had been in one of the cars that had filed by the wreckage, or if hers had been one of the faces pressed against the bus window. The thought had never occurred to me to step up into the bus and check. I stopped and turned to Holman.

“You don’t need me here,” I said. “We’re staking out a place at the trailer park for a young girl who was seen with Maria Ibarra earlier. We had information that she might have been at the game.” I nodded down the now-dark highway. “While you people are finishing up here, I’m going to see if I can corral her.”

“You’ll be back at the office later tonight?”

“Yes.”

Holman took a step closer and touched my elbow again. “No, I mean…really. You’ll be at the office?”

I looked at the sheriff for a long minute, and then nodded again. “If the kid we’re after isn’t home by now, there’s no point in sticking around the rest of the night watching. I’ll be at the office.”

“Okay, because we need to talk.”

“If I’m not there when you get back, just give me a call.”

Holman smiled and his eyes narrowed. “I’ve been doing that all day, Bill.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that. I climbed into 310 and headed back toward Posadas. Less than three miles from town, Estelle’s unmarked county car flashed by, and my radio barked a couple of times. She’d seen me and could figure out easily enough where I was headed.

I reflected that Martin Holman had handled himself with surprising competence. Of course, it was a simple enough traffic accident, but still he’d managed pretty well. And then I realized that I was brooding not so much about Holman’s performance, but about having to explain my own.

Posadas was buzzing when I drove back into town. I slowed to my usual crawl, window down and radio low. “All right, Vanessa, where the hell are you?” I said.

21

I idled past Jan’s Pizza Parlor, looking at cars and crowds. The place was hopping, and I didn’t recognize many of the faces. I wouldn’t have even if I had been able to see them clearly. New generations of kids were passing through the school so fast that I had long since given up trying to keep track of them all.

Posadas was a tiny place by most standards. Still, I was discovering that it was startlingly easy to grow out of touch.

All four of my own kids had graduated from Posadas High School, and back then when I saw a kid on the street, odds were ten to one that I would recognize him—and probably in eight of those cases I’d also know the parents, know what the father did or didn’t do for a living, know what the closet skeletons were.

Now I was lucky to recognize one out of ten. And that included the two victims of the truck crash that night. I’d heard Stub Moore mention the name, and it had meant nothing to me. Nor had a quick glimpse of the kid’s ashen face as he was strapped onto the stretcher. All I’d seen of the passenger was a lump under a blanket. But I was content that I’d find out in due time who they were, and I knew that they’d be just two more faces in a passing crowd.

I swung around the back of the restaurant and parked the patrol car next to the Dumpster. The service entrance was unlocked and I slipped inside.

The smell of fresh pizza and all its possible toppings hit me like a club.

Crowded though the restaurant was, the atmosphere was subdued. The patrons didn’t know whether to celebrate the winning game they’d seen or mourn for a lost classmate. But folks eat at both wakes and weddings, so what the hell. The pizza soothed either way.

“Sir?”

I turned and waved a hand in recognition at Jan’s assistant manager—whose name promptly escaped me. I handed her a photocopied yearbook picture of Vanessa Davila. “Have you noticed her in here tonight?”

The young lady, a short, stocky, well-manicured gal who looked like she could work sixteen-hour shifts back to back, squinted at the photo and shook her head. “But then, we’ve been really busy, you know? She could have been in here a dozen times and I wouldn’t have seen her.”

I nodded, stepped up closer to one of the cash registers, and scanned the faces in the restaurant. There was no Vanessa.

The same was true at the other pizza joint, and at the convenience store. I drove down to the Ranchero, but trailer number three was still dark, with Mama asleep somewhere in the back.

I was no longer feeling gracious. I parked 310 and left the door open so I’d have some light. This time, Mrs. Davila took her sweet time. I knocked, pounded, rang the bell—and finally heard muffled footsteps.

Mrs. Davila opened the door and surveyed me with complete disgust.

“Did your daughter make it home yet, ma’am?”

“What?” There it was again, the automatic bastion of the deaf or the dull.

“Is your daughter here?” I kept my voice down and worked hard at keeping the frustration out of it.

“Does it look like she’s here?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I can’t see into your home.”

