A Discount for Death (13 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Carlos Guzman’s face appeared in front of Estelle’s as if he’d coalesced out of smoke. She shifted her head slightly so the pillow didn’t block her view but otherwise didn’t stir. His enormous eyes, about the color of semisweet chocolate, regarded her from out of a small round face that was just beginning to lose the indistinct lines of infancy.

“Teléfono, Mamá.”
He whispered the two words and leaned his chin on the edge of the bed.

She lifted her head, loath to move more than that. The hours had finally caught up with her, and she’d almost fallen asleep during an early dinner. She’d stretched out, intending to catnap for half an hour or so—three and a half hours ago.

“Grandmamá said you’re supposed to talk on the telephone,” Carlos said when he got no response, and Estelle shifted so she could see the phone on the nightstand. She had never heard it ring.

“Thanks,
hijo
, ” she murmured and reached for the receiver. The little boy remained motionless, watching. “Guzman,” she said, tucking the phone between her ear and the pillow.

“Estelle, Eddie. Catch you at a bad time?”

She captured her son’s spider-leg finger. With index hooked in index, she was surprised at the strength in that three-year-old finger. “No, it’s just fine,” she said into the phone. And if it weren’t, what difference would it make, she thought. The Posadas chief of police didn’t call to touch bases or engage in idle chitchat.

“We found Perry Kenderman’s truck,” Mitchell said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Found it where, Chief?”

“It’s parked in the student parking lot at the high school.” She frowned and unhooked her finger from her son’s, and he took a step back as she pushed herself upright. “You still there?”

“I’m here,” she said. “That’s an odd place.”

“Maybe so,” Mitchell said. “Or maybe not. He lives right across the way, there, and knows we’d be watching his apartment. Mix in with all the student vehicles and he might gain himself an hour or two. Maybe he thought we wouldn’t check.” He paused for a heartbeat. “And sure enough, we didn’t. Tom Pasquale found it.”

She glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost eight. “There shouldn’t be many vehicles there this time of day,” she said.

“Nope. But a few. Some kids still in the weight room, a few working in the science lab. There’s always something going on.”

“Any sign of him?”

“Nothing yet. If he left town, he didn’t take his truck. As far as I know, that’s the only vehicle he owns.”

Estelle ran her fingers through her hair. Carlos waved a silent good-bye and thumped out of the room. “Who’s working tonight for you, Eddie?”

“Me. I’d call my part-timer in, but he’s done something to his knee. I’ll be out and about. But I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Chief. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just walks into the office in another couple of hours. Give him long enough to think about it. He doesn’t have many options.”

“If he’s smart, that’s what he’ll do,” Mitchell said. “But he doesn’t have much of a batting average for smarts so far. Maybe he’s wrapped himself around a bottle somewhere.”

“He never impressed me as the drinking type,” Estelle said, and that prompted a short, barking laugh from the chief.

“What type’s that?” he said. “Anyway, in a town this small, he’s not going to hide for long. He’s done good just keeping out of sight for a few hours. I wanted to let you know about the truck.”

“Thanks.”

She hung up the receiver and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment with her eyes closed. Perry Kenderman was a puzzle, an unpredictable enigma. He’d chased Colette Parker, behaving like a hotheaded teenager. What had he planned to accomplish by that? He supposedly harbored a deep affection for the two children, yet he’d been unable to admit, let alone assert, his paternity. And what was he doing now? Sitting in the darkened corner of a bar somewhere, nursing his confusion and frustration? Hitchhiking to Wichita Falls? At the time, it had seemed reasonable to give Kenderman the benefit of the doubt, allowing him to remain free on his own recognizance during the initial investigation.

Estelle sighed, arose, and shook the wrinkles out of her blouse and slacks. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, walker at hand. She was frowning over a crossword puzzle in the newspaper but looked up when Estelle appeared.

“You slept quite a while,
hija
,” she said in Spanish. “This is a funny business. For weeks and weeks, the only excitement we hear about is the county budget. Now there aren’t enough hours in the day.”

“That’s true,
Mamá
,” Estelle said. “Ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the time, the county could make do with one deputy. That’s just the nature of things.”

“Well, you work too hard,
hija
.
Buena es culantro
…”

“…pero no tanto.”
Estelle finished the proverb for her, and Teresa nodded with approval.

“You remember that,” she said. “Too much of a good thing is no good,” she repeated.

“I do remember,
Mamá
, but sometimes I have no choice in the matter.”

