A Discount for Death (25 page)

“I want Ryan back,” Barbara Parker said.

“I’ll ask you again.” Estelle pulled the microcassette recorder from her pocket and deftly punched the tiny controls. “And Mrs. Parker, my tape recorder is turned on now. Think before you answer.” She hesitated, letting the phone fall silent. “Did Richard Kenderman take Ryan Parker from your home against your will?”

After the barest hesitation, Barbara Parker replied, “Yes, Undersheriff, he did.”

“Did you try to restrain him in any way?”

“I don’t see how I could. The more we talked, I could see that he was getting angrier.”

“He threatened you?”

“Well, not in so many words, but his meaning was clear. He was determined to take Ryan.”

“Was he driving the old red Mustang?”

“Yes, I believe that he was.”

“I’ll be back to you,” Estelle said, and flicked off the phone and then the tape recorder. She stood silently for a long time. “What a mess.”

“What’s this character want with the boy?” Francis asked. “I gather that paternity is an issue?”

Estelle nodded. “And I don’t know what Kenderman wants. I don’t know what’s wrong with Barbara Parker that she can’t seem to stand up to this kid. All I know is that the whole thing scares me to death. All I see is lose–lose.”

“You can put Ryan with the state’s protective services division for forty-eight hours,” Francis said.

“I know that. And that’s exactly what I
would
do if I was holding his hot little hand in mine right now. But that’s not the case.” She flipped the drug I.D. book closed. “Right now, we’ve got a four-year-old riding on the interstate in an old hot rod driven by a drunk. And it goes downhill from there.”

“What do you want to do about all this?” He watched as she folded the small plastic evidence bags and slipped them into her pocket.

With the heavy book under one arm, she turned toward the door. “They’re going to have to wait,” she said. “Can I drop you off at
Padrino
’s?”

“I’ll walk over,” Francis said. “Don’t worry about me. But you be careful with this guy.”

“Right now, it’s Richard Kenderman who needs to hear that. And what I know about him scares me,
Oso
. Listening isn’t his strong suit.”

Chapter Thirty-four

The county car nosed down against the hard pull of its brakes, then swung right onto Grande, followed by an almost immediate sweeping turn onto the eastbound entrance ramp of the interstate. If Barbara Parker’s “ten minutes” was accurate, Kenderman would have a substantial lead, even if he wasn’t pressing the speed limit.

“Posadas, three ten.” Estelle waited for dispatcher Ernie Wheeler’s foot to find the transmit remote.

“Three ten, Posadas.”

“I need a BOLO on a 1968 Mustang, color red, license Ida Mary Boy Adam David. Operator is Richard Kenderman. One passenger, a four-year-old male. Ten eighty-five. Make sure the state police out of Deming understand the situation.”

“Ten four.”

A second voice broke in. “Three ten, three oh six.”

“Go ahead, three oh six.”

“Three ten, I’m parked on Alamo Drive, looking across Grande at the parking lot of Portillo’s. The vehicle in question is parked there. The driver is out of the car and inside the store.”

Estelle glanced in the mirror, stabbed the brakes, and dove the car across the rough center median of the interstate. With a howl of tires, the Ford leaped back up onto the pavement and headed back toward Posadas. “Three oh six, can you tell if the little boy is still in the vehicle?”

“Affirmative. I can see the kid. He’s standing on the front seat.”

“Box the car in and take the child into custody. Keep the subject away from him and don’t leave him unattended. ETA one minute.”

“Ten four.”

The unmarked car swept down the exit ramp from the interstate, and Estelle looked far ahead down Grande Avenue. The wide, four-lane street that formed the north-south arterial through Posadas was deserted. A mile ahead, Alamo Street, a tiny alleyway behind the hardware store, provided a diagonal view of the Portillo’s convenience-store parking lot, a popular hangout that was one of Deputy Thomas Pasquale’s favorite hunting grounds.

As she passed the intersection of Grande and McArthur, Estelle saw Pasquale’s unit far in the distance, the glint of streetlights off its broad, white roof as he eased across Grande and into Portillo’s parking lot.

“Posadas, three oh six is ten six Portillo’s.”