She snorted and stepped to one side. “Well, then, come on in and see for yourself. She’s not here.”

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have bothered to press the point—and I didn’t think that Mrs. Davila expected my response—but it was the middle of the night, and I had nothing better to do.

“Thanks, I will,” I said, and stepped past her. “Where do you think she’s staying? With one of her friends in town?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Davila said, her voice winding up and down as if the whole thing was an unfathomable mystery. “I told you that before.”

I stood in the middle of the tiny, narrow living room and surveyed the place. The ten-by-twelve room didn’t offer much space for decorating. But it was clean and neat, even heated in winter…a hell of a lot more than Maria Ibarra had been looking forward to.

“Mrs. Davila, how old is your daughter?”

“What?”

“How old is Vanessa?”

The hesitation that followed was a bit too long for a mother, even one who’d given up. “Fourteen next month.”

“Fourteen.” I turned and looked at the woman. “And at fourteen she comes and goes as she likes? When she likes?”

The woman didn’t answer my question, but instead asked, “What do you want her for? I deserve to know that.”

“We need to talk to her about one of her friends. We told you that before.”

“Well, she’s not here. You can search the place if you want. She’s not here.”

“All right,” I said. “I’d like to take a look, with your permission.” That wasn’t what Mrs. Davila wanted to hear, but I didn’t wait for another invitation. I had no warrant, and it was my word against hers. The opportunity was there and I took it.

I sidled down the narrow hallway, past the closet door and the doors for the furnace and the front bathroom and then, on the opposite side, a small bedroom. I would have gone further, but there was no need.

Vanessa Davila was sitting in a chair by the window of her little bedroom, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her face. She was hugging a huge stuffed skunk. She looked up, saw me, and buried her face in the skunk’s silky fur. Her body, so large that it overflowed the chair in all directions, shook with her sobbing.

I didn’t go in, but turned and beckoned Mrs. Davila. I was acutely aware of Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s absence. If she hadn’t been busy investigating a traffic fatality, I would have headed for the telephone and let her come and unravel the mess.

Mrs. Davila ducked her head in either relief or embarrassment and shuffled down the hallway until she was within arm’s length. I reached out a hand and rested it lightly on her shoulder.

“Mrs. Davila, now listen to me. I know this is hard for you and your daughter, but we really have to talk to Vanessa. And it would be so much easier if you went along.”

“She never did nothing…”

“I know that, Mrs. Davila. We’re after information, is all. Just give us an hour or so, all right?”

“I got to come, too?”

I nodded. “We really need you to be there. Your daughter’s underage. She needs you. She really does.”

It was obvious that Vanessa certainly needed something. Mrs. Davila coaxed and got a response that was an odd mixture of rattlesnake venom and abject misery. The two of them slipped into Spanish and left me far behind.

At last, Vanessa rose out of her chair, still holding Sammy Skunk. Through lids puffy from crying, she regarded me as if I were the cause of all her misery. Still, she shuffled across the bedroom toward the door.

I back-pedaled out of her way, taking a step down the hall so she could walk by. Just as she reached the doorway, she turned and flung the skunk into the room. The rejected, soggy thing hit the wall near the head of the bed and tumbled into a corner.

“I’ll drive you down and then bring you both back home,” I said, and Mrs. Davila nodded.

“My coat’s in the kitchen.” She didn’t say anything about a coat for Vanessa. The girl was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and I could see her bare ankles above her soiled and stretched athletic shoes.

“Are you going to be all right?” I asked as Vanessa reached the front door. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I got.

Without a backward glance, Vanessa yanked the door open and stepped out into the brisk night. I followed, but she was beyond reach. She ignored the patrol car and set off across the open spaces of the trailer park at a wild gallop.

I bellowed something but I was shouting at the darkness. Vanessa Davila might have weighed enough to squash the scales, but she was only fourteen years old and determined as hell. The last glimpse I had of her was her broad back disappearing around the end of the dark mobile home in slot 12.

Mrs. Davila stood in the doorway, her hands tightly clasped.

“Do you know where she might be going?”

She shook her head. “She doesn’t talk to me anymore,” she said.

“She’s going to talk to us,” I said, and forced myself to take the three steel steps down to the car one at a time.

