A Discount for Death (10 page)

Estelle shrugged and smiled at the sheriff. “It’s just a small detail.”

Torrez grinned. “Oh,
sí
.”

Chapter Twelve

In another hour, Estelle was convinced that George Enriquez’s office was not going to offer any easy answers. Photographed, scrutinized, measured, and probed, the insurance agent’s body was finally released to the EMTs. Dr. Alan Perrone nodded curtly as the gurney was wheeled out the door.

“I’ll let you know,” the medical examiner said. “There are some interesting questions here.” He glanced back at the gore-draped chair, empty behind the spattered desk, as if he’d forgotten something. For a moment he watched as Linda Real maneuvered for a close-up series of the blood and gore spatters across the top of the chair, then turned to watch preparations for the excavation of the bullet lodged in the wall. “Let me know about that, too,” he said. He nodded once again at Estelle and left, black bag in hand.

Working meticulously under the watchful eye of Linda Real’s videotape camera, Sheriff Robert Torrez and Chief Eddie Mitchell spent twenty minutes extracting the mushroomed revolver slug, first carving an impressive hole in the plaster and Sheetrock to give them room to work.

“If we’re lucky, we won’t end up out in the alley,” Mitchell muttered as he nudged the chards of Sheetrock into a neat pile near the baseboard.

“Nah,” Torrez said. “It’s right here.” The victim’s skull had slowed the bullet sufficiently that the wall stud and a section of electrical wiring had finished the job. With the tip of his heavy pocket knife’s blade, Torrez worked around the wiring, removing splinters of the wall stud until the deformed bullet could be nudged gently from its resting place without further damaging the soft lead. As Torrez dropped the slug into an evidence bag, he mouthed something that Estelle couldn’t hear.

The undersheriff raised an eyebrow. “No surprises?”

“I don’t think so,” Torrez replied. “Half-jacketed lead bullet…same general kind that’s loaded in factory ammo.” He held the bag up to the light. “And it’s forty-one.”

“Old micrometer eyes,” Mitchell said dryly, but he didn’t challenge Torrez’s assessment.

“That’s not the most common cartridge in the world,” Estelle said.

“Far from it,” the sheriff said. “This one’s clean enough that we can do a comparison
inmediamente
.” He slipped the evidence bag into his briefcase and paused for a moment, regarding the bagged and labeled weapon. “We want to know whose forty-one that is,” he said. “Connie might know something about it. At least that’s a place to start. I’ll get Mears on the weapon right away. We’ll see what he comes up with.”

Estelle caught motion in the corner of her eye and turned to see Daniel Schroeder standing in the office doorway. He regarded the chair and desk, his nose wrinkling from the mingled smells. “Wonderful,” the district attorney muttered. “What a goddamn stupid thing to do.” He looked at Estelle. “Frank Dayan is waiting outside when you get a chance, by the way.”

“He’ll be happy that this is a Tuesday,” Chief Mitchell said.

“Hold the presses,” Linda quipped.

“He needs to talk with the sheriff,” Estelle said, knowing full well what Bob Torrez’s reaction would be.

“No, he doesn’t,” Torrez said promptly. “He asked for you ’cause he knows better.”

As Estelle made her way around the desk and toward the door, the district attorney reached out a hand to touch her on the elbow. “I need to talk with you for a few minutes before you take off.” He smiled. “Go ahead and talk to Frank while these guys bring me up to speed on what happened here. I’ll catch up outside.”

The newspaper publisher was leaning against the fender of Dennis Collins’ patrol unit, his hip pushing against the yellow tape. A black Posadas State Bank baseball cap was pulled low to keep the sun out of his eyes. An impressive digital camera hung from his left shoulder, a constant companion whether he was roaming about town selling advertising, attending a Rotary Club meeting, or as now, doing the leg work that his plump, lethargic editor should have been doing.

Estelle knew that the camera amused Linda Real.
Now if only Frank would learn how to use it
, she was apt to say. Since Linda had left the newspaper four years before, the photos in the
Posadas Register
tended toward fuzzy on the best of days, and the switch to digital cameras hadn’t helped. But, as Dayan himself had once happily observed, “Our photos may be bad, but at least there are a
lot
of them.”