Estelle’s radio barked again, this time the voice of Chief Eddie Mitchell. “Three, ten, P.D. 1 copies. I’m north of the hospital. ETA about a minute.”

“Posadas, three oh six, ten seventy, ten twenty-six.” Deputy Pasquale’s voice was calm despite the code for crime in progress and the request that responding officers not use lights and siren. Estelle’s pulse leaped. “He’s after more than Twinkies,” Pasquale added.

Estelle leaned forward, trying to will the last half mile away. “Tom, I want the boy out of that car.”

“Ten four. I’ve got him. Kenderman saw me. He’s going out the back of the store.”

Estelle stood on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, lunging the county car into Rincon Avenue, the narrow lane south of Portillo’s. She had a brief glimpse of Deputy Pasquale bundling little Ryan Parker out of the Mustang. “Don’t leave the boy alone, Tom,” she snapped, and then tossed the mike on the seat.

Traveling too fast when it hit the gravel of the lane between Portillo’s and the
Posadas Register
building, the unmarked car slid sideways and smacked into the concrete-block wall hard enough to thump Estelle’s head against the driver’s side window. She mashed the accelerator, and the car shot forward toward the intersection of Rincon and the alley behind the buildings.

Richard Kenderman had dodged out of the store’s back door and turned right. He appeared at a full sprint just as Estelle’s car slid into the alley. Unable to stop, he crashed into the front fender of her car. He catapulted across the hood, arms flailing, white T-shirt bright in the glare of headlights.

Estelle jammed the gearshift into Park and threw her weight against the crumpled door. It groaned open enough that she could slide out. With flashlight in one hand and Beretta in the other, she darted to the front fender.

Richard Kenderman had managed to land face first on the broken asphalt of the alley, and he staggered to his feet. Blood ran into his right eye, and when he raised his right hand to wipe the blood away, Estelle saw the gouge in the muscle of his forearm. He backed up awkwardly until he could lean on the concrete-block wall. He turned at the sound of Chief Mitchell’s patrol car as it nosed into the other end of the alley, then looked up the alley in the opposite direction, beyond Estelle.

“Don’t make things worse for yourself, Richard,” Estelle said as she advanced around the mangled fender of her car. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”

Kenderman slumped a little lower against the wall, arms against his sides. He blinked hard. “What?” he panted. “You’re going to shoot me, or what?” His eyes flicked to Eddie Mitchell. The chief was using his own squad car for cover, advancing along the wall. Mitchell’s left hand rested on his holstered service automatic.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” Estelle repeated, but even as she said it, she saw the motion of Kenderman’s right hand, a slight curling of the wrist toward the tail of his T-shirt. Kenderman’s body blocked the movement from Mitchell’s view.

As soon as she saw the hand move, Estelle flicked off the Beretta’s safety, and her right index finger curled into the trigger guard. Her wrist locked.

“Don’t,” she barked, but somewhere deep in his mind, Richard Kenderman had made all of his decisions. Drunk as he was and shaken from his fall, he still managed to slide the heavy revolver out of the waistband at the small of his back, out from under his T-shirt. The weapon swept up and out, the threat directed toward Mitchell. As Estelle’s index finger began the long zip of the Beretta’s heavy double-action trigger stroke, the chief’s figure to her right moved in a blur. The Beretta bucked back and Kenderman twisted right as the 9-mm slug smacked into his upper arm three inches below the shoulder, yanking the gun to the side. An instant later, two shatteringly loud explosions came as one, and Kenderman spun back against the wall. The handgun skittered away. Estelle froze, the Beretta’s trigger a twitch from release.

The young man’s hands flexed against the cold blocks as he settled down on his knees, face against the wall. One of the two .45 rounds from Mitchell’s automatic had exited high on his back to the left of his spine. In seconds, bright arterial blood soaked his T-shirt to the waist. One hand drew back as if the wall were hot to the touch at the same time as a long, rattling gurgle escaped his throat. He coughed hard, and as she moved cautiously toward him, Estelle saw bright blood splatter the wall. His body sagged even as Estelle kicked the revolver further out of his reach, and knelt beside him.

