Come Dark (15 page)

“The school got its money's worth.”

“Oh,” and her laugh was strained, “I'll say.”

“I've seen bits of last night's game video, Coach, but I'd like to watch some parts again with you. Maybe you can talk me through it. Volleyball isn't my game. Will you take a few moments to do that?”

Marilee Avila rose with an effort. “Of course.” Her enthusiasm was underwhelming. “The lieutenant has the DVD.”

They moved to the conference room, where Mears knelt in front of the laptop, taking notes on the settings.

“Showtime?”

“Yes.” Estelle turned to Marilee as the coach settled into one of the conference chairs. “Who filmed for you last night?”

“Jim Kelly films all the games, Sheriff. He's a senior this year, and we'll sure miss him next season. Back in the day, we didn't even film volleyball, but we don't miss a game now. Part of the reason is that Jimbo and Martha are like this,” and she linked two fingers.

“Martha?”

“Martha Grier. You'll see her in the film.
Statuesque
might be a good word for her. She's just shy of six feet, but I swear she could slam dunk a basketball. She doesn't jump. She
soars.
”

The game coverage caught the action filmed from the top row of the bleachers, and Kelly was obviously a practiced hand. His transitions were smooth, and he clearly understood the game. He had a narrative flair, Estelle noticed, making use of the camera's capabilities for quick zooms. Each server dominated the frame at the instant of ball contact, and then the camera tracked the ball without jerks or miscues. As long as it was in play, the ball never left the screen.

Between actions, Kelly focused on individual teammate expressions, or once in a while caught an interesting spectator moment. If a player pumped a fist in exaltation, the camera zoomed in to catch the portrait in solo frame. If a girl walked with head down, hands on hips, in frustration at the rare missed shot, she received her few seconds of solo video time. The coaches also were featured with rich personality shots—moments of tense apprehension, moments of confab with players, moments of irritation with the line officials. If Kelly was infatuated with Martha Grier, he kept his
amour
under control. She appeared in the action when it was logical that she do so.

“In all my glory,” Coach Avila said when her own face filled the screen. Kelly had left his perch high in the bleachers to move the camera down courtside. Coach Avila was nose-to-nose with one of the players, the conversation intense.

And then the camera's eye drifted to the stands to catch Coach Scott explaining something to newspaper publisher Frank Dayan, the scene Estelle had watched several times. This time, she turned just enough that she could study Coach Avila's face. A slight narrowing of the eyes would have been caught by a poker pro. Without being prompted, Mears froze the tape.

“Coach, is this the first and only game that Ms. Stewart attended?”

After a slight pause, Avila said, “Ah, no. She's a regular. I think she played when she was in high school.”

“Does she always sit with Coach Scott?”

“No. Usually in the same general section of the stands, I guess. But what…intimate like this? I guess I hadn't noticed. But I
did
notice last night.”

“Did the two women leave the game together? Dana Gabaldon and Stacie?”

“I can't tell you that.” She tried to smiled. “When I'm in my game mode, that's about all I notice.”

“They stayed for the whole game, though?”

“No. In fact I did see that they were gone well before the end. I didn't actually see them leave. I mean, I had other things to pay attention to. I guess Mr. Dayan was getting an interview with Coach Scott, because he stayed until the bitter end. The Channel Nine crew did too.”

Estelle watched as Coach Clint Scott rose from the bleachers, sure enough a large man, one who moved with grace and assurance. He stood beside Avila for a moment, she petite beside him, and then he beckoned several benched players over. Estelle watched as he forced eye contact with each athlete, head bent forward, hands in front of his face drawing pictures in the air. As he finished, he gestured with the power fist in the traditional “go team” exhortation. Then, hands thrust in his pockets, he ambled back to his seat, a quip bringing a smile to newspaperman Frank Dayan's face.

“Fast forward and see if there's coverage that shows the moment Stacie leaves.”

But cameraman Jim Kelly had missed that opportunity. A sweep of the stands showed the two women in place, hands high over their heads clapping in unison with the crowd. A few minutes and a few points later, a fleeting shot recorded them already gone.

Estelle turned back to Marilee Avila as Mears zipped the images back to Coach Scott attended by the two young women. “Was Scott having an affair with Stacie Stewart?”

Avila stared at the screen, now frozen with Stacie Stewart's elbow resting on Scott's shoulder. She slowly shook her head. “I honestly…I mean I
honestly
do not know, Sheriff.” She shrugged helplessly. “I mean, you know how rumors work.”

“I wish that I did.”

“No, really. Sure, we
hear
things. She was gone from Posadas for a long time, working somewhere over in Texas, I think. And then she's back, and marries Mr. Stewart, over at the bank. I've never seen
him
at a game, but what does that mean?”

“She could have been having an affair with Coach Scott, then.”