“Hello, Frank,” Estelle said. Deputy Collins pushed himself away from his comfortable spot against the wall and touched his Stetson just a shade lower toward the bridge of his nose. Across the street, several “lookie-louies” had gathered, hoping for a glimpse of the corpse.

“Estelle, what in heck is going on?” Dayan stepped away from the deputy’s car and extended his hand. He pumped Estelle’s with a quick, excited shake, then jerked his head toward Deputy Collins. “This one here is just as tight-lipped as the big guy.” Being compared with Sheriff Torrez put another steel support in the young deputy’s spine.

“We have an unattended death, Frank. That’s all I can tell you.”

The newspaper publisher glanced up at the hanging sign over his head as if the name on it might have somehow changed since he last looked. “George?”

Estelle nodded.

“My God. What, this morning sometime?”

“We don’t know.”

“Grand jury was supposed to convene this morning, wasn’t it?”

Estelle let a nod suffice.

“He had a heart attack, or what? Is this related to the jury thing, do you think?”

Estelle hesitated just long enough for the newspaper publisher to notice. “This is one of those times when ‘investigation is continuing’ works pretty well, Frank.”

“Oh, please,” Dayan protested with a roll of his eyes. “Now you sound like Bill Gastner.”

“Cheer up. It’s only Tuesday.” He looked pained, but the expression on Estelle’s dark, sober face held no hint of sarcasm. The undersheriff knew that the
Register
’s inexorable decline from a prospering daily during the heyday of the copper mines to a biweekly and then finally to a single edition on Thursday was a sore point with Dayan. He answered to out-of-state owners who had been trying to sell the newspaper since the previous spring.

“You gotta give me a little more than that. Give me something to work with.”

“How about everything I know at the moment,” Estelle said.

“I’ll settle for that.”

“It appears that George, spelled the usual way, Enriquez, spelled with a ‘z,’ sustained a single gunshot wound to the head.” She stopped and regarded Dayan patiently.

“That’s it? You mean he shot himself?”

“He sustained a single gunshot wound to the head.”

“Come on. Was it suicide, or what?”

“We don’t know.”

“And you said ‘sustained,’ ” Dayan added. “Is the gunshot what killed him?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Did he pull the trigger?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“They’re going to put that on your tombstone,” Dayan said, and Deputy Collins laughed. “Was the weapon his?” Dayan persisted, then saw the hint of a smile cross Estelle’s face. He held up a hand to fend off the inevitable. “All right. You don’t need to say it.”

Daniel Schroeder appeared at Estelle’s elbow. “Got a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir,” she said and smiled sympathetically at Frank Dayan. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll have more for you later in the day.”

“I’ll give you a call this evening,” Dayan countered quickly. “Or maybe first thing in the morning.” He switched his attention to the district attorney. “Today was the first day of grand jury, was it not?” he asked.

“Sure enough, Frank,” Schroeder replied.

“Those proceedings will be interrupted now?”

“Uh, yes,” Schroeder said, frowning as if to add
and that’s a really stupid question
.

Dayan nodded and turned back to Estelle. “I understand that no charges have been filed yet against Perry Kenderman, by the way. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Are they going to be?” He looked at Schroeder, but the district attorney was content to let Estelle field the question.

“I’ll let you know, Frank. Give us a chance to sort things out.”

“Does that mean they
might
be? Dan, is your office considering filing charges? I talked with Maggie Archer this morning, and she said that Kenderman’s patrol car was right on top of the bike, practically. No lights, no siren, no nothing.”

Dan Schroeder smiled pleasantly. “Before you run with that, Frank, remember what screwy versions of events we sometimes have to work with when we talk to witnesses.”

“Mrs. Archer is wrong?” Dayan asked, and Estelle saw a flash of irritation on the district attorney’s face.

“We’d appreciate it if you’d wait a bit until we get things straightened out,” he said.

“You go to press tomorrow afternoon, right?” Estelle asked, and Dayan nodded. “I’ll keep you posted,” she added.

“That’s a deal. Can I go inside, or…”

“No, sir, you can’t. But if you wait here, you’ll catch the sheriff when he comes out.”