His eyes were closed, and he had stopped breathing.

Behind her, she heard the chief order an ambulance. “Come on,
hijo
,” she whispered. She gently rested two fingers on the side of his neck as she holstered her automatic. His pulse was thready and weak, and then skipped several beats, to pick up again with a surge, miss again, and stop. A deep sigh bubbled up through his blood-choked windpipe.

She heard Mitchell behind her, and off to the left, the back door of Portillo’s was yanked open. “He’s gone,” she said to the chief. She pulled Kenderman’s right shoulder away from the wall to make sure that his hands were empty. She could feel the grating of the shattered upper arm bone. The two rounds from the chief’s weapon had struck an inch apart, two inches below the juncture of sternum and clavicles.

Mitchell knelt down and examined the revolver without touching it.

“You guys all right?” Tom Pasquale was breathing hard, handgun held high.

“It’s over,” Estelle said. She turned to glance up at the deputy. “Where’s the boy?”

“He’s okay,” Pasquale said. His face was pale.

“All right. Don’t leave him alone in your unit,
Tomás
. And while you’re at it, put the call in for Bobby and Dr. Perrone.”

“And Schroeder,” Mitchell muttered. He stood up, the revolver still lying at his feet. “This kid wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. He had three rounds in the gun, none of ’em under the hammer.”

“That’s not the first mistake Richard Kenderman ever made,” Estelle said. She stood up and reached out a hand to take Pasquale’s sleeve as he turned away. “And you might as well stay here, Tom. I’ll take the boy home.” Pasquale handed her the keys to his unit.

“What was he up to inside?” Mitchell asked.

“The clerk said Kenderman threatened him, took a swing at him, and then reached across the counter and riffled the cash register.”

“Kenderman threatened the clerk with the gun?”

“I don’t know,” Pasquale said. “I haven’t had time to ask.”

Mitchell turned and gazed at Estelle for a moment, then turned and shook his head in disgust. “You didn’t see a weapon when you looked through the front window?” he asked the deputy.

“No, sir.”

“Where the hell did he think he was going to go?”

“He wasn’t thinking at all,” Estelle said.

“Three ten, Posadas. Ten four?”

Estelle’s hand drifted down to the radio on her belt. The sheriff’s department was a handful of blocks east, and if Ernie Wheeler had a window cracked, he probably would have heard the gunshots.

“Posadas, three ten is ten six. Ten sixty-three alley behind Portillo’s. One adult male. Contact Perrone and Sheriff Torrez.” She started to lower the small radio. “And cancel the BOLO.”

The radio fell silent for the count of four, and then Wheeler’s subdued voice replied, “Ten four, three ten.”

Estelle pulled the small cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed Barbara Parker’s number as she walked back toward the convenience-store parking lot. If he was very lucky, little Ryan Parker wouldn’t understand what the loud noises had meant as they echoed from the alley behind the convenience store.

The phone rang nearly a dozen times before Barbara Parker answered it, her voice small and tremulous.

“Mrs. Parker, this is Undersheriff Guzman. I have Ryan with me. I’ll be bringing him home in just a few minutes.”

“Oh…” the woman sighed. “Thank you, Sheriff. Thank you so much.” She hesitated. “I hope that Richard understood.”

“No, ma’am, he didn’t understand,” Estelle replied, and broke the connection. In the distance, she heard sirens, one of them from the direction of Sheriff Bobby Torrez’s home on McArthur, another from far to the west, where Sgt. Tom Mears had been working traffic on State Route 78. As she walked across the lot toward the Expedition, she saw that Ryan was standing on the back seat, peering through the side window. With the security screen between front and back seats, the child looked like a small, caged animal.

As Estelle approached, he backed away from the window and sat down on the seat, both hands clasped tightly between his legs. She opened the door.

She extended her hand toward the child. His eyes were wide and frightened. “Come on, Ryan. You don’t want to ride back there.”

He didn’t move, but both hands came up and cupped under his chin, his tiny, thin arms tight against his chest as if warding off a ripping, cold wind. In that moment, Estelle knew that Ryan Parker realized exactly what had happened. She gathered him up off the seat and felt the shaking through his tiny frame.

