Come Dark (3 page)

In a moment, Estancia repeated the electronic computer news. “No wants or warrants,” he radioed. Just a plate borrowed off someone's pickup truck, the theft—if that's what it was—not yet noticed. Pasquale pondered that for a few moments.

“PCS, three zero four.”

“Go ahead, three zero four.”

“PCS, find me the phone number for the sheriff's department that serves that area in Illinois.” Silence followed. Had Estancia fallen asleep? Or had he expected the deputy to explain
how
to find the number?

In a moment, his tentative “Ten four, three zero four,” followed. “Be a minute.”

Pasquale settled back to wait. If the plate was stolen, the Illinois SO would know. There were all kinds of possibilities. He didn't have long to ponder that before his cell phone interrupted, jarring the peace and quiet with a ringtone that mimicked a Harley Davidson motorcycle revving and then accelerating away.

“What you got?” The three unadorned words announced Sheriff Robert Torrez, and his voice was hard to hear, little more than a hoarse whisper. The call surprised Pasquale, since it was possible to work for days—maybe even weeks—without any indication that Torrez inhabited the same planet. And the big man wouldn't show much interest in a license plate stolen out of Illinois.

Chapter Three

“Sir, we have a new gray Ford Fusion sedan in The Spree parking lot, and it looks to be carrying an Illinois plate originally tagged to an Illinois pickup truck.”

“You talked to the driver?”

“Negative, sir. I would guess he—or she, or they—are inside the store.”

“Huh.” Just bubbling enthusiasm, but Pasquale knew Sheriff Torrez would sound the same way if the impending end of the world were announced.

“Negative twenty-eight, though. Maybe he just borrowed the plate off the truck for a few days for the trip.”

“Check him out anyway. Pay attention.”

“Ten four.”
Pay attention? Was I not?
Pasquale thought. During his now-ten years total employ with first the now-defunct Posadas Police Department and then with the Sheriff's Department, the thirty-two-year-old Pasquale had managed enough bone-headed escapades to warrant a sharp supervisor's eye, but he'd also managed more than a handful of truly spectacular apprehensions—including one that had put him in the hospital with a bullet through the hip.

Apparently it took a long time to earn Sheriff Robert Torrez' unqualified respect. The man still treated Thomas Pasquale as if the deputy were a fresh sixteen-year-old. Pasquale took comfort in realizing that Robert Torrez treated most people that way.

The sheriff had terminated the phone call with nothing more to say, and Pasquale keyed the mike.

“Three zero four is ten six Spree, reference Illinois two zero baker, two seven five. You have that information for me?”

“Ten four, three oh four.” Estancia transmitted the phone number for the Cathay County Sheriff's Department, repeating it twice. “And be advised we have a complaint of an infant locked in a vehicle, that location. The sheriff is responding.”

In the radio background, Pasquale could hear voices, which meant that dispatcher Estancia was still holding down the transmit bar. “Sheriff Torrez is heading that way, three oh four,” the dispatcher repeated.

“Ten four.” He surveyed the parking lot, seeing only a handful of customers in transit to their vehicles, or in the act of loading purchases. Out on the sidewalk of Grande Avenue, a gaggle of half a dozen middle-school-aged kids moved southward, toward The Spree
.

Simultaneously, the motorcycle ringtone inside Pasquale's cell phone roared again. Robert Torrez' voice was
still
unexcited and a near-whisper.

“Stay away from the car. I'm just around the corner. Be there in a minute. Go to channel three.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pasquale settled back and took a deep breath. With just the hint of possible action, his pulse had come awake. He switched the radio to the car-to-car frequency where there were fewer police-monitoring freaks, then gripped the steering wheel with both hands and pushed hard, squaring his shoulders. Through painful experience, he knew that his best course of action was to do exactly as the sheriff requested.

Before he had time to dwell on the “what ifs,” he saw the sheriff's rolling wreckage, his long-of-tooth Chevy pickup, burble into the parking lot from the north side. The thirty-year-old truck, with its sun-bleached paint and large spots of gray primer, was the perfect undercover unit—had ninety percent of the county's population not been well aware of the veteran vehicle. At the same time, three people left The Spree
,
heading in three different directions.