“Oh, that’s a help,” Dayan said.

Dan Schroeder fell in step with Estelle as she walked back toward her car. When they were well beyond Frank Dayan’s earshot, the district attorney said quietly, “I’m going to file against Kenderman, by the way.”

“I guess I’m not surprised,” Estelle said. She reached the car and paused with her hand on the door. Schroeder’s late-model SUV was parked directly in front of hers.

“I talked with both Bobby and the chief last night, and they haven’t changed their minds this morning. I’d be interested in your thoughts,” he said.

Estelle regarded the juncture of car door and roof, running her finger along the seam. “We have no way of ever knowing if Colette Parker would have crashed at that corner if Kenderman hadn’t been in pursuit,” she said finally.

“That’s not the issue,” Schroeder said. “He
was
in pursuit. That’s an established fact. And with no lights, no siren—hell, it was just a drag race. You heard the whole sorry episode.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“I can’t think of a better definition of
reckless endangerment
,” Schroeder said.

Estelle’s gaze drifted off to the car dealer’s parking lot next door. The bright sea of metal and plastic and the gaggle of curious faces didn’t register. Instead, she saw Colette Parker’s small, delicate face framed by the scarred motorcycle helmet. “Charges of reckless endangerment and vehicular homicide would be appropriate,” she said finally.

Schroeder nodded with satisfaction. “In a way, I feel sorry for the guy,” he said. “I don’t know what he thought he’d accomplish, but whatever it was, it sure went to shit.”

“I feel a little uneasy about his state of mind right now,” Estelle said.

“That’s interesting.” Schroeder’s eyes narrowed. “Because he’s not in custody yet, is he.”

“No, sir.”

“You have plenty to hold him on, you know,” Schroeder said. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I understand that, sir. We’re a little bit tied up just now. He’s not going anywhere.” She glanced again toward the car dealer’s lot. Each of those faces represented a pending interview in the search to find someone who had heard or seen something related to Enriquez’s death.

“I can understand you giving him the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. But there’s not much doubt anymore, is there.”

“No, sir.”

“You said you felt ‘uneasy’ about him. You saw him this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s got to know that charges are pending. He’s no rocket scientist, but the formula here is pretty simple. Don’t let it go too long before you guys move on it.”

“I’m sure he knows. He’s a cop, after all.”

Schroeder coughed.
“Was
a cop.”

“He’s worried about the two kids. Colette’s two.”

“Now, he’s worried. That’s nice. Would that that concern had surfaced before he decided to run their mother off the road.” Estelle remained silent, and Schroeder sighed and shook his head. “How old are they?”

“The little girl is two. The boy is four. I think Perry may be the boy’s father.”

“Ah,” Schroeder said. “The kids’ father.”

“Just Ryan’s. The boy.”

“Really?” The district attorney’s eyebrows arched. “She got around some, then. Who’s father of the girl? She’s the youngest, right?”

Estelle nodded. “I think the little girl’s father is Perry’s younger brother, Rick.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir. He lives down in Las Cruces.”

“What a mess,” Schroeder said, and this time, some sympathy crept into his tone.

“Yes, sir. The grandmother is taking care of the two kids for a while.”

“No marriage licenses in all this, though?”

“No, sir.”

“Our lives should be so simple,” Schroeder said.

“I can’t argue that, sir,” Estelle said. “You’re filing this morning?”

“Unless you can convince me otherwise.” He looked hard at Estelle. “I wanted to give you folks some time to clean up this mess first. But don’t wait too long. Perry doesn’t need to have a long leash.”

Estelle smiled wryly. Evidently Bobby Torrez hadn’t shared his concerns about Enriquez’s death with the district attorney. “Thanks, sir.”

“I’ll ask Judge Hobart to schedule a preliminary hearing for this afternoon. You’ll certainly have Perry in custody by then, right? I don’t see any point in dragging our feet.”

“No, sir. We’re keeping an eye on him,” Estelle said. “I don’t know what’s going on between him and his brother. All we know is that Rick isn’t in town.”

“Then let’s hope it stays that way,” Schroeder said.