Chapter Thirty-five

“Posadas, three ten.” Estelle made a notation in her log as she waited for dispatcher Ernie Wheeler to respond. Ryan Parker sat silently, a blanket wrapped around his tiny shoulders, shaking so hard that his teeth chattered.

“Go ahead, three ten.”

“Three ten will be ten six at seven oh nine Third Street. Ten five, one juvenile that location.”

“Ten four, three ten,” Wheeler replied. “And three ten, ten twenty-one 4570 when you have the chance.” Estelle recognized Bill Gastner’s home phone number. She glanced at her passenger. The little boy had focused his attention first on the complexities of the child-restraint system that held him securely in the front passenger seat—the same device that drove five-year-old Francisco Guzman wild when he was forced to use it—and then had stared wide-eyed at the array of unimaginable things that filled the front-seat compartment of the patrol car.

“You talk f-f-f-funny,” he stuttered soberly. Estelle could hear his teeth chattering.

“Yes, we do,” she said, and tried to smile. The number jabber on a police radio had been the source of more than one stand-up comedian’s routine.

“My daddy’s car is fast,” he said matter-of-factly, and squirmed against the straps of his seat. “Are we going back to grandma’s now?”

“Yes, we are, Ryan.” She found the cell phone and selected the speed dial for former Sheriff Bill Gastner’s home. He answered on the second ring, and she could picture him standing in the kitchen while he watched a fresh pot of coffee brewing. “Gastner.”

“Hey, there,” she said. “It’s me.”

“Hey, you,” Gastner said. His gruff tone softened a little. “You okay?”

“I’m all right,” she said. “I’m taking a small passenger home right now. After that, it’s going to be a long night. Things didn’t go well.”

“If you need me for anything, you holler, all right?”

“Thanks,
Padrino
. ” She knew the former Posadas County sheriff hadn’t called to commiserate. “Is Francis still there?”

“Oh, yes. He and I were up to no good, I’m happy to report. You got thirty seconds?”

“Sir, I need to take Ryan home and then get back to the scene.” She lowered her voice. “I fired one of the shots, so there’s going to be a lot of questions.”

“Shit,” Gastner said. “You shouldn’t be leaving there now, then. And this’ll give you something else to think about, sweetheart. This is what comes of leaving two delinquents to their own devices,” Gastner said. “Here’s Francis. Give him a couple of seconds to fill you in. You need to know about this.”

Before she could protest, Dr. Francis Guzman came on the line. “
Querida
? Is the boy all right?”

She glanced at Ryan again. “Yes. I’m taking him home.”

“Thank God for that, at least. We heard all the sirens.”

“It didn’t go well,
Oso
. I’m going to be a while.” Francis Guzman read the tone of her voice correctly.

“You have Kenderman in custody, or…”

“I’m afraid it was ‘or,’
Oso
. ” She glanced at Ryan. He didn’t appear to be listening, but she lowered her voice a bit anyway and turned away. “He pointed a weapon at the chief.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yes.” She slowed the large vehicle to a walk as she turned left at the end of Pershing Park. “I’ll talk to you later about it. But it’s going to be late,
Oso
. The D.A. isn’t going to want to wait until morning.” After the boy was safely home, she would spend hours in the alley until every scrap of evidence involved in the shooting of Richard Kenderman was recorded, photographed, and collected. The rest of her night would be filled with the ceremonial paperwork that would make Richard Kenderman’s death an official statistic: reports, depositions, and not the least of all, answers to District Attorney Dan Schroeder’s questions. Francis Guzman knew the drill.

She paused at the Stop sign at Third and Pershing. “What have you and
Padrino
been up to? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“And I almost wish I hadn’t looked,” Francis said.

“Looked where?”

“We were standing in Bill’s kitchen, and you can see the clinic parking lot from the window over the sink. That’s where I’m standing now. Anyway, about thirty minutes after you dropped me off here, I saw Louis’ Mustang pull in, along with another vehicle.”

