Rollover (9 page)

Chapter Nine

“No swelling…no lumps or bumps that shouldn't be there.” Dr. Zimmerman was examining his head and, Dan thought, trying to make a joke. Maybe old Zimmerman was a phrenologist a couple centuries out of time. “Your X-rays look great. No trouble sleeping?” Dan shook his head. “Appetite good?” A nod. Dan followed the penlight with his eyes, tried not to flinch when the staples came out, stood on one foot, then the other, bent over, straightening quickly—all at the direction of the watchful doc. “You understand that the okay to drive is not an okay to overdo it?” Again, a nod.

“Let's get you in a soft cast for that wrist and that'll do it for today. I'd like you back in two weeks. But, of course, if there's anything in the meantime, any questions, changes…I'll expect a call.” Dan was waiting for a reference to mountain climbing but it didn't come.

Elaine was walking Simon when Dan joined them in the parking lot.

“Keys, please.”

“Oh my God, you passed.” With a shriek she was in his arms and he swung her around before he kissed her lightly on the mouth, then held her. The second kiss was longer, the kind that makes an embrace tough to pull away from.

“This whole thing has been a nightmare. I can't believe it's over.”

“Not quite in the rearview, but close.” Then he realized she was crying.

“Hey, no tears. We've won.”

“I've been so afraid.”

“That's past. I'm going to be all right. We're going to be all right.”

Dan tipped her head back and wiped away two drops that threatened to slide off her chin. “I love you. This is the start of a life together.” The next kiss wasn't so chaste and lasted long enough for Simon to start whining, tired of his forced inactivity.

Dan laughed and took the leash. “Haven't you seen enough of this parking lot?” But Simon was intent on another round before going somewhat willingly back to the SUV.

They decided to make an afternoon of it. Lunch at the Santa Café, the restaurant that Carolyn had chosen for the girls' lunch with Mom; some window shopping on the Plaza, then back on the road, stopping in Las Vegas to pick up the Cherokee.

Yeah, life probably couldn't get much better than this, Dan decided as he headed the Cherokee toward Wagon Mound.

***

“Well, we know you'll have to be here another two weeks. So it makes sense that I go home, turn in the Flex and bring the Benz back. We don't need two rental cars. And Jason emailed this morning. He wants to spend a couple days of fall break at home. I may not have a chance to see him again before Christmas. After last summer and the problems with his father…well, I just can't say, no.”

“Hey, no apologies. That's great.”

“If I take off today, I'll be back next weekend. Think you can stand to be without me that long?”

“It'll be tough.” Actually, it would be; he'd miss her but he was busy and could understand her need to get away—stir-crazy probably didn't adequately capture it. And he and Simon could batch' it. What was a measly week when they'd have the rest of their lives? And she'd be safe—away from whatever seemed to hang over this investigation—hang over it and threaten them.

***

As much as he'd prefer to be following up leads connecting Chet Eckles to the rollover that almost killed him, Dan figured UL&C would rather be paying him for investigating the robbery. Would expect that to be his first order of business. He could do the other in his spare time. So he called each of the three numbers that Lawrence had given him linked to safe deposit box owners who had lost valuables, and made appointments to discuss their losses. All seemed older—he'd guessed correctly about the Palmer method of handwriting—one elderly man who lived with his wife; a second senior who lived with his daughter and her husband; and the last, a single man, the Peter Jenkins who put PhD behind his name. The appointments fell into place—all seemed willing to talk. Two appointments for that afternoon and Dr. Jenkins in the morning.

A car was almost overkill in a town of three or four hundred but Dan took some extra turns down Park Avenue, around the high school and over, coming back up Railroad before turning onto Romero Street—it felt so good to be behind the wheel. Like when he was fifteen and had a learner's permit and his parents would only let him go around the block by himself.

He made a right turn onto Romero…interestingly, Ernesto Romero lived on Romero. Must be a family link there. And in a town this size it probably meant a lot to get a street named after you.

Mrs. Romero met him at the door with a finger to her lips. “He's asleep. He always naps until one. I'm his wife.”