Chapter Thirteen

Estelle glanced at her watch, then hesitated before pulling the county car into gear. Bob Torrez was right…George Enriquez’s death included too many inconsistencies to be written off as a suicide. There might be a simple explanation for the heavy revolver’s position under the chair, a simple explanation for the absence of checkering marks that should have been left by the revolver’s grips against Enriquez’s palms. But those simple explanations were eluding them.

Dan Schroeder hadn’t voiced his thoughts, but Estelle knew what they had to be. The coincidence of George Enriquez’s promised
“I can give you Guzman”
followed by his convenient death before he could make an explanation was enough to make anyone curious.

Alan Perrone would perform the preliminary NAA test on Enriquez’s corpse to determine if the insurance agent had fired the revolver…or at least had had it in hand when it was fired. But the odds were good that none of the lab tests, or the preliminary autopsy, would be completed before late afternoon.

Estelle had tried unsuccessfully to conjure up some recollection of Constance Enriquez, to remember a face to go with the name. Mrs. Enriquez hadn’t attended the preliminary hearing months ago when Judge Lester Hobart had released her husband on his own recognizance pending grand jury action. Estelle could see George’s round, pleasant face with the quick, flashing smile of the professional salesman. In court, George had seemed more confident and cheerful than his attorney had been, as if he were appearing to settle a simple traffic ticket.

But Connie? How had she survived through all this mess that her husband had heaped upon them?

Mimbres Drive was a short cul-de-sac, gracefully curved not because of the natural terrain but simply because that’s the way the developer had chosen to steer the bulldozer twenty years before when he turned the old Gallegos ranch into a subdivision. The dozen houses in the development were brick with wood trim.

The residence at 419 Mimbres was no surprise, showing those touches that the profits from a successful career could buy. A semicircular concrete driveway arced across the front yard, passing through decorative beds of tamed desert plants. A large self-contained camper was parked in the driveway, flanked by a late-model Cadillac. Behind the camper sat a new van, the temporary tag still taped in the tinted back window.

Estelle got out of the car and glanced at the other vehicles parked on both sides of Mimbres Drive. Several bore Texas plates. She paused behind the van long enough to read the temporary tag. The new owner, Owen Frieberg, was a partner at Salazar and Sons Funeral Home. He either was a friend of the family’s or wasn’t wasting any time drumming up business. Mr. Frieberg hadn’t shopped locally for his new van, despite the oft-published pleas of his own chamber of commerce. The expensive unit had been purchased two weeks before, in Albuquerque.

A rotund woman poured into a pair of blue jeans with a western-style blouse answered Estelle’s ring. Her eyes flicked the undersheriff from top to bottom, and she almost immediately began to shut the door.

“We’re really not interested,” she said. “There’s been a death in the family, but thanks for stopping by.” Her voice carried the nasal twang of west Texas.

“Ma’am,” Estelle said and held her badge case up briefly. “I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman. I need to speak with Mrs. Enriquez.”

“Oh,” the woman said. Her penciled eyebrows went up and stayed there. “Just a minute, then.” She closed the door. Estelle could hear voices inside the house, and after a moment the door opened again. Estelle smiled at the odd face that peered out at her.

“Is that who I think it is?” Father Bertrand Anselmo chortled. His bottle-bottom glasses couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eyes. Anselmo was bald except for a gray fringe around his head at ear level that looked as if a house cat had draped itself around his skull. He beamed at Estelle, showing a collection of fillings, crowns, and gaps all generated by the low-bidding dentist of the moment.

The priest held the door wide open. He gripped it tightly with one hand as if the excitement of the moment might slam it shut. “It
is
who I think it is. Look at this.” He released the door and advanced, both arms held wide. “Blessed saints, but it’s good to see you.”

“Father,” Estelle said, and patted him on the back until he released her. His black shirt smelled musty.

“Oh, my goodness, look at you,” he said, and for a moment it appeared as if he was going to launch into the ritual how’s-the-family grilling. But the ebullient expression faded, replaced by an awareness of the sad day in the home behind him. “There’s quite a mob scene in here,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“I would think so,” Estelle said.
Brunch with the widow
.

