A Discount for Death (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

“You look exhausted,” Francis said. “For three months, nobody in town so much as double-parks, and then all of a sudden the whole town dips into the funny water.” He frowned at Estelle, taking her chin in his hand so that he could turn her head gently this way and that.

Estelle opened her mouth wide as if waiting for the tongue depressor. “Ah.”

Francis laughed softly. “That’s just the way it goes, I guess,” he said. Estelle watched his handsome face as his eyes read hers. Hours and hours ago, during the late-night walk home after arresting Perry Kenderman,
Padrino
had given her one of his rare bits of advice, and so far, she’d done a good job of ignoring it. But she knew that Bill Gastner was right.

“What’s aching to come out?” her husband asked. The index and middle fingers of each hand rested on her temples, a featherlight pressure that prompted her to close her eyes. For a long time, she didn’t say anything, as if satisfied that her thoughts could simply flow through barriers of bone and tissue, to be absorbed by her husband’s fingertips.

“I’m that transparent,
Oso
?”

“Sí.”

She reached up, sliding a hand around each of his wrists, glad that they were alone in the hospital hallway. Behind her husband, the door to radiology stood open, and she heard the abruptly truncated swish and snap as one of the technicians stabbed an X-ray film up into the light board for viewing. Quiet voices drifted out to them as the technician and radiologist conferred.

“My pictures are ready,” Francis said, but she didn’t release his wrists. If the bruised and battered college student waiting in the emergency room was lucky, the X-rays would show nothing more than a badly sprained ankle. That wasn’t a bad price to pay for falling asleep while driving on the interstate. Her car had drifted across the shoulder, then battered back and forth between the concrete overpass barriers like a pinball. “Can you wait a few minutes?” he asked.

“Sure.” Any excuse to put off heeding
Padrino
’s advice was welcome. The doctors’ lounge was quiet, and she curled up on one of the overstuffed couches, feet under her, head back against one of the cushions, eyes closed. She forced her mind to sift through what she knew, to look for connections and links. No matter what path her thoughts took, she found it inconceivable that Francis knew anything of George Enriquez’s activities.

Each one of the faces of Enriquez’s friends and family in Connie Enriquez’s kitchen looked back at her passively. She found herself asking each one the hopeless question:
What do you know
? And each face turned away.

Something light touched the side of her face, and she jerked awake. Her husband settled onto the couch beside her. “I probably shouldn’t have disturbed you,” he said. “You were just settling in to a pretty good session blowing z’s.”

“That’s okay,” she said. She stretched her arms straight out and rested her hands on her knees. “How’s the ankle?”

“Sprained,” Francis said. “
Really
sprained. It might have been less painful if she’d broken it. A few cuts and bruises otherwise. She’s a lucky kid. And by the way, Tom Pasquale said that he’d be staying central if you needed anything.”

She nodded absently. “I need to talk with you,
Oso
.”

“Here I are.” He turned sideways on the couch with his right elbow on the backrest, head resting in his hand. He reached out and touched her cheek again, just a tiny, single stroke with the back of his left index finger.

Estelle sat upright and shook the sleep away. She glanced at the lounge door to make sure that it was closed. “Last Sunday evening, George Enriquez called the district attorney. He offered information in exchange for a plea bargain that would get him off the grand jury’s hooks.” She turned and looked at her husband. His expression was patiently expectant. “Enriquez wanted to set up a meeting with Schroeder for Monday afternoon, to discuss what he knew. Or supposedly knew.”

“And that would be?”

“We don’t know.”

“Because he never showed up for his meeting,” Francis said.

“Correct.”

“He never told the D.A. what sort of information he had? When they were talking on the phone?”

Estelle hesitated. “Not directly, no.”

“Well, indirectly, then.”

“A hint.” Estelle shook her head in disgust that the words refused to tumble out without a struggle.

Francis cocked his head sympathetically and waited.

“According to Schroeder, George Enriquez told him on the phone that, quote,
I can give you Guzman
, unquote.”

The physician’s face was blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?
Give you Guzman
how?”