Avila held out both hands toward the frozen image. “What you see is what you see. Make of it what you want. I know they appear to be casual friends in that game disc. That's all.”

Many scenarios jammed their way into Estelle's mind. Stacie had left the game either after the final shot, or during the final seconds. The scoring outcome was never in doubt, so it made sense to leave before the rush. The crowd, perhaps two hundred people,
was
immense by volleyball standards.

Later, leaving husband, baby, and puppy dog at home, did she come back to the locker room? And there the void. What was certain was that Stacie Stewart had inexplicably vanished the next day, leaving daughter and puppy in a sweltering Volvo…just a short time before Barry Lavin discovered Clint Scott's body.

Without explanation to Coach Avila, Estelle rose abruptly and left the small conference room. She headed for the hallway, taking a detour to the side exit. Once outside, she breathed in the heat of late afternoon deeply, and shut her eyes, letting the peace and quiet of the public safety building's modest interior courtyard settle her nerves and slow her pulse.

Deputy Tom Pasquale had reported that when Stacie Stewart saw him in The Spree parking lot, she had “twiddled” her fingers at him in recognition. The deputy didn't recall that the young woman had actually
smiled
at him. Maybe by then, she had nothing to smile about.

“Estelle?”

She turned to see Mears holding the door open. He stepped out into the courtyard and let the door close behind him.

“Three things, LT,” Estelle said. “Three things that might talk to us about motive…before any more time passes. Number one, we need a search of Scott's house. Top to bottom. I wish I could say what I'm looking for, but I can't. And ditto Stacie Stewart's effects. Todd Stewart isn't going to like us rummaging through his wife's possessions, and he might not let you do it without a warrant, but then he has no choice. Can I leave you with both of those?”

“Sure. You said three things.”

“Dana Gabaldon. I haven't been able to connect on the phone. Let's try it in person. I have to know what she has to say.”

Chapter Twenty

Even as she passed The Spree
,
Estelle saw the wink of emergency lights ahead on Grande, just on the town side of the interstate off-ramp of the interstate, directly across from the Posadas Inn. As she neared, she first saw Sergeant Taber's blocky form walking back toward the passenger side of her department Expedition, both the officer and her vehicle incredibly bulky compared to the lithe Corvette that the deputy had stopped.

Out of reflex, Estelle glanced at the dash clock—5:22 p.m. Where the day had gone, the undersheriff wasn't sure, but she
was
sure that Sergeant Taber was taking on an extra shift, back-to-back.

The Corvette's highly polished maroon paint winked under the sun. The car sat so low it was hard to imagine how the driver slipped it on—sleek as an evening gown. As Estelle cruised by, the Corvette's driver had raised the power window, and with the tinted glass and chancy light, it was impossible to tell if it held one occupant or two.

Jackie Taber raised two fingers in salute as Estelle drove by, and seconds later, the undersheriff's phone awoke, the sergeant's voice amplified by the car's sound system.

“You heading out for a while?”

“Just a quick run to Cruces to find Dana Gabaldon. Nice catch you have there.”

“Pretty nifty. She rolled the stop sign just as I cruised by. I'm not sure now that I shouldn't have just let her go. I mean, it's not like there aren't other things to keep me busy right now.”

“Speaking of which,” Estelle said, “I have a favor to ask. LT has the game footage, and I'd like you and Pasquale to watch it, start to finish. Stacie Stewart is one of the stars in one short section, but we need to know what else there might be of interest.”

“You got it. I sense pizza time.”

“Tom and Linda might appreciate that. Give Linda a hug for me. Bobby and LT are going to talk the judge out of a warrant to go through Stacie's papers. And they've got Scott's house covered. I'm headed to talk with Dana, so if you'd find time to survey the game film…”

“You bet. I'll get on it as soon as I finish up with these kids here. I'll give 'em one of my special stern warnings. Won't take a minute.”

“The slippery slope can start with a rolled stop sign,” Estelle quipped.

Taber let out an odd little laugh. “The driver just turned eighteen years old, with what appears to be a valid Kansas license. The car is registered in her name, with a valid temp tag in the window, registered to a Miss Angela Trevino out of Ridgeway, Kansas. And she's the happy driver, although both she and her passenger are nervous as cats just now. Does the name ring any bells?”

“No.” Estelle had braked hard under the interstate overpass to access the eastbound ramp, and now the Charger accelerated hard up toward the interstate. ”Who is she?”

“She says that she's a student at Leister Conservatory in Missouri. There's no student parking permit affixed to the corner of that fancy new windshield, but a little place like Leister might not have student parking, anyway. So
that
jibes. And, I might add, Miss Angela is a really, really beautiful young lady.”

Estelle's foot had lifted off the gas at mention of Leister, and she let the Charger drift over to the right-hand shoulder of the interstate as she fought to force her heart back into place.

“What are you telling me, Jackie?”