“Do you have any news for us?” the priest asked, and for a moment he sounded as if he were more from Dublin than Deming.

Estelle shook her head. “Actually, Father, I need to talk with Mrs. Enriquez. Is she home?”

“Surely, surely,” he said. “Won’t you come in?”

Estelle stepped inside and stopped on the tiled foyer. Off to the left was what appeared to be a well-appointed game room where at least fifteen people milled about, all talking at once. Another mob had taken over the kitchen. Through an archway to the right, Estelle saw three elderly women in the living room, coffee cups in hand, deep in conversation.

“Ay,” Estelle whispered to herself, and despite Father Anselmo’s hand on her elbow, she remained firmly rooted in place, fascinated by the spectacle. One way to take the widow’s mind off the deceased husband was to make her life miserable in every other way. After a day or two, that would wear off. The people would leave, and the house would become a big, silent mausoleum.

“Father,” Estelle said quietly, “I can’t talk with her here.”

Anselmo’s face hardened a bit with resolve, his shaggy eyebrows lowering until they rested on the rims of his glasses. “What do you need? You just tell me, and I’ll see to it.”

Estelle drew a card from her badge case and handed it to the priest. “Maybe…” she started to say, when one of the most enormous women she had ever seen appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Ah, Connie,” the priest said, and held out a hand. “You know the undersheriff?”

“No, I don’t. Heard of you. We’ve never met,” Constance Enriquez said. She didn’t take the priest’s hand. Two inches shorter than Estelle’s five foot seven inches, the woman’s massive weight ballooned from a frame that, judging from the fine hand she extended to accept the business card, could barely cope. She walked with a slight roll, as if having to hitch each step along with protesting hips.

Plump cheeks, wet from recent tears, crowded her eyes in a broad face. Thinning hair had been chopped into a sort of modified pageboy, keeping it from being buried in the folds of fat at the back of her neck. She regarded the business card for a long moment, and when her glacial eyes flicked back up to Estelle’s, they were hard and unwelcoming.

“What can I do for you?” she said. She extended the card back toward Estelle.

“Mrs. Enriquez, I need to talk with you at some length. That’s going to be very difficult to do here. I wonder if there’s someplace that we might…”

The woman waved a hand, the curtains of fat that hung from her upper arms undulating. “We’ll use his room. That’s easiest.” She turned away. “Come on,” she said, and Estelle followed, Father Bertrand Anselmo trailing behind. Connie Enriquez ignored the glances and murmurs as they navigated past the kitchen. At the end of the long hallway, Connie Enriquez pushed open a set of double doors, revealing a spacious den.

“This’ll do,” she said.

“Father, excuse us,” Estelle said when Anselmo started to enter.

“Oh, certainly. Connie, if you need anything…” he said.

“What I need is for the circus to be over,” she muttered and reached past Estelle to latch one side of the doors. “You gotta hook this, or they’ll drift open,” she said, stretching up to push the small brass bolt into the jamb. She forcefully pushed the other side shut. “There.” She beckoned toward a leather-covered chair near a bookcase. “Sit yourself.”

She chose a stout, straight-backed chair that looked up to the challenge, reached over to the large walnut desk, and pulled the box of tissues closer. She extracted one and wadded it into a ball, dropping her hands to her lap.

“So,” she said. “You’re a very attractive young woman. How’d you happen to fall into such an awful job?”

“Thank you. And that’s a very long story, Mrs. Enriquez.”

“Call me Connie.”

“Connie. I know this is going to be painful for you, but there are some things I need to know concerning your husband and the circumstances of his death. You may be able to help us.”

“Is this all standard procedure? I mean, is this what you normally
do
, with things like this?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right.” She shifted her bulk on the chair.

Estelle pulled the microrecorder from her jacket pocket and held it up. “I need to use this. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

The undersheriff pushed the Record button and gently rested the gadget on the corner of the desk. “Mrs. Enriquez, in the past few days, did your husband discuss his difficulties with you?”

For the first time, something akin to a smile ghosted across the woman’s face, not enough to show teeth, but enough to touch the creases.