Dan glanced at his watch. He was five minutes early.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you, that sounds great.” He followed her to a small but immaculately neat kitchen that smelled of the cinnamon and sugar used to dust biscochitos and was warmed by a wood-burning stove.

“Would you like a cookie? These are my grandchildren's favorite.” She opened a round tin and set it on the table between them before sitting down. “I'm sorry. I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Rose.” She smiled and held out a hand. “Oh dear, the coffee.” She quickly got up, mixed two cups of instant coffee using water from a copper kettle on the stove. “Be careful, it's very hot.” Then she placed a small ceramic pitcher of milk on the table next to a matching sugar bowl and gave him a napkin and spoon.

Dan was saved any small talk by the appearance of a grizzled elderly Hispanic man, awake but seemingly grumpy. And yes, it was exactly one o'clock.

“I won't take up too much of your time—I appreciate your willingness to talk with me.” Dan stood up and offered his hand.

“Anything that will help us get our things back is not an imposition,” Mr. Romero sat down heavily, ignoring Dan's offer of a handshake. He spoke with a slight lisp caused by missing lower dentures. Rose placed a cup of coffee in front of him and then seemed to fade into the background.

“I hope I didn't mislead you. I'm representing Mrs. Gertrude Kennedy.” Dan put a company card on the table. “It's routine in matters like this to interview others who have had similar losses—losses under the same conditions, that is.”

“You saying you're not from the bank?”

“That's right. I represent a private party.”

“Well then, I don't think we have anything to say.” Ernesto Romero abruptly pushed back from the table, picked up his cup of coffee and left the room. The nap hadn't improved Mr. Romero's attitude, Dan noted.

“I'm so sorry. There's no excuse for bad manners. Let me walk you to your car. We can go out this way.” Rose motioned toward a door at the back of the kitchen. She slipped a shawl from a hook and wrapped it around her small frame.

They walked in silence along the side of the house before Rose offered any explanation.

“He's been ill. Not really himself.” She paused and Dan stopped to stand beside her. “I don't know if I should be telling you this.…”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

She looked at the ground for maybe a breath longer then, “I'm so worried. I don't want him to get into trouble.”

“I don't understand.”

“The things he said were taken? Well, I know for a fact that he sold his grandmother's pearls and the antique derringers last year. And the railroad watches? Well, there never were any. Mr. Mahoney, he's lying. I don't think anything of real value was taken from our box. We only kept the deed to the house in there and a cameo brooch from his grandmother. And we got those back. I didn't look, but I don't think there was anything else.”

“Were any items insured? I mean, maybe there were things you didn't know about. If he can prove that he lost—”

Rose shook her head. “No, not with a company like you're with. My husband thinks the bank will make good on any reported losses. But it's my understanding that they won't.”

“You're correct. The Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation or FDIC doesn't insure safe deposit boxes. It's possible that people with losses could file a class-action suit but I'm not aware that that's been done.”

“So, if I don't say anything and let this go, nothing bad will happen—I mean nothing because my husband's lying?”

“I would say that's correct.”

“Thank you for understanding.” A small hand placed on his arm, a pat, and then Rose was gone back around the house.

Dan sat in the Cherokee and finished his notes. Times were tough—especially out here. Rose and Ernesto were probably on a fixed income. Could he blame the old guy for trying to get a couple extra bucks? Not really. His next appointment was only three blocks away. A quick call to see if he could come early and he was off.

A young woman opened the door introducing herself as Emily. Her father was burning leaves in the backyard. She told Dan to go around the house, and she'd tell her father he was there.

Emily didn't seem overly hospitable but then this was an intrusion on a person's time. Even out here where things moved fairly slowly. The acrid smell of burning leaves assaulted his nose and eyes before he'd rounded the last corner. But there was the man he needed to talk with.

Miguel Sandoval wore a bandana tied firmly over his mouth and nose and, silhouetted against the fire, looked like some errant bandito from hell as he fed the flames.

“Mr. Sandoval?” A nod. “Is it possible to take a few minutes of your time?”