Across the lot, close to where he'd first seen Stacie Willis Stewart, an elderly woman stood by the open trunk of her Toyota sedan, frowning at her own cell phone. The Ace 1 Plumbing and Heating utility truck had left, leaving a slot between the woman's Toyota and Stacie Stewart's Volvo.

“Where's the Illinois car?” the sheriff's disembodied voice murmured from the radio.

“Third row, dead ahead. About halfway down toward me.”

“Got it.” His pickup truck idled down the row, and he regarded the Fusion with no particular display of interest. In a moment, he pulled up window-to-window with Pasquale's unit.

“Look, do you know Helen Barber?”

“Sure I do.” Pasquale pointed. “She's standing right over there by her car. The Toyota with the open trunk.” On numerous occasions long ago, the now-elderly and retired elementary schoolteacher had swatted then-second-grader Thomas Pasquale, had even shaken him until his teeth rattled. She bore him no grudge, but was certainly pleased to see him advance to third grade, yet another child in a long line of hyper, attention-deficit-disordered youngsters who needed to be outside raising hell, rather than cooped up indoors.

His truck already rolling, Torrez said, “She's the one who reported the abandoned child. I got an ambulance comin', just in case. Stay put here. If the folks show up at the Fusion, just detain 'em for a little bit until you get the answers.”

“Sir, that Volvo…the blue station wagon right by Ms. Barber's Yote-tote? That's Stacie Stewart's. I saw her go into the store a little bit ago.”

“We'll see,” Torrez said. At the same moment, the flashing lights of one of the EMT units appeared, and as he kept watch for the owners of the Fusion, Pasquale glanced toward the action now and then, surprised to see the sheriff's pickup truck and the ambulance stop directly behind Stacie Willis Stewart's Volvo, partially obscured by other vehicles.

Did Stacie Stewart have a child? Pasquale couldn't remember, but why wouldn't she? A little dog yapped incessantly, and now Pasquale could see it leaping up and down in frantic excitement, locked along with the infant in the Volvo station wagon, seeing danger with all the strangers gathering around the car.

The brilliant sun could turn the insides of a closed car into a suffocating oven in minutes. Stacie Stewart had to know that. If she had hustled into The Spree for just a moment, she was long overdue back outside. And why not just carry the child in with her?

Pasquale knew that Sheriff Robert Torrez would pop a window without hesitation, either with a slim-jimmy for the door lock or, if necessary, with a swat with his window tool. He wouldn't wait for the owners.

A teenaged shopper exited The Spree carrying a single plastic bag. He walked across the parking lot toward Pershing Street, rubbernecking the commotion around the ambulance as he went.

Torrez, Miss Barber, and two EMTs clustered around the Volvo. Miss Barber held up a folded newspaper to shield the parchment skin of her face from the beating sun, then transferred the spot of shade to a target in the Volvo. Pasquale's radio squelched again.

“You saw Stacie Stewart go into the store?” the sheriff radioed.

“Yes, sir. Not too long ago. Just a few minutes.”

“Go in and get her. We ain't waitin'.”

“I'm on it.” Pasquale lunged out of the Expedition and jogged along the sidewalk, past the displays of wheelbarrows and barbecue grills. Once inside, it was impossible to see more than a portion of a couple of aisles at once, and Pasquale strode toward the office complex on the west end of the store where a narrow stairway accessed the upper floor and the closed-in observation deck.

“Hey, stud.” Tilda Gabaldon hadn't inherited height from the sheriff's side of the family, but Sheriff Bob Torrez' cousin looked as if throwing cartons full of stock around the storeroom would be no problem. She favored Tom Pasquale with a brilliant smile, highlighted by just a wink of gold. Tilda had been headed down the stairs toward the floor, and Pasquale paused. “Whatcha need, Thomas?”

“I gotta find Stacie Stewart. She came in the store just a few minutes ago. Like maybe ten?”