“It’s almost bedtime, anyway.
Los Dos
are with their father, by the way.”

What had been a one-car garage off the living room had been converted into an office, sunken half a foot below the floor level of the rest of the house. The plastered walls could be glimpsed here and there through the vast sea of books and magazines. A pool table dominated the center of the room, but the cover hadn’t been off the velvet for months and was now weighted down with its own sea of books, magazines, and an odd assortment of children’s toys.

Dr. Francis Guzman sat at the computer with Carlos on his lap and five-year-old Francisco standing at one corner of the keyboard. Estelle could see that the computer’s huge, hi-tech screen was filled with a single photograph of herself—the same photo that Linda Real had taken for the department’s calendar, a Christmas gift to the dozen employees that each month featured a different employee caught in an appropriate moment of unawareness.

Estelle moved closer, her footsteps muffled by the carpet. The original photo had been striking, catching Estelle as she crawled out from under the sagging chassis of the Popes’ burned-out mobile home, her own camera slung around her neck. The photo didn’t show how disheveled and filthy she’d really been at the time. A single theatrical smudge adorned one side of her face as if applied by a Hollywood makeup artist.

She had just enough time to see that the photo was being morphed into something unrecognizable before Francisco, her oldest son, turned and saw her. He screeched and tried to cover the screen with both of his small hands. His father was quicker, hitting the closure X and sending the photo off into the ether.

“You can’t see,” Francisco said, allowing his father to pry his hands off the screen.

The physician pushed the chair back a bit and turned away from the computer. “Top secret project,” he said. He turned Carlos upside down and lowered him to the floor between his knees until the boy’s head touched the carpet before letting him go to complete the somersault by himself. “And time for bed for you guys,” he added and glanced up at Estelle. “Who was the call?”

“Chief Mitchell. They found Kenderman’s truck over in the high school student parking lot.”

“But he wasn’t in it?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t mess with that now, geek,” he said to Francisco, who was having a hard time tearing himself away from the keyboard. “We’ll work on it tomorrow.” He stood up and pushed the chair under the table. “You have to go out?”

“No. The chief just wanted me to know that they found the truck. That was all.”

“So what’s that mean?”

She bent down and stroked the top of Carlos’ head. “I’m not sure,” she said, but she saw that Francis had heard the hesitation in her reply.

“You don’t know what he’s going to do, do you.”

“What who’s going to do,
Mamá
?” Francisco asked.

“Bed time,
hijos
,” she said and ushered Carlos toward the door.

“You read to us?”

“Por supuesto, querido,”
she said. Francis leaned against the pool table, arms folded across his chest, and watched the two children race through the living room and vanish down the hallway.

“Alan said you had a puzzler with Enriquez.”

Estelle grimaced. “No puzzler. Someone shot him while he sat behind his desk in his office. We were supposed to think it was suicide.”

“I think he meant
los porqués, querida
.”

“We have lots of ‘whys’ still. We’re doing pretty well with the ‘whats.’ ”

She turned at the thumping of her mother’s walker. Teresa Reyes stopped halfway across the living room. “You want me to answer the door, or are you going to?”

Estelle looked puzzled. She stepped quickly into the living room. “I didn’t hear it,
Mamá
.”

“I mean the back door,” Teresa said. Estelle stopped in her tracks. The Guzmans’ back door opened to the yard, a yard made secure for the two boys by a four-foot chain-link fence. Because the fence was essentially the property boundary, and because the renovated garage-studio blocked the driveway’s route to the back of their lot, the backyard fence had no gates; entry to the yard was gained through the house.

“You heard someone at the back door,
Mamá
?” Her hand drifted down to her belt, where her cellular phone should have been.

Teresa nodded. “That’s what I just said.”

“Stay here,” Estelle said to her mother. In three strides, she reached the phone extension on the small table by the sofa. By the time she had stepped into the kitchen, the swing-shift dispatcher, Ernie Wheeler, had answered. “Ernie, this is Estelle. Hang on a minute.”

With a quick sweep of her hand, she turned off the kitchen lights and flicked on the switch for the outside light over the back door. Nothing happened, but this time she heard the knocking herself, four quick raps, just the way a neighbor might knock on an errand to borrow a cup of sugar.

“Who is it?” she said, just loud enough that she knew she’d be heard.

“I need to talk to you.”

Estelle froze, the only movement the telephone receiver as she brought it so close that the mouthpiece touched her lips. “Send a car to my house, Ernie. Kenderman’s here.”