“I don’t know,
Oso
.” She held up a hand, but the words that would have accompanied the gesture stuck in her throat. After a moment, she said, “We’ve found evidence that indicates that George Enriquez might have been involved in bringing bulk prescription drugs into the country from Mexico. That’s just a guess. We don’t know for sure.”

Francis Guzman’s head tilted back as he mouthed a soundless
ah
. “The top best-sellers we were discussing earlier,” he said, and Estelle nodded. “
That’s
what you were looking at with the drug reference guide.”

“That was George’s book,
Oso
. He marked a total of eight drugs—the ones you and I talked about. Now why would he do that?”

“Maybe he kept a tally of what pills he popped,” Francis said. “There’s nothing illegal about that.”

“We think that he picked up
something
during the school trip to Acámbaro at Christmas time. Perhaps at other times as well.”

“Last year, you mean.”

“Yes. And perhaps again in May, when the school attended the
Cinco de Mayo
festivities there. Maybe others.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Well, that’s the trouble. At this point, it’s nothing more than a wild guess on my part. I know that
something
was brought back into the States during that trip. We’ve got video evidence that’s the case.”

“But you don’t know what it is.”

“No.”

“It could as easily be heroin or cocaine or Christmas tree ornaments.”

“I suppose.”

“Except when Enriquez told the D.A. that he could hand over information about the nefarious Guzman, that kind of leaves out the ornaments,” Francis said.

“The prescription drugs make sense to me,” Estelle persisted. “Whatever he had was packed into neat little white cardboard containers and stowed under the seat of the van. I can’t imagine him trying to move hard drugs that way. And there’s the book.”

“Shipping prescription drugs is not necessarily a crime, is it?”

“No. Not if there’s appropriate paperwork to cover the shipment and all the proper fees and so on are paid at the border. But that’s not what happened. And we’re talking boxes and boxes of the stuff. Cases. And if the drugs are fake, or counterfeit, that’s a whole new game.”

Francis regarded her silently. “You’re wondering what happened to them after they reached the U.S., right?”

She nodded.

“There are two logical paths, as far as I can see,” Francis said. “They could peddle the drugs on the street, and that would be sort of dumb, I would think. Certainly not very efficient, anyway. I can’t imagine anyone paying much for a hit of Petrosin, or whatever. The logical thing to do would be to find a pharmacist who would dispense the meds as prescriptions call for them.” He shrugged. “Buy the drugs for a reduced, bargain price in Mexico, jack up the retail, and you’ve got a good profit margin.” He frowned. “And you know, one of the trouble with drugs from some fly-by-night outfit south of the border is that there’s no FDA controls…no quality assurance that you’re getting what you paid for. Talc and sugar pills for a penny apiece, sell ’em for whatever you want.”

He tilted his head, trying to assess the expression on Estelle’s face. “And we’re back to what Enriquez told the D.A., aren’t we.” He leaned back and put his arm on the couch behind Estelle. “Let’s cut right to the chase, then. If the drugs were going to
our
pharmacy, and someone turned us in, we’d be nailed,” he said.

“What if George Enriquez was selling bulk Mexican pharmaceuticals to Louis,” Estelle said. “Would he do that?”

“Would George do that? Or would Louis, you mean?” She nodded. “I would hope not.” His eyes narrowed. “We might as well go all the way, and assume that if George was dealing prescription drugs, he was hitting
both
pharmacies in town. Louis and old man Trombley, too. Why not,
querida
. Bulk prescription drugs from Mexico don’t bother me half as much as the idea of fakes…that would be where the money is. And there are lots of other drugstores around the area, too—not just the two in Posadas. Maybe he wasn’t crapping in his own nest, so to speak.”

“
Oso
, the implication was that George could turn over evidence that the D.A. would be interested in, something that had to do with
Guzman
, ” Estelle said. “That wouldn’t point to a drugstore in Las Cruces.
Guzman
means you or me.”

“And you’re thinking,
Why didn’t Enriquez just say ‘I can give you Herrera,’
if he knew my pharmacist was caught up in something.”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m the one who runs the clinic,” Francis said. He shrugged. “Alan Perrone and I. Alan isn’t married to the leadoff witness in a grand jury investigation. If Enriquez thought he had information that would make your life miserable, then it’s logical that he might use it to save his own sorry hide.”