“Come on up.” Tilda turned with Pasquale following, and in a moment they entered the long, narrow room with deeply tinted, slanted windows looking down on the store. A row of computer screens on the back wall showed the various views of the store's security cameras. “What's she wearing?”

“White,” the deputy said. “White blouse, white slacks.”

Tilda laughed playfully. “Like you'd notice, right?”

“I'm a trained observer and investigator,” the deputy said with mock solemnity. “I notice things like that.” Back and forth between observation windows and computer screens, they searched the store. “There are some dead zones still,” Tilda said. “You know, like over there in automotive? What's the deal, anyway?”

“She left her baby and a dog out in the car,” Pasquale said. “No problems, though. The sheriff is going to get 'em out.”

“You know, it doesn't take long to overheat in weather like this.” She looked worried. “We train the kids who go out to gather the shopping carts to
always
keep their eyes open for something like that. And there's the notice on the front door to remind shoppers
not
to leave kids unattended. People get preoccupied sometimes, though. Let's page her.”

“Thanks.” He watched the store while Tilda's voice boomed out on the PA. “Stacie Stewart, please come to the customer service desk.” Tilda repeated the message twice, enunciating the name clearly. “I'll give you a holler if I see her first,” Tilda said as Tom headed back downstairs.

Chapter Four

Dodging down one aisle after another, the deputy expected at every corner to come face-to-face with the young mother. Stockers sliced open cardboard boxes in one aisle, two men concentrated on handheld inventory computers in another, a scattering of shoppers ranged from an aging Elvis Presley look-alike to four more high-schoolers who flushed guilty when Pasquale hustled by, and a few housewives who glanced at him with interest. No Stacie Stewart.

Circling back along the store's perimeter to the south corner, he opened the door of the women's restroom a bit. “Stacie Stewart?” He was about to shout a second time when Tilda Gabaldon dug a knuckle in his ribs.

“Let me check for you,” she said. While she did that, Pasquale scouted the men's room, inhabited only by a store employee with a mop bucket who looked as if he'd rather be somewhere else.

“She's not in there,” Tilda reported. “Are you
sure
it was her who came inside?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then take another swing through the store, up and down each aisle. I'll stay at the courtesy desk and watch that she doesn't scoot around an end cap somewhere.”

This time, as he strode along the back wall, past the large bags of pet and bird food, he stopped at the
Employees Only
exit. The door yawned open against heavy pistons, and beyond, the back stockroom was mammoth sea of boxes, cartons, and laden pallets. Empty boxes were piled near a crusher, and a generous pile of empty wooden pallets sat behind those. At the opposite far end was a roll-up door, large enough to accommodate a delivery truck or forklift. Directly ahead of him on the back wall, another heavy steel door was marked with prominent stripes and signs, one just above the latch bar announcing that
Alarm Will Sound If Door is Opened.

It didn't, unless it was a silent light now glowing on the control console up in the office. He pushed the door open wide and surveyed the fresh black macadam, so fresh it appeared liquid. The wave of heat collided with the cold front escaping from inside the store.

He counted eight black trash Dumpsters, a collection of three already-crippled shopping carts, and against the store's wall farther down, the forest of power poles and transformers feeding the store's huge electrical service. He saw no young woman walking out across the vacant lot between the rear of The Spree
and the residential side street beyond.

Pasquale ducked back inside and closed the door, making sure it was secure.

“Sir, may I help you somehow?” A short, chubby man approached, his necktie loosened to give his blocky neck some room. “Tilda tells me you're searching for someone?” The name tag identified Paul Smith as assistant store manager.

“Yes, sir. A young lady named Stacie Stewart came in the store a few minutes ago. We need to talk with her.”

“Ah. Well, it's doubtful she would have gone out this way. Her car's out front?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She may have already come and gone then, Deputy.”

“Not likely, sir. The sheriff is waiting out at her car.”

“That's what the ambulance is about?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's the deal?”

“Child left in the car, sir. In this weather, it only takes a few minutes.”