Chapter Eighteen

The door to the backyard was closed and dead bolted. The small double Thermo Pane window panel had proved resistant to baseballs, rocks, or elbows. Although Estelle’s first thought was to jerk open the door, grab Kenderman by the neck, and slam him up against the house as she snapped cuffs on him, she knew that to open the door was inviting disaster. Kenderman was no lightweight adolescent. He could as easily be armed as not.

For the moment, her family was safe inside. Kenderman was locked outside and could stay there until burly assistance arrived. Deputy Tom Pasquale was on alone during the swing shift, and if he wasn’t at the far end of the county, he could be at the Twelfth Street address in a few minutes. Chief Mitchell was roaming the village, only seconds away.

Estelle backed away from the door and jumped with a start as she stepped on her husband’s foot. He held one of the sheriff’s department’s enormous flashlights.

“I need that,” Estelle said and nodded down the hall. “Stay out of the kitchen, and stay with the boys and
Mamá
in our bedroom.” Before he had a chance to reply, she darted ahead of him into the master bedroom and touched the code into the gun safe’s door release. The door sprang open and she pulled out the loaded automatic.

In the hallway, her husband loomed enormous in the dim aura of the night light. “How dare he come to my house,” Estelle hissed and pushed past Francis. Back in the kitchen, she stopped by the divider into the dining area. “Perry, are you still there?” she called.

“Look,” he said, and she could tell he was standing immediately in front of the door, “I need to talk to you.”

“Not here, you don’t. You want to talk to me, you come down to the sheriff’s office.”

“They’ll arrest me if I do that.”

“And I’ll arrest you here,” Estelle snapped. She took a deep breath and glanced behind her. Everyone in the house was safe. Francis hadn’t argued with her. Despite his size, agility, and tremendous strength, there was nothing to gain by changing the balance, nothing to be gained by some grandstand play that could as easily turn disastrous as not. If Kenderman forced his way through the door, he was dead. It was that simple. No negotiations, no heroics, no struggles.

The Beretta was heavy in her hand, one cartridge in the chamber and fourteen in the magazine. She snapped the safety off.

“You gotta tell ’em,” Kenderman said, and for the first time Estelle could hear the slur of alcohol in his speech.

“Back away, Perry.”

“You gotta tell ’em that what happened to Colette wasn’t my fault.”

It
was
your fault
, she almost said. “There’ll be plenty of time for everyone to tell their versions, Perry,” she said. A car drove by on the street, and she turned. It went by without slowing. “Come on, Thomas,” she breathed.

“You gotta tell ’em you were mistaken about hearin’ me chasin’ Colette.”

“I can’t do that, Perry. Now back away.”

A fist rattled the back door, and Estelle flinched backward. Her grip on the Beretta tightened.

“You’re the only one,” he said, and she could hear the tension in his voice. “They’ll do what you say.”

“This is just going to make things worse for you, Perry. Use your head.”

“You gotta listen to me.” His voice sounded closer, as if he’d thrust his face close to the crack between door and jamb. “If you go tellin’ ’em that I was chasin’ her, they’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”

Which might not be a bad thing
. “Back away from the door, Perry.”

For a moment, she heard nothing outside. “How long have you been out there, Perry?”

He said something unintelligible and struck the door again, the blow sounding like the flat of his hand, then silence. Almost simultaneously, two vehicles pulled up in front of the house from opposite directions.

“Perry, are you there?” She heard no response. In slow motion, she pushed the window curtain to one side with the body of the flashlight, pressed the lens against the glass to cut reflection, and turned it on. The beam lanced out across the yard. Perry Kenderman was gone. She swung the flashlight beam to each side.

At the front door, a familiar set of knuckles rapped a quick drum roll that she’d heard a thousand times. She crossed quickly to the door but hesitated.

“Padrino?”
she said.

“You okay?” Bill Gastner’s voice was gruff, muffled by the heavy front door. She pulled it open. He frowned when he saw the Beretta. “He still out there?”

“No, he’s gone.”

“Well, give ’em a minute.” He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “And put that away. You make me nervous.”

“I
am
nervous, sir.”

He grinned and spoke into a small handheld radio. “Chief, she says he’s gone. Give it a good look.” The radio barked twice by way of reply. “Tom’s going around on one side, Eddie’s on the other. If Kenderman’s still there, they should all meet in the middle.” He reached out and tapped the flashlight. “You got lights in this place?”