“Well, I’m miserable. He succeeded.”

Francis reached out and gently massaged the back of her neck. “Do what you always do,
querida
.”

“I’m finding that hard.”

“Just turn over all the stones. All I can tell you is this: I went to school with Louis, and I think I know him pretty well. I can’t imaging he’d risk something so stupid. But,” and he shrugged helplessly.

“We don’t know, do we? I don’t pay attention to how he runs the pharmacy, any more than he watches over what Alan and I do down the hall. Too trusting, I suppose.”

“There was an understanding between the three of you that you’d sell prescriptions as inexpensively as you could.”

“Yes. And there’s a fair-sized clientele that pays nothing at all, for drugs or services, either one…or maybe a few token pesos. But we knew that would happen going in. That was part of the deal.”

Estelle fell silent.

“By the way, I don’t know anything about Guy Trombley, other than what the rest of the town knows: He and his drugstore have been here forever. I’ve never had a patient complain to me about anything he does…except once in a while about the price of things. On a few occasions, I’ve been a little irritated with his second-guessing the doctor’s orders, but there’s probably not a pharmacist on the planet who doesn’t do that once in a while.”

“That’s not what worries me,” Estelle said.

“It sure worries me,
querida
. We have a lot to lose.”

She turned and looked at her husband. “George Enriquez knew something. We don’t know what. He contacted Dan Schroeder. And then someone blew George’s brains out. It’s not about the drugs,
Oso
. It’s about murder.”

“You’re telling me that somehow Louis Herrera might be involved in Enriquez’s death?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“You could as easily imagine that Dan Schroeder is involved.”

Estelle’s face went blank. “Why would I think that?”

“Enriquez called him, then ended up dead. It’s a fair assumption.”

“The district attorney did not kill George Enriquez,” Estelle said.

“And how do you know this?”

“I just do.”

“Ah.
La intuición femenina
. But remember, he had a great alibi. In court, busy with the grand jury that was supposedly seeking an indictment against Enriquez…”

“
Oso
, get a grip. If that were the case, there would have been no reason for Enriquez to call Schroeder, or in the bizarre event that he did, no reason for Schroeder to tell
me
about the call in the first place.”

“It was just a thought.” He held up both hands. “What do you want to do, then?”

“I’d like to look through the drug inventory down at the clinic.” She watched his left eyebrow drift upward. “Will you help me do that?”

He shook his head wearily. “This is really scary,
querida
.” He drew in a deep breath and glanced at his watch. “This is in the category of ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’ ”

“I need to know,” Estelle said.

“We’ll do whatever you have to do,” Francis said. He reached out and squeezed her leg just above the knee, rocking her gently back and forth. “This is going to work out, one way or another. We do what we have to do. You want to focus on the drugs that Enriquez marked in the book?”

“I think that was his study guide,” Estelle said, nodding. “That’s a good place to start. That will tell me if I’m crazy or not.”

“Louis should be there, you know. The pharmacy is his bailiwick. But I guess that’s not what you had in mind.”

“No.”

Francis smiled and held up a hand. “Which prompts a question. I have a key that will get us into the pharmacy, no problem. Should you then decide to go through all of Guy Trombley’s stock, too, how are you going to do that? He’s not going to be overjoyed at that prospect.”

Estelle pushed herself up off the couch and straightened her suit. “I hope it doesn’t go that far,
Oso
. I have no connection with Guy Trombley. I
do
have a connection with Louis Herrera. That’s why I want to start there. If it does go further…that’s the nice thing about a warrant. It won’t matter if Trombley is overjoyed or not.”

Chapter Thirty-three

“Where do you want to start?” Dr. Francis Guzman held open the heavy door that separated the pharmacy from the clinic. Estelle stepped into the darkened pharmacy and paused. She didn’t want to start at all, and even more than that, didn’t want to find anything once she did.

“The best-sellers,” she said, without enthusiasm.

Her husband switched on the panel of lights directly over the pharmacist’s work counter. The pharmacy was tidy. Rows of white boxes and bottles trooped on narrow shelves as if they’d been lined up with a laser. Estelle lifted the weighty pharmaceutical reference book and laid it on the counter.