For a fraction of a second, Estelle almost asked, “Louis
who
,” before the mental gears meshed. Her taste testing on the flavor of counterfeit Daprodin seemed an episode during some other lifetime.

“Start over,” she said.

“Louis Herrera showed up at the pharmacy,” Francis repeated. “Not that that’s unusual. Then the other car arrived, and we got curious.”

Estelle slowed the car in front of Barbara Parker’s home. “
Oso
, I’m just pulling into Parker’s now. I’m going to have to go.”

“Sorry,
querida
. I’ll cut to the chase. It was Owen Frieberg. It was too far away for us to see who it was, but we got lucky with the license.”

“Ay,” she sighed. “It’s not possible to see a license plate in the clinic parking lot from Bill’s house, either,
Oso
. ”

“True. We kinda went on over there. Discreetly, so to speak.”

“Uh huh.
Los dos Osos
. ” She could picture the two bears sneaking through the bushes.

“And then after about fifteen minutes, Frieberg…I guess it was him, we couldn’t tell for sure…Frieberg came out carrying a bunch of stuff. Three guesses what it probably was.”

She stopped the car. “Give me about ten minutes,
Oso
. Don’t go anywhere. And tell
Padrino
not to go anywhere, either.”

“We’ll be here,
querida
.”

“While you’re waiting, give Irma a call, okay? Make sure the kids haven’t…” She drifted off, realizing that Carlos and Francisco were no match for their nanny, Irma Sedillos, even on her worst day.

“I did that,” Francis said. “Everything is fine.”

“Ten minutes, then.” She saw Barbara Parker’s front door open. “Love you,
Oso
.” Ryan scrambled to climb out of the harness as his grandmother approached the car. “There you go,
hijo
,” Estelle said as she popped the last buckle restraining the youngster. She reached across and pulled the door handle to turn the small hurricane loose. His grandmother staggered backward at the rush of the little boy into her arms, and Estelle remained in the car to give Barbara Parker a few moments’ privacy with her grandson. She took the opportunity to finish her log notations and stowed the clipboard.
Everything boiled down to numbers and notations
, she thought wearily.

Mrs. Parker untangled her hug with the boy and scooted him toward the house, and Estelle got out of the car. The woman turned toward her, and Estelle clearly read the anguish on her face.

“What did Richard say?” she asked.

“Mrs. Parker,” Estelle said, and she stepped close to the woman and lowered her voice, “Richard Kenderman was apprehended at Portillo’s, but we don’t have the full story about what happened there. He left Ryan in the car when he went inside. There is reason to believe we interrupted a robbery in progress. When we arrived, he fled out the back of the store.” She paused as she saw the tears welling up in Mrs. Parker’s eyes. “He didn’t want to talk with us, Mrs. Parker. When we attempted to take him into custody, he pulled a weapon and pointed it at Chief Mitchell.”

“Those sirens I heard…”

Estelle nodded. “Mrs. Parker, the district attorney will want to talk with you later tomorrow morning. Sergeant Tom Mears from our department will probably be over later tonight. He’ll need a deposition from you.”

“And you’ll charge Richard?”

Estelle frowned. She looked at Barbara Parker for a long moment, trying to imagine what the woman’s thought processes might be.

“No ma’am. Richard Kenderman is dead.”

Mrs. Parker’s hands drifted together palm to palm as if ready for prayer, and she pressed her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. “Oh…”

“I’m sorry,” Estelle said.

Barbara Parker’s eyes remained tightly closed as she shook her head repeatedly. Finally the oscillation stopped, but her eyes remained closed. “And Perry?”

“I don’t know yet how that will turn out. Perry is in custody. The district attorney is pressing charges against him. That’s all I can tell you.”

“If I’d…” the woman started, and bit it off with another shake of her head.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing
, Estelle thought, but she remained silent. Mrs. Parker turned toward the house, hands still pressed to her lips. “I need to be with Ryan,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Estelle said. “You certainly do.” Mrs. Parker heard the clipped edge in the undersheriff’s tone and grimaced. “And Mrs. Parker, if establishing paternity for Ryan is important to you, then you need to contact Judge Hobart first thing in the morning for a court order. Once the body is buried or cremated, there isn’t much that can be done.”