Smith grimaced. “Well, then.” Smith pivoted, scanning the stockroom. As he did so, Pasquale's phone rumbled.

“You find Stewart?” Torrez asked when Pasquale connected.

“No, sir. We got people lookin'.”

“Out back?”

“I checked there. No sign, sir.”

“Look, the undersheriff is here. We're going to transport the kid. She's dehydrated, so we don't want to wait around. Estelle will meet Mr. Stewart at the ER. If the mother shows up in the next few minutes, bring her along. Don't just send her.
Bring
her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep lookin'. She might have walked across the street to Tommy's or something.”

Not likely in this heat,
Pasquale thought.

“Did you check all the Dumpsters?”

The sheriff's suggestion drew Pasquale up short—not the heat or the smell cooking inside the Dumpsters, but the thought that in just those few moments, someone might have grabbed the young woman, clouted her unconscious or dead, and then stuffed the body into the hot tomb of a trash container.

“I'll do that right now, sir.”

He reached out for the exterior door, then turned to look at the assistant manager. “The alarm is connected?”

Smith shook his head. “Not yet. That's on our ‘to do' list. Help yourself.”

Outside, the eight trash bins marched along the back edge of the macadam, bordering an unkempt, weed-strewn lot. The Dumpster lids opened with little effort. The first three units were still empty, and Pasquale worked his way down the row, carefully examining the refuse inside each. Hiding an adult body in any of them would have been unlikely. The containers weren't even a third full, and no large boxes wasted space, thanks to the store's compacter.

Smith watched the deputy, following him down the row of Dumpsters.

“Maybe somebody picked her up,” he said. “But you said she left her baby in her car?”

“It appears that way. Kid and a puppy.”

“Good God.”

“If she's not in the store somewhere, that's the best bet…that someone picked her up.” He slipped a small two-way radio off his belt. “Tilda, this is Paul. Any sign of the young lady?”

“No, sir. We have four people looking now.”

“This is nuts,” Pasquale muttered. “Other exits?”

“Not that she would have used. There's the one behind the employees' break room, where we have our meetings each morning.”

“I need to see that.”

“Sure enough.” Behind the customer service center, past the public restrooms, a single door marked
Employees Only
opened into a long, narrow room dominated by two eight-foot folding tables placed end-to-end, along with a dozen or more chairs. A coatrack, coffee machine, and posters on a large bulletin board hid nothing. At the end, another door was marked
Exit,
and Pasquale pushed it open.

The heat flooded in, the sun so bright that he winced. Looking past the corner of the store, across the parking lot and Grande Avenue, he could see a portion of Tommy's Handi-way gas station, and beyond it, the scattering of other businesses south on Grande. By looking to the west, he could see the corner of Posadas Elementary School, the high school athletic field, and the apartments beyond Pershing Street that constituted much of the neighborhood around the school.

“She could have walked over to the school,” Smith suggested. “You wouldn't have seen her.”

“Maybe.” Pasquale stood silently for a moment, his Stetson pulled so low that it touched the rims of his dark glasses. “Huh. Why would she do that? School's closed today.” He nodded his thanks to Smith, then returned to the store, striding up the wide center aisle, winding his way through the many displays of gadgetry. Again, the store's PA boomed out the request that Stacie Stewart report to the customer service counter. At the front of the store, Pasquale paused to look back. Stacie Stewart did not appear.

The man with the Elvis haircut watched Pasquale, amused. He had been browsing through the real estate and automotive
PennySaver
s from the rack by the courtesy desk, and he kept two of the issues, rolling them to form a heavy tube.

“You lose somebody?” His smile showed what had to be cheap dentures—too straight, too white, too coarse. Before Pasquale could think up a noncommittal, polite reply, the man nodded toward the parking lot. “Trouble out there?” The ambulance was just pulling away, Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman's white Charger following close behind.

“Just another typical day in paradise,” Pasquale replied.