“Of the eight that were marked, which ones do you prescribe the most often?”

“Me, personally, or physicians in general?” Francis asked. He saw the impatience flick across his wife’s face. “I’m just asking,
querida
. There are some drugs that some physicians prescribe a lot, that I don’t,” he continued. “I don’t know if that makes a difference or not in this case.”

“I don’t either.”

“Petrosin is an example.” He folded his arms across his chest. “To me, it’s sort of like using morphine to counter the pain of a stubbed toe. Obviously, not everyone agrees with me.” He shrugged. “Of the eight drugs that you’ve marked there, I commonly prescribe Deyldiol. When they remember to take it and stay on schedule, it’s pretty dependable.”

“It’s fairly inexpensive,” Estelle said.

“Well, remember that ‘inexpensive’ is a relative thing,” Francis said. “Of all the prescriptions we give out that we
know
we’re not going to be paid for, Deyldiol probably heads the list. That wasn’t always the case.” He shrugged. “Birth control by chemical wasn’t always an option, especially south of the border. It’s interesting,” he added, and then frowned as he fell silent. Estelle waited, watching her husband’s face.

After a minute, he said, “You know, that’s an interesting spectrum. I was going to say that the other drug that is prescribed frequently is Daprodin. It’s a real powerhouse antibiotic, and so far we haven’t seen too many side effects. But we’re getting good results with it—sometimes even spectacular—with really tough, persistent infections. Urinary tract, prostate…things like that. It’s really effective against some of the strep infections. On top of that, Daprodin is the most expensive of the group that you’ve got there, by far. Four, five bucks a pop.” He held up a hand. “But even that isn’t near the top of the list as far as expense is concerned. We can hit forty grand a year with some of the injectable drugs that AIDS patients take as part of their daily smorgasbord.” He reached out and tapped the book. “But none of those are on your list.”

“Let’s start there,” Estelle said. “With Daprodin, I mean. If they were counterfeit pills, could you tell the difference?”

“That depends,” Francis replied. “People counterfeit things as complicated as currency all the time. I don’t see why it would be hard to knock off a fake tablet that would fool most patients. Probably their doctors, too.”

He stepped to the shelves and ran his hand along the edges, reached the end of a section and turned the corner. After a moment he straightened up with a large white plastic bottle. “Daprodin DG.”

“What’s the DG stand for?”

“ ‘Damn good,’ at this price, I suppose.” He flashed a quick grin. “I don’t know,
querida
. If it’s not in that tome that you’re carrying around, you’d have to ask the company.” He turned the bottle so he could read the bottom of the label. “Kleinfelder and Schmidt Laboratories, Darien, Connecticut.”

“Is that the way it’s normally shipped? In an opaque bottle like that?”

“I don’t know. I would suppose so. Those are questions that Louis could answer.”

She reached out and took the bottle. “One thousand count. Ay. This little bottle is four thousand bucks.”

Francis nodded. “Sure enough, but a thousand pills means
a lot
of dead bugs,
querida
. ” With the tips of his fingers, he rolled a second bottle, the same size as the first, forward toward the edge of the shelf. Estelle saw the Kleinfelder and Schmidt label.

“Why would both bottles be open?” she asked.

“Are they?”

“Yes, they are. This one has the remains of a heat-shrunk sealing band. That one has nothing at all.”

Francis made a face. “Sharp eyes.” He handed her the second bottle.

“May I look?”

“Sure. Use the thingy, there.” He pointed at the counter behind her. “The counting tray.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “And they don’t go back in the bottle once they’re out.”

Estelle opened the first plastic bottle and carefully shook two of the white capsules onto the plastic grid. With the small white spatula, she flipped over one of the pills. “Daprodin DG,” she said, and then examined the second pill. “And five hundred on the other side.” She leaned against the counter, regarding the two pills. Her free hand idly screwed the cap back on the jar and then reached for the second container. She pushed the first two pills to one side, neatly lined up on the grid, and then deftly shook out two pills from the second jar. “Daprodin DG, five hundred,” she said, and frowned. “I took this stuff last year, didn’t I.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Horse pills. I can remember trying to swallow them without gagging.”

“Break ’em up first.”