The woman looked as if she’d been stabbed with a fork. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “Would it be possible for you…”

Estelle shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t, ma’am. That’s something that
you
need to do, Mrs. Parker. Regardless of how we feel at the moment, someday it might be important to Ryan and Mindi to know. Right now, that’s
your
job.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Parker said. Her shoulders slumped.

“We all are, ma’am,” Estelle said. She nodded toward the house. “Ryan’s going to need a lot of attention.”

“Will you keep me posted about Perry?”

Estelle took a deep breath, forcing herself to say exactly the right thing. “No, Mrs. Parker, I won’t. You know exactly where Perry Kenderman is. You’re free to visit him at the county lockup during regular visiting hours any time you wish. If you want a blood test to establish whether or not he’s Ryan’s father, feel free to ask him to comply. If he refuses, then your next avenue is Judge Hobart.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Barbara Parker hesitated as she glanced toward her house. “He could go to prison, couldn’t he.”

“Yes, ma’am. He could.”

Barbara Parker nodded and gazed off toward the house. “Okay,” she said, and turned to Estelle with a tight, painful smile. “Thank you.”

“Expect either Sergeant Mears or one of the other officers later this evening,” Estelle said. “I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as the car door slammed, she keyed the mike and cleared with Dispatch, her thoughts already back in the dark alley behind Portillo’s.

“Three ten, ten twenty-one Sheriff Torrez,” Ernie Wheeler said.

She acknowledged and switched from radio to telephone, pushing the car back into Park. The sheriff was difficult enough to hear under the best of circumstances, but this time his voice was soft and delivered one notch above a whisper.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir. Ryan’s home and safe. I just left there.”

“Good enough. We’ve got a convention going on over here. Schroeder will be here in a few minutes,” the sheriff said. “You’re on your way back over?”

“In a bit. Can you give me some time?”

“Time for what? The place you need to be is right here.”

“I know that, Bobby, but I just talked to Francis,” she said. “I left him at Bill’s earlier when we went after Kenderman. He says that both Frieberg and Herrera are up to something at the pharmacy. We need to know what’s going on.”

“Great timing.”

“We need to move on that, Bobby. Tonight.”

A long silence followed. “Look, Estelle…Schroeder’s going to have some questions. I got a few of my own. In the first place, any number of people could have taken the kid home. You shouldn’t have left here to do that. You’re one of the principals in this.”

“I understand that, sir,” Estelle said, making an effort to keep her voice even. “But what’s going on at that pharmacy is somehow related to George Enriquez’s murder. There are a number of people who can give you an accurate version of what happened with Richard Kenderman. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get back to you. If there’s something urgent, you’ll be able to reach me.”

“Just a second.” She heard the phone muffled and voices in the background. “You keep the phone handy,” Torrez said when he came back on the line. “Don’t be goin’ Lone Ranger on us. Taber’s comin’ in early to give us some coverage on the road, so you can use her. We’ll clean up the mess here. If Schroeder needs to talk with you right away, I’ll let you know. I don’t think there’s too much question about what happened. The store clerk looked out the back door just as the first of the shots was fired.” Torrez hesitated. “For once everyone agrees. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, sir.”
All right was relative, of course
, she thought.

“Okay. Don’t be goin’ without the cavalry. And stay in touch.”

The drive from Barbara Parker’s home on Third Street south to Bill Gastner’s rambling adobe on Escondido, where Francis Guzman waited, was no more than two miles. During those four minutes, Estelle tried to push the Parker family out of her mind. She knew that she could spend fruitless hours wondering and worrying about Ryan and Mindi’s care…about Barbara Parker’s various failings as a guardian, about what Perry Kenderman’s next move might be should he ever be able to post bond.

She also knew, despite the powerful tugs of affection she felt for the children caught in the middle, that the family’s various troubles were none of her business until laws were broken. There was nothing in the statutes that prevented a guardian from doing all the wrong things.

To force the crumpled, bloody figure of Richard Kenderman from swimming back into focus, she concentrated on the mistakes made by George Enriquez—and the mistakes made by the person who had murdered him.