“I’m not in any hurry,” Estelle said.

“Just as well, I suppose. Wait until they give the all clear.”

“He sounded like he’s half looped,” Estelle said. She breathed a deep, shuddering sigh and glanced down at the automatic. “I can’t believe he came to my house.”

“Makes sense to me,” Gastner said. “You hold the keys to his cell, sweetheart. The chief and I were trying out some of Ernie’s coffee when you called. Scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I rode over here with him. Old Parnelli Pasquale was all the way south on Grande, just past the Interstate. He damn near beat us here.”

The radio crackled. “Estelle, you want to open the back door?”

Once again she drew the curtain, and this time saw the chief’s blocky figure on the back stoop. Another flashlight cut this way and that toward the back of the yard. She twisted the dead bolt and opened the door.

“Where was he?” Mitchell asked.

“Right where you’re standing. He sounded like he’d been drinking.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” the chief said. He thumped the solid door with the heel of his hand and nodded. He saw the automatic in Estelle’s hand. “Good thing he didn’t press the point.”

“Hey,” Pasquale said from across the yard. “Did you guys have a beer party?”

“Not likely,” Gastner replied before Estelle had a chance. He and Estelle stepped outside just as Francis Guzman’s tall, broad figure appeared in the kitchen.

“Stay here just a bit, Doc,” Mitchell said to him.

Toward the back of the lawn, just to one side of the old-fashioned swing set, were two wooden Adirondack chairs. On the gravel beside one were five beer cans, each one crumpled into a small ball.

“Jesus,” Mitchell said. He reached out and laid his hand on the chair’s slats. “He sat here a while,” he added. “Sat here and watched the house.”

“The guy’s gone fruitcake on us,” Pasquale said.

“He can’t get far,” Mitchell said, and turned to Estelle. “Best guess?”

“He must have walked over here from the school,” Pasquale said. “He left his truck there, thinking maybe it was a clever place to hide it. My bet is that’s where he’s headed. He’s got to have wheels.”

“What is that, nine blocks?”

“I’ll go around Bustos and down Pershing,” Pasquale said. “Cut around to the south, and we’ll have him in the middle.” Mitchell nodded. “You okay?”

“Sure,” Estelle said.

“You got any lights in this place?” Gastner had walked back to the kitchen door and stood with it half open.

She smiled. “Dark’s safer,” she said.

“Bill, you want to come with me, or…” Mitchell asked.

“I’m fine,” Gastner said. “They might have some decent coffee here.” The kitchen light came on behind them.

“One last check,” Pasquale said and headed for the fence. “I’ll pick up the cans on the way back.” He scissor-jumped it effortlessly and disappeared into the shadows beside the house.

Eddie Mitchell followed them into the kitchen and shook hands with Francis. “Sorry for the disturbance,” the chief said.

“It just sounded like he wanted to talk,” the physician said.

Mitchell shook his head slowly. “When a guy sits in a lawn chair in somebody’s backyard and watches ’em all evening…there’s a screw loose somewhere, Doc.” He turned to Estelle. “I’ll keep you posted.” He walked through the house, and as he opened the front door, an aging pickup truck pulled onto Twelfth Street. “Here’s the sheriff.” He flashed a grin at Estelle. “Old Perry’s getting the attention he wanted.”

“Maybe so,” Estelle said. She followed the chief down the front sidewalk as Sheriff Torrez swung the truck in a U-turn and pulled to a stop, tires scrubbing the curb.

“You guys all okay?”

“Fine…I guess.”

“You guess?”

Estelle took a deep breath. “He came to the back door, Bobby. He asked me not to testify against him.”

“Not testify? That’s likely.”

“He hit the door a couple of times. I don’t think he was trying to get in. Just an anger thing. The scary part is that earlier, while I was taking a nap, it looks like he was sitting out in one of our lawn chairs, just watching the house.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. That’s not the Perry Kenderman I know.”

“Evening, sir,” Torrez said, and Estelle turned to see Gastner’s rotund figure ambling down the sidewalk toward them from the house. The sheriff turned back to Estelle. “And he’s never been in a mess like this one, either.”

“Tom’s bagging the cans,” Gastner said.

“What cans are those?” Torrez asked.

“Perry’s party,” Gastner said. Torrez frowned, puzzled, and the older man shrugged. “What can I say.”

“Bobby, can we use your truck?” Estelle asked, and the question took the sheriff by surprise.

“Sure. For what?”

“I think I know where Perry’s going to go.”