“Ain't that the truth? Hey, here's the wife.” He grinned at Pasquale. “Finally. Have a better day, Officer.” The man straightened his shoulders, hiked his pants up over a modest pot belly, and joined “the wife” at the first checkout for fifteen items or less. His companion could have been his sister, glossy black hair cascading over rounded shoulders, short and dumpy. She filled out a dull white blouse and a light green skirt, both looking like something from the fifties. Her white anklet socks sagging down over sensible shoes. The woman pushed a shopping cart lightly loaded with a loaf of white bread, snack food, canned juices, and half a dozen packages of lunch meat.

With a last glance around the store, Pasquale slipped past the checkout and joined Sheriff Torrez on the sidewalk outside.

“Gonna have you stay put for a little bit.” Torrez looked more like a disheveled rancher than the county sheriff. Two inches taller than Tom Pasquale's six-two, and starting to add a hint of padding around his girth earned by a pleasant domestic life, Torrez was dressed in his habitual uniform—trousers that might have once been blue jeans, a light denim shirt carelessly tucked, and a battered cap that announced Maynard Diesel. He was perfect photographer fodder, and County Manager Leona Spears would be irritated that on this day, with the media lurking about, the sheriff of Posadas County chose to dress like he had a part-time job at Joe's Oil and Lube. Of course Sheriff Bob Torrez had avoided riding the new train out to
NightZone.
He did not hang on fake bonhomie well.

Pasquale glanced across the parking lot toward the now-empty Volvo and felt an odd surge of relief that none of the little car's windows appeared to be broken.

“If Stewart shows up,” Torrez instructed, “let us know ASAP. Bring her down to the SO first. She'll freak when she sees no kid, no dog. Anyway, Estelle is going to process this mess,” he said it as if talking to himself. “She's got somebody from Children, Youth and Families comin' to the emergency room.” He glanced at Pasquale. “Baby's temp was already a hundred and three. It don't take long.” He shook his head in disgust. “And mama just walks off. Gonna have a soda somewhere with a friend, maybe.”

“You want I should bring her to the SO rather than to emergency?”

“Yep. Maybe that'll encourage her to think twice next time.”

Torrez drew in a deep breath, and nodded at the Fusion. “When the folks drivin' that show up, you might have a chat with 'em. Could be a dozen reasons for the old license, and we might not care one way or another. Right now, I'm more concerned with Mrs. Stewart, so you need to be here for a while in case she returns.”

He regarded Pasquale. “Good catch on the Fusion, though. We got somebody comin' over to give you a hand. If both Stewart and the Fusion folks show up at the same time, you'll be busy.” He almost smiled. “You talked with the SO in Illinois?”

“Not yet. I'm about to.”

“I'll be interested to hear what they have to say.”

“It's like…I don't know. It could be any number of things,” Pasquale said helplessly. “And Stacie's kid? I can't see her doin' that, leaving the child unattended.”

Torrez regarded Thomas for a few seconds, and the crow's-feet around his dark eyes deepened a bit. “You know her pretty well, do you?”

“No. I mean, I went to school with her years ago. I saw her get out of the car, walk into the store, and that was it. Like she just vanished.”

“Yeah, well. She'll turn up. She's probably sittin' down in the women's clothes, tryin' on shoes or something.”

“I can't believe she'd leave the baby and the dog in the car, though. I mean
everybody
knows better than that these days.”

“You think?” Torrez almost smiled. “Is Linda doin' okay this morning?”

“Uncomfortable, but okay.”

“Twins,” Torrez muttered, and shook his head in commiseration. “Hey…” He jerked his chin toward the parking lot. Elvis and “the wife” were quick-stepping along the parking lot aisle toward their car. They stopped at the Fusion, and its lights flashed as they clicked the remote for the doors.

Torrez kept his expression friendly but disinterested as he stepped off the sidewalk and ambled toward them. The man was on the down slope past fifty, paunchy, with too much black hair on his head, waved and pompadoured in the fifties style. His wide black belt hiked tan slacks up on his watermelon gut so that he looked like a dressed bowling pin. Idiots on the lam, Pasquale thought.