A Discount for Death (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Bustos Avenue was a flat, lonely macadam desert. For the second time in six hours, Estelle Reyes-Guzman stood by her unmarked car in front of Kealey’s Kleaners. The gas station across the street was dark. In the distance, she could hear the bass mutter of a tractor-trailer on the interstate. Above her head, the streetlight transformer fizzed and hummed.

She waited, leaning against the open door of her car, cell phone in hand.

“Okay, I’m here,” Deputy Jackie Taber’s soft voice announced. “The Parkers’ house is just across the street.” The deputy was driving Kenderman’s patrol car. Eight blocks and the triangular wedge of Pershing Park separated Taber from the spot where Estelle’s unit was parked in front of Kealey’s—six tenths of a mile on the odometer. More than three thousand feet—ten football fields. Estelle closed her eyes, listening.

Two miles to the south, another tractor-trailer rode its Jake brake down the interstate exit ramp, a deep, guttural flutter of compressed exhaust that carried effortlessly on the still air.

“Wait a second,” Estelle said. She listened until the sound of the truck faded. “Okay. Keep the phone open. The street’s clear.”

“Yep. See you in a bit.”

Estelle slipped the phone into her jacket pocket and turned so that she was facing west, looking down the tunnel of widely spaced streetlights that was Bustos Avenue. She pictured the amber tail-lights of Maggie Archer’s Volvo, ambling away from her down the street. Off to the north, she heard the faint chirp of tires and a muffled, almost strangled, engine note that grew until the deputy backed off for the first corner.

The undersheriff found herself exhaling an imitation of the high, keening alto of the two-stroke motorcycle, pacing the speeding police car. At the same time, she watched Mrs. Archer’s phantom Volvo make its way down the street. For a second, no sound carried at all as Taber flogged the car through the neighborhood most distant from Estelle’s position, but then she heard the car turn south toward the bridge. Suddenly, even as Estelle’s eyes fixed on the intersection six blocks away, the village car appeared, flashing into the intersection nose down as Jackie Taber braked hard, stopping in the middle of Twelfth Street on the south side of Bustos.

Estelle realized that she had been holding her breath. She pulled the phone out of her pocket. “That’s it.”

“Do you want me to put the car back in impound?” Deputy Taber asked. Estelle watched as the village car backed out into Bustos and then drove toward her.

“Yes. I’ll meet you there.”

A few minutes later, after parking the patrol car in the locked bay of the county maintenance barn, Jackie Taber slid into the passenger seat of the undersheriff’s car. A faint wave of lavender accompanied her. A stout young woman, long enough in the military to have adopted a precise, economical habit of movement, she spun the key ring on her index finger.

“So,” she said.

“So. What a mess.”

“Tommy tells me that there are some holes in Perry Kenderman’s story.”

“Caverns is more like it. Kenderman is lying. It’s that simple. Colette Parker was running from him.”

“It could be that,” Jackie said.

“Statistics say it is,” Estelle replied, and the deputy grinned. “Colette’s mother said that Perry stopped by the house earlier and had an argument with Colette.” She held up an index finger. “Just a bit later, he chases her half way across town, drives her so hard that she makes a mistake and breaks her neck against the base of a utility pole. He’s so shook that he can’t bring himself to take a step toward her.” She held up a second finger, then bound the two together with her left hand. “I thought maybe there was a chance that it happened some other way.” She shook her head. “Hearing the patrol car again convinced me. I heard it right.”

“What do you want me to check tonight?”

“Nothing. Colette’s two little kids are with their grandmother. You might keep a close watch on their place. That and Kenderman’s apartment. Chief Mitchell said that he’s going to do the same. We want to make sure Perry stays put until we have time to sort all this out.”

Taber nodded. “You look beat.”

“I am. And irritated. I missed a birthday party for
Padrino
, for one thing. I have grand jury later this morning, and George Enriquez has gone missing just after he tells the district attorney that he’s got something on me that he’ll trade for immunity.”

Jackie leaned forward toward Estelle in astonishment. “No shit?”

“
Verdad
, no shit.”

“Mr. Enriquez has an active imagination,” Jackie said. “What’s the ‘gone missing’ part?”

“I don’t know. His wife hasn’t seen him since early Monday morning, when he said that he was going down to his office. I was going to swing by the house and talk to her on my way home.”

“You want some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t swing by. Just go home. Get some rest. There’s nothing you can do about him at three o’clock in the morning. Don’t worry about him now. Nail him later in grand jury.” She unlatched the door and swung herself out of the car. “He’s desperate, Estelle. That’s all.”