“You talk to Emily. She can help.” This said as he pulled up one side of the bandana before tugging it back down and turning to throw another box of leaves on the flames—cardboard box and all.

The smoke was getting to Dan and a spasm of coughing forced him to back away and retrace his steps to the front door. He knocked and waited. He was afraid no one would answer just as it opened. This time Emily didn't try to cover up her hostility when he handed her his card.

“You're not even from the freaking bank. So why do I have to talk to you?” The card landed at his feet.

“You don't. I'm hoping that you might share what you lost in the robbery. Every bit helps put together a picture of what was taken and maybe why.”

“You work for old lady Kennedy?”

“I represent Gertrude Kennedy, yes.”

“Well, you came to the wrong place if you expect me to help. We don't have no thousands in precious jewels…my mama's wedding set is gone and her sterling baby spoon—that's not even enough to make a claim over. So why don't you stick to bothering the rich and leave us alone?”

Before Dan could answer, the wail of a small child from somewhere within gave Emily an excuse to slam the door—even without the baby, she would have slammed the door in his face; he was pretty sure of that. For whatever reason, he was Mr. Unpopular. He took a deep breath and walked back to the car.

So, what did he have? A bogus robbery report and a hostile young woman who suggested her loss wasn't even worth reporting. And maybe it wasn't. The real question—had she lost anything? Could a wedding set and a silver baby spoon warrant paying for a safe deposit box month after month? Judging from the modest home, that would seem to be ill-spent extra money that might be better applied elsewhere. Odd. But then who was he to judge the sentimental value of something? He could only hope his meeting in the morning with Peter Jenkins, PhD, would be more fruitful.

***

He and Simon enjoyed a plate of bacon and eggs…one on the floor, one on the table. It didn't hurt to spoil a good friend every once in awhile. And, yes, he missed Elaine already. And not because he'd had to fix his own breakfast—he was used to that—he missed her presence. Rolling over in bed at night and throwing out an arm netted him air…the kind of emptiness that always startled him awake. But he wouldn't be alone for long.

They needed to have that conversation about permanence. And where they wanted to live…and if she would want to continue working…or did she even want to sell her house and move to a city? Baggage. Not the emotional stuff that could weigh a person down, but the concrete, real stuff…decisions that were a hundred times easier at twenty-something. Before the collecting began, of a life established before meeting the right person—because he had no doubt that she was the right one. But it wasn't going to be easy.

There was his apartment in Chicago—two bedrooms, living room, dining area—all completely furnished. There was her house in Roswell—three bedrooms, living room, office, game room, dining room—again, full of furniture. What do you do with two sets of dishes and two coffeepots? Let alone blenders and juicers and flatware?

And ten years from retirement, where did you live? That perfect fishing spot on the Chama or the Jemez in New Mexico? Or maybe just buy a cabin and spend weekends until…but she was younger…twenty years from retirement. It made his head hurt. Sometimes when he warned himself not to get his hopes too high, he'd run through this scenario. And try to face reality. And he'd always come back to admonishing himself not to let “things” like furniture get in the way of a life together. He didn't want to get dumped because of a La-Z-Boy. He could only hope that Elaine felt the same way. Besides he hadn't even asked her to marry him…yet.

Dan talked Simon into staying in the apartment by unwrapping a new chew—this one a beef-flavored former pig's ear, his favorite. Dan then topped up his water bowl, admonished Simon to “Be good” and he was out of there.

The drive out to Doctor Jenkins' ranch on a crisp fall day was at once relaxing and invigorating. Drying fall grasses, piercing blue skies, outcroppings of rock shimmering in the morning sun…the five miles flew by. Dan almost missed the tall, double-wide, black iron gate with carefully cut out silhouettes of prairie chickens across the arch. Prairie chickens? Actually, grouse might be the more correct word. But what a weird symbol for out here. He'd seen a lot of ranch gates with iron cutouts of cows and cowboys, the curved horns of Texas cattle, even brands were common, but never perfectly crafted tufted birds. He opened the gate, drove through, and shut it behind him.