A Discount for Death (4 page)

Besides, nearly every incident of fraud that Estelle and state officers had investigated had been penny ante, the sort of incomprehensible crime for which the monetary rewards were counted in occasional hundreds. In Deputy Pasquale’s case, George Enriquez had told the young man that his motorcycle policy was held by a major company. Each month, the financially naive Pasquale had paid his premium directly to Enriquez. When Pasquale had made a minor claim, Enriquez had made prompt settlement with a personal check. Pasquale was pleased, and completely nonplussed to discover later that he had no policy, that in all likelihood his monthly insurance payment was going directly into Enriquez’s pocket. Other instances with other customers were sometimes lesser, sometimes greater in financial risk.

“Skipped, schmipped,” Schroeder said with a shrug. “We don’t know. Neither does his wife. He left the house this morning. That was the last time she saw him.”

Estelle had talked with Connie Enriquez several times and had found the woman an enigma. She wasn’t the kind who would sit home and twist rosary beads around her knuckles as her husband’s world fell apart. At one point in the investigation into her husband’s affairs, she had simply shrugged her gargantuan shoulders and said, “He made his bed. Let him lie in it.”

“He didn’t give any hint about what else was on his mind? When he talked to you on the phone? You said ‘in part’ it was the same old story.”

“Uh huh.” Schroeder made a face. “Let me just tell you what he said, word for word. First, I said that I didn’t see that we had anything to talk about, that he could ask to testify before the grand jury if he wanted to but that he didn’t have to. I made it clear to him that he didn’t need to be there, that his attorney didn’t need to be there. He understood all that. I told him that the grand jury session would probably take most of the week and that he had at least that much time to put all his ducks in a row. That’s when he said, ‘I can give you something.’ I said, ‘Something like what?’ And then he went off on this long song and dance about all his little shenanigans being so inconsequential.”

“The Popes would have liked to have heard that when their house burned down,” Estelle said. “Had anyone survived to file a claim.”

“I know, I know,” Schroeder said impatiently. “And we’ve been through that. When he finally wound down, I said again, ‘Something like what?’ And this time, he said,
‘I can give you Guzman.’
”

Estelle heard perfectly clearly, but out of stunned reflex said, “Give you what?”

“ ‘I can give you Guzman.’ That’s what he said.
‘I can give you Guzman.’
”

“I can give you Guzman,” Estelle repeated.

“Correct.”

“And then what did he say?”

“Nothing. He said he couldn’t talk on the phone. That he’d see me at two
PM
in my office in Deming. End of story. He never showed. Like I said, he’s not home now.” Schroeder looked at his watch again. “Or at least he wasn’t fifteen minutes ago.”

“So what did he mean by that?” Estelle regretted the question as soon as it slipped out.

“I don’t know,” Schroeder said. “I was hoping you could shed some light.”

“I’m the leadoff witness tomorrow for the grand jury. He’d be able to figure that out.”

“Of course. You’re the officer who put the case together before my office horned in.” Schroeder managed another half smile. “The implication is obvious—that he knows something about you that I need to know—something that throws your grand jury testimony into question.”

“Or that he was just bluffing.”

“That’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.” He took a deep breath and hitched up his slacks, then smoothed his suit coat back into perfection. “Keep me posted on what happens with Kenderman,” he said. “And we’ll take Mr. Enriquez one step at a time. Maybe he just buried himself in a hole somewhere with a good bottle. Being told that you’re the target of a grand jury investigation is a fearsome thing, Estelle. It shakes lots of scary things out of the tree. Run and hide isn’t an unusual reflex.”

Estelle nodded, her empty stomach still clenched in a knot. She watched Deputy Tom Pasquale slide into the village police car, start it, and pull away, headed toward the county maintenance barn and the secure bay the sheriff’s department kept there. Perry Kenderman stood and watched, flanked on one side by Sheriff Robert Torrez and on the other by Chief Eddie Mitchell. The ambulance had already departed with the pathetic bundle that had been Colette Parker.

“Shake the tree,” Estelle muttered as she stepped off the curb.

Chapter Four

Estelle glanced in the rearview mirror as she eased the county car to a stop just south of the Highland Court–Twelfth Street intersection. Chief Mitchell’s sedan idled up behind hers, followed by the sheriff’s rumbling, disreputable pickup truck. Kenderman rode with the sheriff, and Estelle knew that the village officer’s mood wouldn’t be soothed by comfortable small talk. Torrez favored silence.

The intersection was illuminated by a single streetlight on the northwest corner. Estelle switched off the ignition and sat quietly. If Colette Parker had been westbound on Highland Court, racing pell mell toward the intersection, she would have clearly seen Kenderman’s village patrol car head on across Twelfth Street. That the girl would blast right through the intersection, ignoring the village patrol car and inviting a chase, was not beyond the realm of possibility. But that didn’t jibe with what Estelle had heard.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the huge form of Sheriff Torrez, followed by Kenderman’s slender shadow. Estelle got out of her car and closed the door. Chief Mitchell had been jotting something on his clipboard, but after a moment he tossed it on the seat. He glanced at Kenderman as he stepped out of his car but said nothing. “This is as good a place to start as any,” Estelle said.