“That’s what’s kind of scary, Jackie. He’s not the kind of guy who has a whole lot of practice being desperate. The same thing goes for Perry Kenderman. We’ve got two of a kind, Jackie.”

“At least that’s what we
think
,” the deputy said. She touched the brim of her Stetson and started to close the door.

“And thanks for the demo,” Estelle said.

“Any time,” Jackie grinned. “Tommy Pasquale is going to be irritated if he doesn’t get the opportunity to shave some time off my record.”

Estelle laughed. “He crashed a village car at the bridge once before. I’d hate to have to explain a repeat performance to Chief Mitchell.”

Despite Jackie Taber’s suggestion, Estelle did drive through the quiet neighborhoods of Posadas until she paused in front of 419 Mimbres Drive. The well-kept house was dark, with both garage doors down, handles locked horizontal. A single porch light burned above the front door, and Estelle grimaced. She knew that inside the house, Connie Enriquez was probably lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what had happened to her husband and her world—and hoping that come the wee hours of the morning, George Enriquez would show up under the porch light with nothing worse than the smell of alcohol on his breath.

Chapter Eight

In 1952, after pouring an eight-block series of concrete slabs along North Third Street as the start of a housing development for copper miners’ families, the developer—in an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity—had planted a row of elm trees along the new curb. Somehow, the tree roots had burrowed their way down to adequate water, and while the houses along Third remained scrubby and minimal, the elms flourished.

The lot at 709 Third Street was blessed with two gigantic trees that straddled the tiny, square residence.

Estelle stopped the unmarked county car and looked up the short gravel driveway. A dilapidated blue Ford Courier pickup truck was parked behind a tiny imported sedan whose make Estelle didn’t immediately recognize.

She reached for the mike, then changed her mind, digging out the small cellular phone instead. Brent Sutherland, the dispatcher at the sheriff’s office, answered as if his hand had been poised over the receiver, waiting for the first call since the sun had cracked the horizon.

“Good morning. Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Sutherland.”

“You sound cheerful this morning,” Estelle said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sutherland replied brightly and then, as if reading out of one of his beloved self-motivational books, added, “After all, this is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

And I wonder if that sunny thought crossed Perry Kenderman’s mind when he got up today
, Estelle thought. “Yes, it is. Do you have time to run a couple of plates for me?”

“You bet,” Sutherland said. “Fire away.”

“The first one is New Mexico Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln.” While Sutherland repeated the number, Estelle idled the car ahead a few feet so that she could see the license on the little import. “The second is New Mexico One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike.”

“Ten four. It’ll be just a minute.”

She settled back in the seat, phone resting lightly on her shoulder. The pickup lacked a tailgate, the left taillight assembly, and the back bumper. What looked like an aluminum ramp lay in the back, the sort of thing a bike owner would use to load a motorcycle up into the truck’s sagging bed. The little truck’s right rear tire was soft, adding to the derelict tilt of the aging suspension.

In less than a minute, Sutherland’s smooth, efficient voice was back on the phone. “Ma’am, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln should appear on a blue nineteen seventy-seven Ford Courier pickup truck registered to a Richard Charles Kenderman, two four four De La Mar, Las Cruces. Negative twenty-nine.”

Estelle frowned.
Richard Charles
, she thought. “Do you know him?”

“Sure don’t,” Brent said. “But he’s got to be related to Perry. Not that many Kendermans around these parts.”

“See what you can track down, will you? What’s the other tag?”

“One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike should appear on a white nineteen ninety-four Nissan registered to a Barbara Cole Parker, seven oh nine Third Street, Posadas. No wants or warrants.”

“Thanks. I’ll be out of the car for a while at that address, Brent.”

“Okay. And before you go, I have a note here from the sheriff to remind you of your appointment at zero nine hundred.”

Estelle glanced at the dash clock. In two hours and three minutes, the Posadas County Grand Jury would convene to decide the fate of insurance agent George Enriquez—on the first day of the rest of
his
life.

“I’ll be there. Thanks, Brent.” Across the street, a truck started up with a plume of blue smoke, then backed out of a driveway and headed south. From the first house north of the Parkers’, a small, ratty dog trotted out to stand in the street, watching the truck depart. After a moment, the animal turned, glanced at Estelle’s car, and sauntered back onto the brick path that connected house to sidewalk.

When the undersheriff got out of her car, the dog stopped and regarded her, tail a motionless flag at half-mast. Then the ears dropped, the tail flicked, and the dog approached, nose close to the ground.

Estelle stopped on the sidewalk and let the little animal sniff the cuffs of her slacks.

“You know exactly what happened last night, don’t you,” Estelle said. The little dog jumped sideways at the sound of her voice, ears pricked and tail wagging. With no head-scratch forthcoming, the animal turned to pursue interests elsewhere.