“Undersheriff,”
the woman said. “That’s an interesting title.” Her hands folded around the tissue. “Do I call you that? Or is it
officer
, or what?”

“Estelle would be fine.”

“Estelle. Doesn’t that mean
star
or something like that in Spanish?”

Estelle smiled. “No, ma’am. You may be thinking of
estrella
, with an ‘r.’ ”

Connie nodded and pursed her lips. The half smile reappeared. “Let me tell you how I first learned of my husband’s antics, Estelle,” she said. “A neighbor across the way met me out in the driveway with the local paper in hand.” As she talked, Connie Enriquez’s hands remained motionless. “Nice little front-page story about my husband’s arraignment.” She paused for a moment. “Now isn’t that wonderful? A thoughtful neighbor shows me a front-page newspaper story.”

Estelle didn’t respond, and Connie continued, “Tell me how that could have happened without my knowing about it, Mrs. Undersheriff.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “My husband’s business was investigated, charges were brought against him by your office and the state insurance board, and he was arraigned before the local judge. And when did I hear about it? When it’s splashed on the front page of the local newspaper.” Her mouth twisted in a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” she said. “Not knowing probably spared me some moments with George that we both would have regretted. You asked me if my husband discussed his business life with me? He didn’t. In spades.” She dabbed at her left eye. “How well do you know your husband, Estelle?”

When the undersheriff didn’t answer, Connie Enriquez leaned forward just a bit, the tissue still grubbing into her left eye. “Someone out in the kitchen is a cat lover,” she said. “Damn things drive me crazy. The dander’s all over my clothes now.” She shook her head and examined the wad of tissue. “Your husband’s the one who opened the new clinic with Alan Perrone, right? The coroner? Alan’s the dapper little guy; Dr. Guzman’s the big hunk, am I right? Great big guy with a nicely trimmed beard?”

Estelle nodded.

“If I asked you to sit down and tell me what the good doctor does all day long—and I mean in detail—I don’t think you could tell me. Am I right? And he couldn’t tell me what
you
do. Now maybe the two of you discuss your days with each other when you get home.” Her eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared when Estelle didn’t offer an answer. “Maybe you do.
I
certainly wouldn’t know. George and I didn’t discuss his days, Estelle. Or mine. Never. Ever.”

“Mrs. Enriquez, to the best of your knowledge, did your husband own any firearms?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I won’t have them in the house. And now you know why.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“George was no handyman, Estelle. He was one of those unfortunate guys who stabs himself with a screwdriver when he reaches into the toolbox to pick up a wrench. He once tried to change the oil on the Jeep, I think just to prove that he could. He dropped the thingie that plugs up the drain hole and then never could find it. He had to buy another one, which the dealer had to special-order, by the way, since no one else loses that sort of thing. That’s George and mechanical things.” She wadded the tissue and pressed it against her left eye. “If he had a gun, I could picture him trying to clean the damn thing and blowing his head off. Just like what you read about in the papers.”

“So to the best of your knowledge, your husband did not own a handgun. For that matter, a gun of any kind?”

“Not as far as I know.” She regarded the tissue, lips pursed. “I know for a while he was talking about going elk hunting, if you can imagine that. I saw one of those what do you call ’ems…game proclamations. And then I heard him talking on the phone about a hunt. Most ridiculous thing I ever heard. It would be just like George to huff and puff his way up a mountain and then drop dead from a heart attack. And
elk
? What would we do with one of those monstrous things?”

“He would need a rifle for that hunt.”

“I suppose. Maybe he was going to borrow one. Or buy one. I don’t know. As long as I don’t have to look at it in this house.”

She heaved a heavy breath.

“Do you know who he discussed the hunt with? Or whether he actually had firmed up plans about when to go?”

“No idea. You could ask Joe Tones. He’d probably know. You know Joe?”

Estelle nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“They work together with the chamber of commerce all the time,” Connie said. “I think the hunt was Joe’s idea. Or Owen’s. Owen Frieberg? He was here a bit ago. Who knows? Maybe he still is. I really don’t know whose idea the whole crazy thing was, but I would guess Joe. He’s the one who got my husband excited about Mexico, too—one of George’s other daring escapades.”