“I did that.” She reached out and tapped one of the pills with the spatula. “And they taste awful.” She looked up at her husband. “You’d have to counterfeit the taste, too. Otherwise, they wouldn’t fool anyone.”

“Quinine,” Francis said.

“That’s what’s in them?”

“In part. Daprodin is a quinolone, one of a fairly large family of drugs that’s derived from quinine.”

“Ay. Four dollars a pill for powdered bark.”

Francis laughed gently. “Almost. Rare powdered bark, though.” He frowned as Estelle took one of the pills from the first bottle and touched it to her tongue. For a moment, she closed her eyes.

She made a face. “Oh,
sí
.” She regarded the damp pill for a moment, then dropped it into a small plastic evidence bag. After jotting a note on the label, closing the top, and tucking the bag into her jacket pocket, she pushed one of the pills from the second bottle to the side of the tray and picked it up.

“The scientific tasting test,” Francis said.

“You bet. Sophisticated laboratory analysis, as Guy Trombley would say. Let’s hope it’s not rat poison.”

“I don’t think so,” Francis said.

She let the capsule rest on her tongue, eyes closed. After a moment, without moving the pill or closing her mouth, she opened her eyes and looked at her husband.

“Well?”

She dropped the capsule into her hand and nodded at the tray. “Try one.”

“You’re serious?”

“Oh,
sí
.”

Francis Guzman picked up the remaining pill and popped it into his mouth. Almost instantly, his eyebrows crumpled together, meeting over the bridge of his nose. “Talc,” he said. “That’s what it tastes like. That kind of musty, sweetish…” he waved a hand and then spat out the pill. He turned it this way and that, inspecting it. “Ain’t Daprodin,
querida
.”

“Most definitely not.” Estelle fell silent for a moment.

“Now what?” he asked, sagging his weight against the edge of the counter. “Christ, Louis,” he whispered. He hefted the second jar and turned it slowly, reading the label. “I can’t believe he’d do this. I mean, this means we’ve got patients out there who might as well be taking sawdust, as much good as this crap will do them.”

Estelle started to reach toward the second jar of capsules with the spatula when her cell phone rang, a shrill warbling. She looked heavenward. “Guzman.”

The phone remained silent long enough that Estelle repeated herself. The voice was tentative. “Is this…Undersheriff Guzman?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She recognized Barbara Parker’s light alto, complete with the woman’s characteristic waver of indecision. “How can I help you?” She glanced at her watch.

“Well, I…” the line fell silent, and Estelle waited, able to hear the woman’s breathing. “I probably shouldn’t have called,” Mrs. Parker said. “But I…well, I just don’t know.”

“Mrs. Parker,” Estelle said, “what is it?”

“You said to call, and then I wasn’t going to, and now I think I should say something,” Barbara Parker said. “Rick was here not too long ago. He wanted to talk, and I didn’t see any harm in that.”

Estelle felt her stomach tighten. The hand with the plastic spatula sank to the counter. The woman continued quickly now that she’d breached the dam. “We talked for nearly an hour, Undersheriff. Now it turns out that there’s a really good day-care center in Las Cruces that’s just a few blocks from Richard’s apartment, and he thought he’d be able to place Ryan there right away.”

“Mrs. Parker…”

“I knew that you wouldn’t approve, but…”

Estelle tossed the plastic spatula on the counter in disgust. “Mrs. Parker, it’s not whether
I
approve or not.
You’re
the guardian of your daughter’s children at the moment. We placed them in your custody because we believed they’d be safe there. That would be the best place for them. Richard Kenderman has no legal claim until a paternity test establishes that he’s the father. For both children. He hasn’t been living in the household. He hasn’t been contributing in any way toward child support.”

“I know,” the woman said, sounding as if she clearly
didn’t
know.

“Do you believe that Richard Kenderman is Ryan’s father, Mrs. Parker?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“And I don’t think he does either, ma’am. Perry Kenderman is also claiming that honor.”

“He is?”

“Yes, he is. And I think we’ve had this conversation before.”

“Well…”

“And when Ryan isn’t in that wonderful day-care center down in Las Cruces, when he’s stuck in Richard Kenderman’s apartment the rest of the day, during the evening, at night, what then, Mrs. Parker? You trust Richard with Ryan?”