“Her escort is a fifteen-year-old student at the same school.” Sergeant Jackie Taber rarely had difficulty being blunt, but she clearly hesitated this time. “Your son is with her, Estelle.”

The Charger had been rolling slowly along the shoulder, and now jarred as she slammed on the brakes. Sergeant Jackie Taber let the silence ride as Estelle tried to fumble the right words. The undersheriff remained speechless.

“Francisco says that they drove over for your mother's birthday celebration tomorrow night, and he also said something about a church service Sunday morning?”

The church service was one of Teresa's requests, a simple mass of thanksgiving at the Iglesia de Tres Santos,
the little mission in the tiny Mexican village just south of the border where Teresa Reyes had lived for seventy-five years. The “birthday celebration” was, at Teresa's demand, just a quiet family dinner.

“They're headed for Twelfth Street right now. Do you want to talk with them before I turn 'em loose?”

“Of course…I mean no, I don't. I'll…Jackie, you're not joking with me…?” Estelle knew that was silly the moment she said it.

“Nooooo.”

“It's my
son
in the car?” That sounded dumb, too, but Estelle could think of nothing else.

“Francisco Guzman, age fifteen, with a school ID card that shows his home address as 112 South Twelfth Street, Posadas, New Mexico.”

“
Ay.
Look…I…no. I don't know what I want to do. I need to talk to my husband before I say all the wrong things.”
Por Dios,
Estelle thought.
This is impossible.

“You going on to Cruces, then?”

“I really need to, Jackie. I mean, with what you're telling me, right now it's the last thing I want to do, but I
have
to. But…
ay,
ignorance was bliss.”

Taber's chuckle was low and quiet. “You want me to impound the car, put Miss Trevino in one of the women's detention cells, and send this Francisco character back to Leister on the next bus out of town?”

Estelle's groan was closer to a whimper. “Are you one hundred percent sure that it's Francisco?”
What a stupid question
, she almost added. Sometimes it seemed easier to face ten armed felons than a single, willful child.

“I can't imagine that there are two Franciscos in the world, my dear. He greeted me by name in his usual polite fashion. I think I blushed. He's a doll.”

“How can Leister…?” Estelle stopped. The academy's stiff behavioral policies surely didn't allow underage students to roam around the countryside with teenaged girls, unchaperoned in powerful sports cars. “Jackie, I don't know what to do. For now, just make sure they make it safely to the house. That'll give me some time.”

“I figure if they drove all the way from Kansas, they can manage a few more blocks. Your mom's going to be thrilled, though, huh?”

“Yes, she is.” Estelle let it go at that, still unable to reconcile the conflicting emotions. A big, heartfelt hug first, and then kick Francisco's butt down the road for about a mile. And the girl? This Angela Trevino? What,
who
was she? A fellow musician, obviously. Estelle knew she could hardly expect her fifteen-year-old son to live in a cloister until he reached thirty-five. But at
fifteen,
driving across the country with an eighteen-year-old more-than-companion, in an eye-catching sports car with all the temptations of speed and…

She shook her head violently, trying to clear the images. “And I'm serious about the escort all the way to Twelfth Street, Jackie.” The calm side of her brain scoffed. What, the kids, just successful at driving from Kansas, were not going to be able to make it across the small village without incident?

“Lights and siren all the way.” Taber's droll humor read the undersheriff's mental anguish just right.

“Please, no. But I'll be back as quickly as I can.” She thrust the Charger in gear and pulled onto the interstate, not even noticing that the powerful car scorched burnouts for impressive yardage. In another moment, she had Leister Conservatory on the phone. The operator had a soothing contralto when she asked how the call might be directed, but Estelle was in no mood to be soothed.

“Dean Baylor's office, please. Or his cell phone.”

“Just one moment.”

The moment was only seconds, but felt as if it had lasted an hour. At last, the dean's secretary, Lucy Delfino, came on the line, sounding a little out of breath.

“Ms. Delfino, this is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman over in Posadas, New Mexico.”

Before she could continue, Delfino chirped with delight. “And how are
you
?
My gosh, I haven't seen you since Chelwood Commons! If you'd called five minutes later, I would have missed you! We're all in kind of an uproar at the moment. We were just on our way to dinner, and then on to a student recital. It's just a lovely evening. I hope your day is going well?”

Estelle almost burst out laughing.
I won't mind so much when he's fifty-two and she's fifty-five. But fifteen and eighteen?
Instead, she took a deep breath. She had no desire to discuss previous concert venues, even though the Chelwood Commons concert off Chicago's Lakeshore Drive had been a marvelous, cherished experience. And her day
hadn't
been up there on the perfect-day charts. Her fingers clutched the steering wheel so hard they left dents in the leather. “Ms. Delfino, I need to speak with Dean Baylor.”