22

There was no way Vanessa Davila could have hidden from me. Her trailer was the better part of a hundred yards from the entrance to the mobile home park, and it didn’t take me long to grunt into 310 and slam the gear lever into drive. She had headed for the back of the lot, then doubled back, running along behind the other trailers on the far side. We should have both arrived at the gate at about the same time. I slid to a stop with the patrol car’s nose sticking out into Escondido Lane, and I played the spotlight up and down the road. The place was deserted.

I cranked around in my seat and surveyed the nearest trailers. Nothing moved except an elderly, arthritic mutt who leaned his weight against his chain, front legs spraddled. He didn’t bark and his tail was motionless. Maybe he was bronze.

Edging out into the street and turning left, I shot the spotlight beam across lots behind the trailers. Unless Vanessa was doing a good imitation of a propane tank, she wasn’t there. I probed the dark spots behind cars and wheelbarrows and doghouses as I idled 310 down the road.

A deep hedge of locust, elm, and juniper formed the eastern boundary of the park, and from there the property along Escondido Lane was a hodgepodge of older homes with cluttered yards. I sighed and shook my head.

“Vanessa, Vanessa, Vanessa,” I murmured. If she had dived through the hedge, she could be house-hopping all the way out the lane until it jogged north to join State Highway 17.

Dogs barked here and there, but that didn’t mean they were watching Vanessa sneak through the darkness. In Posadas, there were always dogs barking. A home wasn’t a home without a stupid spaniel or hound in the front yard, barking at the hum of the streetlights.

I accelerated hard and drove quickly east on Escondido, keeping 310 noisy until I reached the state road. There was no traffic, and I pulled out on the highway with a squeal of rubber. It was the sort of sound that would carry, even over the dogs. Vanessa might hear it and relax for a few minutes.

I drove for half a minute, then slowed, drifted the car to the shoulder, and swung in a wide U-turn.

With the intersection of Escondido Lane in sight, I punched off the headlights and let the patrol car coast. The tires crunched on loose gravel as I turned into the lane and I let the vehicle’s momentum carry me along. Vapor lights were scarce and there wasn’t much moon. I leaned forward, peering into the darkness, until my chin was almost on top of the steering wheel.

As the car drifted to a stop, I pulled over to one side and switched off the engine. Both windows were down and I sat quietly counting the heartbeats in my ears.

I would have felt better if, in a few minutes, I had seen Vanessa Davila’s imposing figure materialize out of the darkness. Another car approached, and I turned my head so the bright lights wouldn’t rob what little was left of my night vision.

It was an older model pickup, and after it passed I watched it in the rearview mirror. The occupants were silhouetted against the glare of their truck’s headlights, and neither person had enough shoulder width to be Vanessa.

With a twist of the key, 310 burbled into life and I drove slowly back on Escondido, sweeping the spotlight from one side to the other. When I reached Grande, I switched off the light and turned right, not the least bit eager to explain to Martin Holman why I didn’t have a fourteen-year-old in custody.

I couldn’t imagine Vanessa Davila running far—or even walking far. It was just a question of probing the right set of shadows at the right time before I found her. As 310 idled up Grande toward the expressway interchange, I glanced up the steep slope of concrete that formed the sides of the underpass. And there she was.

Vanessa Davila sat on the ledge where the span beams rested. Her legs were drawn up so that she could rest her head on her knees, with arms locked around them. She had to be exhausted after sprinting this far, but I had no illusions about her staying put.

I pulled over and snatched the mike off the radio. T. C. Barnes answered immediately, and I told him to call Aggie Bishop, Deputy Bishop’s wife. Aggie worked as an on-call matron for us, and she was just right for this job—big, tough, clearheaded, and soft-spoken in two languages.

I was about to sign off when I thought better of it.

“Three-oh-seven, this is three ten.”

Holman’s reply surprised me, so immediate he must have been driving with his microphone in his lap. “Three-oh-seven.”

I looked up at Vanessa, just to be sure. She was motionless, like a two-hundred-pound pigeon roosting for the night.

“Three-oh-seven, ten-twenty?”

This time, Holman knew exactly where he was. “A mile out on forty-three. You want me to swing down that way?”