“No,” Barbara Parker said, and for the first time she sounded positive of something.

“That’s why it seemed reasonable to leave the children with you, Mrs. Parker. I’m as sorry as I can be about your daughter, but the fact remains that
you’re
Ryan and Mindi’s grandmother. They’ve been living in your home all along, and there’s no reason to change that now. Richard Kenderman might be the father of one or both of the children, and he might not be. If he wants custody, then he’s going to have to agree to a paternity test to establish his claim. Then, the courts will decide. Otherwise…”

“That’s why I called. Rick can be so persuasive, you know. Everything he said made sense, and he sounded so earnest. And he loves Ryan so, I think that’s clear. But now I think I made a mistake. In fact, I had decided that before he left. I told Rick that I’d consider it…what he was talking about, I mean. And apparently he didn’t like that very much. You know that temper of his.”

“Well, no I don’t, Mrs. Parker. I’ve met the young man once, and that wasn’t under the best circumstances. What happened?”

“I told him that I didn’t want Ryan going to the city, especially at such a late hour, and that we should talk about it more later. That I wanted to talk with you.”

“Mrs. Parker,” Estelle said, and glanced at her husband. “What happened?”

“Well, Rick took my grandson, Undersheriff. I told him that he shouldn’t, but he didn’t want to listen. He’s such a strong-headed young man. And I could smell alcohol on his breath, and I
know
what he can be like when he’s drinking.”

“He took Ryan, Mrs. Parker? He took the boy from your home?”

“Yes.” The woman choked on the single word.

“How long ago did he leave, Mrs. Parker?”

The woman hesitated. “I think no more than ten minutes. But it could have been longer.”

“He was going to Las Cruces?”

“I think so. I don’t know anywhere else that he’d go. I mean, that’s where he lives, after all.”

“Mrs. Parker, if you voluntarily relinquished custody to Richard Kenderman, then that’s your business. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“But I haven’t done that. I mean…”

Estelle leaned heavily against the counter and rested her head in her free hand. “Let me ask you a yes or no question, Mrs. Parker. Did Richard Kenderman take your grandson after you specifically told him not to?”

“Well…it’s more complicated than that.”

“I’m sure.” Estelle took a long, slow breath. “Mrs. Parker, let’s see if we can make it
un
complicated. Did Richard Kenderman take your grandson from your home against your will?”

“Well…”

“Mrs. Parker, please.” The phone fell silent. “Did you try and restrain him in any way?” The silence continued. “Mrs. Parker, if you
allowed
Richard Kenderman to take Ryan, that’s one thing. If Richard Kenderman
kidnapped
your grandson, that’s another story.”

“Kidnapped?”

“That’s what it’s called, Mrs. Parker. If Kenderman came to your home and took your grandson against your will, then it’s kidnapping.”

“If he contends that he’s the boy’s father…”

“It doesn’t matter what he
contends
, Mrs. Parker.”

After another long silence, Barbara Parker sounded both irked and resigned. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, it’s not kidnapping in this case.”

“All right. I’ll take your word for it.” Estelle turned and looked at her husband. He shrugged helplessly.

“What do you think I should do?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“What I think is not at issue,” Estelle said. “If you say that Richard was drinking, that’s enough probable cause for us to stop him.”

“I want Ryan back, that’s all,” Barbara Parker said. “I made a mistake. All right, now I want to correct that.”

“Mrs. Parker, if you swear out a criminal complaint that your grandson was kidnapped, we’ll go find him and bring him home. And we’ll put the person responsible in jail. And then the courts will sort out who’s who.”

“A complaint?”

“Mrs. Parker, much as there are a dozen things we’d
like
to be able to do, there’s nothing we
can
do if you willingly gave custody of Ryan to Mr. Kenderman. If we stop him on the highway, and then it ends up that he doesn’t blow at least impaired, then we have to let him go. It’s that simple. And then the whole mess starts over again. If Mr. Kenderman
took
Ryan from your home, against your will, then yes, there’s something we can do about that. If he threatened you in any way. Make up your mind, Mrs. Parker. And I wish you’d do it quickly.”