“Now, Dean Baylor is on leave for health matters, Sheriff. We're expecting him back in March or April, if all goes well. But Dr. Gunnar Peterson has taken over as acting-dean, and he's in his office right now. That's what I meant when I said we were in an uproar.” Lucy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “At least I think he's in his office. This is his second day on the job, so he's working late. We all are. Would you care to speak with him?”

“I would. And please forward my best wishes to Dean Baylor.”

“I will do that. Just one moment.”

The voice that came on the line was brisk, carrying a heavy Scandinavian accent. Peterson ended each phrase with a curious upward rush, as if preparing the conductor's baton for the following, decisive downstroke.

“Yes? This is Dr. Peterson. And how may I help you today?”

“Doctor, this is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman from Posadas, New Mexico. My son is one of your students. Francisco Guzman? He's one of the senior…”

“Francisco!” Peterson blurted. “My word, yes. Young Master Guzman. I had the honor of teaching Francisco in advanced theory last semester. My word, what a talent. What a
scholar.
And what an honor to talk with you. It's sheriff, is it?”

“Undersheriff, yes. And thank you. I'm curious if you know where Francisco is at the moment.”

“Of course we do. And by the way, his recital last week? It was magnificent. He and another student—Miss Angela Trevino? I will tell you this…I have never seen two, ah, two
souls
who can join in musical flight the way those two have.”

It's the “souls joined” that concerns me,
she wanted to say
. One surprise after another.
“I'm thrilled to hear that, Dr. Peterson. That's in part why I'd like to talk with him. With Francisco.”

“Yes. Well, of course. Let me ask Ms. Delfino about the young man's schedule.”

“And of course he's not there,” Estelle said aloud, but apparently Dr. Peterson had already shifted the phone away from his ear.

In a moment, his lilting voice came back on the line. “Mr. and Mrs. Trevino, those would be Angela's parents, came to school and picked up their daughter, and, it seems, your son, for a very special family observance. It seems that both Angela and her maternal great-grandmother celebrate their birthday anniversaries on the same date.”

None of which puts the two kids shooting a stop sign at an interstate exit ramp in New Mexico, driving a fresh-off-the-showroom-floor Corvette,
Estelle thought.

“I have to add, Sheriff Guzman, that we had something of an upheaval here with Dean Baylor's unexpected illness. I'm not sure we would have interfered with genuine family plans of this nature in any case, but I understand your concern. Now, this might put your mind at ease somewhat. Dr. Trevino, that is Angela's mother, is provost at Castleton State, near their home in Emporia. There was to be a brief recital arranged at Castleton just this past Wednesday night, and I confess it was a somewhat private affair—it's not on our usual conservatory calendar of events, so it was not posted in the conservatory newsletter. Provost Trevino arranged the whole thing, but just for the family and friends. Small and intimate, she told us.”

“I'm delighted.” Estelle's tone suggested that she was anything but. She computed hours. A Wednesday night recital…and now here they were, late Friday afternoon, almost evening. From Castleton, Kansas. The 'Vette hadn't been loafing at fifty-five, and Francisco had no driver's license. That didn't concern Estelle so much as where the kids might have spent Wednesday and Thursday nights. Maybe they cruised straight through, chaste in their deep bucket seats.

“It's been a hectic summer schedule for the students, and sometimes a little time away from such concentrated studies can pay huge dividends. I'm sure Francisco mentioned the
two
recitals? So special.”

“I'm sure.” She braked hard, waiting for a moving van to negotiate its way around a sagging pickup loaded with bales of hay and pulling a stock trailer loaded with at least four saddled horses, their muzzles savoring the air rushing past. The moment the moving van was safely back in lane, she pushed the Charger hard. “And no, he didn't mention them.”

“Well, the one for Miss Trevino's great-grandmother, and then this next weekend for Francisco's own grandmother's one hundredth?”

“Of course.”

“Because neither was, or is, a school function, travel arrangements were made by Provost Trevino.”

“They certainly were.” Estelle's jaw muscles ached. “Dr. Peterson, thank you. I'll get back to you.” She switched off before he had a chance to reply.

Her own thoughts swirled, and she forced herself to relax, even letting the speed drift back to a sedate ninety.

“My son has his own life,” she said aloud, then shook her head and replied, “Not at age fifteen, he doesn't.” For the rest of the drive to Las Cruces, she debated with herself, trying to imagine what her husband would say, what
Oso
would think. Of all the scenarios she had imagined as a parent, this was not on the list. Her fingers drifted to the auto-dial several times. Dr. Francis Guzman's calm serenity was but an electronic connection away. Still, she hesitated. If he was working, cell phone interruptions, especially of this nature, were anathema. If he was home, the fancy Corvette would be now parked at the curb in front of their Twelfth Street home, and he'd be greeting the road-weary kids, enjoying the surprise.