Estelle walked up beside the pickup. It was unlocked, the keys in the ignition. The ashtray yawned open, full to overflowing with cigarette butts. A light film of dust coated the dashboard, the perfect canvas for a welter of finger- and handprints and smudges. A hole gaped in the narrow dashboard where the radio had been.

The driver’s door was only partially closed, and Estelle lifted the latch. The rich, cloying fragrance of burned hemp wafted out. “Party time,” Estelle murmured and nudged the door shut. She walked forward past the truck and glanced at the sedan. Other than a cardboard carton that had once held canning jars and now might be home to any number of things, the inside of the Nissan was clean.

As she stepped to the front door of the house, Estelle paused to survey the neighborhood. Little boxy houses nested in small yards with occasional chain-link fences and shaggy, unkempt elms as yet untouched by breezes. At 6:57 that morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Inside the Parker house, she heard a child’s voice, then an adult’s, low-pitched and gentle.

Barbara Parker might have drifted off to sleep after the brutal evening the day before, after cops had left and well-meaning neighbors had gone home, after the children were settled. Perhaps she’d jarred awake at dawn, then forced herself to slip into her daughter’s bedroom to see if the girl was still lying there innocently asleep, the whole incident nothing more than the mother’s personal nightmare.

Taking a deep breath, Estelle rapped on the door.

“Just a minute!” a voice called, and Estelle heard the conversation continuing as footsteps approached the front door. It opened, but the woman’s back was turned momentarily as she said, “Make sure you put the top on Mindi’s,” and then she turned her attention to the visitor. “Hello,” she said. Maybe thirty-eight, maybe fifty-five, it was impossible to tell. The woman’s eyes were bloodshot, the black circles under them accentuated by the prematurely wrinkled skin of a heavy smoker. An inch or so shorter than Estelle’s five feet seven inches, she was fine-boned and so thin that her faded jeans molded over the projections of her hip bones.

“Good morning,” Estelle said. “Mrs. Parker?”

“Yes.” The woman’s tone was neutral, carrying no particular greeting or curiosity.

“I’m Estelle Guzman with the sheriff’s department. I’m sorry to bother you so early.”

The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched. “With two little kids, this is just about mid-morning. What did you need?”

“I need to talk with you for a few minutes, Mrs. Parker.”

“I think I know you, don’t I? You’re a social worker or something with the department.”

“I’m Undersheriff Guzman. I’m investigating your daughter’s death, Mrs. Parker.”

“I talked to the officers last night.” She said it without petulance and opened the door. She beckoned Estelle inside. “You don’t look like you got much more sleep than I did.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “The kiddos are having some breakfast, so you’ll have to put up with that.”

Estelle smiled. “I’m used to it. I have two of my own.”

Barbara Parker shot a quick glance at Estelle as she walked toward the kitchen. “I tell you, without these two little poppets, I don’t think the sun would have bothered to come up this morning.”

A little boy with wheat-colored hair that had been buzzed uniformly close to his skull was kneeling precariously on his chair, holding a quart milk carton with both hands, and using the milk carton for balance. In a high-chair with its back to the kitchen sink sat a sober little girl. She looked at her grandmother, then at Estelle, then at the bright blue plastic cup between her tiny hands.

“This is Ryan,” Barbara Parker said, watching the boy’s maneuvers with the carton. She snapped the cover on the little girl’s plastic cup and then took the carton of milk from Ryan and set it on the table. Freed of the challenge of the milk carton, Ryan scrambled down out of his chair. “He’s four. And this is Mindi. She was two in August, weren’t you, sweetheart.” Ryan approached Estelle, his broad face puckered into a frown. Estelle sank to one knee so the two of them were eye to eye. She held out a hand. As she did so, her jacket drew away enough that the boy saw the gold badge clipped to her belt.

“How come you got that?” he asked. He allowed Estelle to take his hand.

“Because I’m a police officer,” she said.

“Oh.”

“My name’s Estelle, Ryan.”

“Okay.” He nodded, and Estelle released his hand. He didn’t move away but reached out and smoothed a wrinkled picture that had been magnet-tacked to the refrigerator door. The crayon sketch showed a huge, glowering sun. The four letters of Ryan’s name stretched across the blue yard in front of a red house. “There was two policemans here.” He reached up and placed a hand against the side of his face. “The lady looked funny.”

“She had an accident a long time ago, Ryan.”

“Like mommy?”

Estelle nodded. “Sort of like that.”

“Mommy died.”

“Yes.”

“Did that lady?”