“Affirmative, three oh seven. We have a female subject who is sitting under the overpass. We need to talk to her, and she isn’t showing much inclination to move.” I looked at that steep slope of concrete again, thinking how nice it would be for someone other than me to puff his way up to Vanessa along with Aggie Bishop. “And three oh seven, when you arrive, drive under the interstate, then swing around and park right under the northbound underpass. I’m going to drive up the westbound on-ramp. That will put me right above her.”

“Ten-four, three ten.”

I sat back, waiting. Vanessa didn’t move, and I didn’t want her out of my sight. Sheriff Holman didn’t let moss grow under his tires. It seemed only a matter of seconds before 307 appeared southbound on Grande.

As he drove by, he said cryptically, “I see her.”

“Keep her in sight. I’m going topside. Wait for Deputy Bishop to get here before you approach her.”

“Ten-four.”

I pulled 310 into gear and drove out from under the concrete, keeping an eye on Vanessa. The on-ramp curved off to the right, and for half of its distance I could see the girl’s dark shape under the beams.

“She’s going to be out of my sight now, so keep me posted,” I said.

“She hasn’t moved,” Holman said. “You want me to go up and talk with her?”

“That’s negative. Wait for Deputy Bishop.” I had visions of Vanessa grabbing the sheriff in a bear hug and both of them toppling down the concrete slope to land in the broken glass and shredded tire treads, Holman no doubt on the bottom.

For fifteen minutes we sat in the darkness, Martin Holman below, me above being rocked by the wake of passing tractor trailers, and Vanessa Davila curled up in the middle.

At five minutes after two, another marked county car idled up behind me. I got out, thinking we had a fair-sized gathering to take one frightened teenage girl into custody. Sergeant Robert Torrez was in civilian clothes, and he came close to smiling.

“Isn’t this interesting,” he said.

Aggie Mendoza Bishop got out of the car and joined us. She walked carefully between the guardrail and the patrol car, looking over the side. “She’s down there? Under the bridge?”

“Yes. Watch your step. There’s broken glass and all kinds of pleasant things.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And I have no idea what her reaction is going to be. She might come without a struggle, or she might bolt again.”

“She ain’t going too many places from here,” Sergeant Torrez muttered.

Aggie Bishop held up a hand. “You two stay well back,” she said. “Let me talk with her first. My God, she’s got to be frightened to death. Out here in the middle of the night like this. What’s her name?”

I told her, and she stepped over the guardrail with considerably more grace than I managed. The footing was treacherous, and when roadside weeds gave way to the steep polished concrete of the abutment, it was even worse. I was perfectly content to stay well back, clinging to one of the rebar bolts for support, my ankles protesting.

Aggie Bishop took her time, but what Robert Torrez had said was true: Vanessa Davila had nowhere to go. After what seemed like an hour, I saw the bright flash of Torrez’s light and heard him say, “Watch your step here, now.”

The three of them appeared as one huge dark shadow, and I clawed my way back the few steps to the guardrail. Vanessa Davila allowed herself to be steered toward the backseat of the county car without a whimper, and my spirits rose several notches. I still had no idea what the girl knew, but if there was any connection to be made with Maria Ibarra’s death, Vanessa Davila was as close to that connection as anyone.

We crossed the median and headed down the off-ramp. Bob Torrez, with Matron Bishop and Vanessa Davila in the backseat, headed for the office, with Sheriff Holman falling in behind. I drove back to the Ranchero trailer park to chauffeur Mrs. Davila down to be with her daughter. I figured, after she had seen Vanessa flee into the night, that she’d be sitting in the kitchen, wringing her hands and worrying herself into a swivet.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Mrs. Davila wasn’t waiting for me or anyone else. After a third symphony of pounding and doorbell-ringing, she opened the door, her face puffy from sleep. She rubbed one eye and regarded me with the other as if she had never seen me before.

“Ma’am, we have your daughter in custody. She’s safe. I’d like you to come down to the office and be with her while we question her. One of the matrons is with her now.”

Mrs. Davila looked puzzled. “What?” she said. I took a long, deep breath. If I had had a bottle in my hand, it would have been a long, stiff drink.