“No, she didn’t die.” She glanced up to see Barbara Parker gathering Mindi out of the high-chair. Ryan reached out and touched the dark arc of Estelle’s right eyebrow, the light tentative touch of the artist trying to fix a shape, a texture, a color in his mind.

“You got funny eyebrows,” he said.

“I think so, too,” Estelle agreed.

“He’s a young man who says exactly what’s on his mind,” the boy’s grandmother said.

“I’m familiar with that,” Estelle said, and pushed herself to her feet. Ryan backed off, scrubbing his back along the smooth surface of the refrigerator door.

“Let’s sit,” Barbara said. She edged one of the kitchen chairs out with her toe, then sat down with Mindi in her lap. The child seemed content with her plastic, lidded cup. Ryan walked a wide circle around Estelle and clambered back into his chair.

“I got this,” he said and hoisted the cereal box.

“Just keep ’em in the bowl, sport,” Barbara Parker said.

“I understand that you’re a counselor at the schools?”

Barbara nodded. “Of a sort. I’m the district’s occupational therapist. I work with kids all day long, all ages, all makes and models,” she said. “But I’m lost right now, I can tell you.”

“It’s not easy,” Estelle said.

The woman shook her head and tears welled to the surface once again. “Oh, boy,” she said and reached behind her to the box of tissues on the kitchen counter. Mindi rested her head back against her grandmother’s shoulder and regarded Estelle solemnly. Both hands remained locked on the plastic cup. Estelle smiled at the child but saw no response behind the brown eyes. Ryan picked up a spoon and began a methodical thumping on the edge of his plastic cereal bowl. Sugar-coated cereal pellets about the size and shape of rabbit droppings scattered across the table. He seemed in no hurry to drench the mound with milk.

“Mrs. Parker, who is Richard Kenderman?” Estelle asked.

“That’s my dad,” Ryan said loudly, spoon heaped with cereal. He shoved the sugar bombs into his mouth. More scattered on the table. Estelle watched him with interest. Barbara Parker dabbed her eyes, then reached across the small table, opened the milk carton again, and poured a flood over Ryan’s cereal. “Rick and Colette lived together for a few months some time ago,” she said, and shrugged helplessly.

“He’s Perry’s brother?”

She nodded. “Rick’s the younger of the two. And they’re as different as night and day, let me tell you,” Barbara Parker said. “Come on,” she said to Ryan. “Don’t make such a mess. You’re showing off.”

The boy made a face and tossed the spoon on the table. One of the cereal droppings flicked across the table onto Estelle’s lap. Ryan watched it go, then slipped down out of his chair.

“You want to see my new car?”

“Sure.”

“Ryan, you go drive it into the living room, and we’ll be right in,” his grandmother said. “One of those remote things,” she added as Ryan scampered off. She sighed. “We’ve got about thirty seconds of peace and quiet now.”

Estelle smiled in sympathy. “Tell me about Richard Kenderman.”

“He’s a heller, and I just hate it when he shows up, Sheriff,” Barbara said. “He and Colette lived together up until she started to show with Mindi. Then we didn’t see much of him for quite a while—a couple years or so. And then, a few weeks ago, he started coming by again.” She nuzzled the side of the little girl’s head. The child didn’t respond. “She’s got more than her share of developmental troubles, too.” Estelle saw that Mindi’s facial expression was more slack than uninterested.

“And Ryan is…”

“Ryan is from their first go-around, when C…Colette was still in high school.” She grimaced and glanced at Estelle, a flush rising on her cheeks. “I think.”

“And Perry?”

“Perry has a heart of gold, Sheriff. He and his brother don’t see eye to eye on much of anything, but Perry’s got a soft spot for Colette. Nothing pushy…just tries to be around when there’s trouble. And…” she shuddered a deep sigh. “Lord, I hate to say it, but Colette treats him like dirt. Borrows money from him, doesn’t pay it back, gets him to sit the kids…oh, you name it.” She leaned forward toward Estelle. “He’s just a decent, good guy. And you know…” she hesitated and dabbed her eyes again. “There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Ryan and Mindi. I think he loves ’em like they were his own. That’s more than I can say for their father.”

“What happened last night, Mrs. Parker?”

The woman didn’t reply immediately. She helped Mindi manage the cup, and the child’s eyes closed as she sucked on the plastic rim. “For the past six months or so…” and Barbara stopped. She shook her head, refusing to meet Estelle’s gaze. “Colette was doing so well. She’d moved in here, getting herself out of that little hole-in-the-wall apartment she had over behind the school. I didn’t mind.” She shrugged. “I was happy for the company.” Mindi’s face wrinkled up, and her grandmother removed the cup. “She started working at the deli, regular hours. The kids are even enjoying day care.”