Across the street, a porch light flicked off. “That’s nice,” Mitchell muttered but didn’t elaborate.

“Show us exactly where you were when you first saw the motorcycle,” Estelle said to Kenderman.

His gaze shifted across the intersection, flicking this way and that as if he was uncertain about which version of the incident to embrace. “Right there,” he said. He walked to the middle of the street and pointed at the eastbound lane of Highland Court. “I was just pulling up to the stop sign here.”

“You hadn’t stopped completely yet when you saw the bike?”

“Well, hell…I guess I was just comin’ to a stop. I was putting on the brakes when I saw it.”

“And where was she?”

Kenderman turned and looked over his right shoulder. “Comin’ that way.”

“So she ran the stop on the east side of the intersection?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Well,” Kenderman said, “she turned on down this way,” he pivoted in place, looking back down Twelfth Street the way they had come. “Right for the bridge.”

“And that’s when you initiated the chase?”

“Well, I wasn’t pushin’ it too hard,” Kenderman said lamely. He glanced at Chief Mitchell.

“How well do you know Colette Parker?” Torrez asked. He tossed the question out casually, as if he really didn’t want to know.

“I know who she is, all right.”

“But you didn’t know it was her when you started the chase?”

“No.”

“You didn’t recognize her bike, or anything like that?”

“No. The light wasn’t all that good, and she was movin’ kind of fast, anyways.”

“I see,” Torrez said, sounding as if he clearly
didn’t
see.

Estelle’s telephone chirped. “Guzman.”

“Estelle,” Sergeant Mears’ matter-of-fact voice said. “We’ve got us a little tangle here. I’ve been talking with Marion Archer, and she tells me that she knows Colette Parker. In fact, Colette was one of her students about five years ago.”

“Okay.” She turned her back on her three companions and walked toward the rear of her car.

“The thing is that according to Mrs. Archer, Colette has two little kids.”

Estelle groaned. “Where are they, Tom.”

“With the grandmother, apparently.”

“
The
grandmother?”

“Colette’s mother. Her name’s Barbara Parker. Lives over on Third Street, north of the park. That’s the address on Colette’s license, too. They all live there together, apparently. Mrs. Archer said that she’s known the Parker woman for years. She’s got some counseling job at the school.”

“You’re going over there now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How old are the two kids, did Mrs. Archer know?”

“She guessed that the oldest might be four. Something like that. Maybe four. Colette had the first one the spring of her senior year of high school. That’s when she dropped out.”

Estelle sighed. “Small favors.”

“Pardon?”

“I was thinking that at least the kids are with someone right now, Tom. That’s all. Let me know when you’ve talked with Mrs. Parker, all right?”

“Yep. Linda and I are headed that way right now.”

“What’s the street address?”

“Just a second.” After a brief rustling, Mears said, “Seven oh nine Third Street.”

“Thanks.” Estelle switched off the phone. She didn’t turn around immediately but stood silently, leaning against the back fender of the unmarked car. She closed her eyes, allowing the memory of the distant chase to replay. The Third Street address for Barbara and Colette Parker would be in the distance to the north, approximately where car and cycle were when she first heard them.

She turned and walked back toward the other three. “Perry,” she said, “are you sure that’s the version that you want to go with?”

His eyes were both frightened and wary. He glanced sideways at Chief Mitchell, but Mitchell’s gaze was noncommittal.

“It ain’t a
version
, Undersheriff,” Kenderman said. “It’s what happened. I don’t know why you got such a problem with what I’m tryin’ to tell you.” He gestured up the street. “I was there, she run the sign, I went after her. She dumped it just past the bridge.” He took a short breath, as if a sharp pain had jabbed him in the solar plexus. “Christ, you was on Bustos yourself. You saw.”

“Yes, I did,” Estelle said gently, refusing to rise to the indignation in his tone.

“Tell you what,” Mitchell said easily. “We’ll check in with you tomorrow, Estelle. Give you a little time to talk with some folks. We’ll go from there. Fair enough?”

Estelle nodded.

He reached out a hand as if to take Kenderman by the shoulder but stopped just shy of contact. “I’ll run Perry over to the S.O. so he can make a formal statement and then take him on home. Pasquale is going to take the deposition?”

Estelle nodded. “He’ll be at the office. We’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Nothing else right now, then?”

Estelle shook her head.

“Come on,” Mitchell said, touching Kenderman’s elbow. He managed to sound sympathetic. Estelle watched them leave, and as the taillights faded toward the bridge, shook her head in disgust.

“You’re sure Kenderman’s lying, aren’t you.” Sheriff Torrez moved out of the middle of the street to allow another car to pass. Two elderly faces peered out at them as the sedan shuffled by.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Estelle said. “He’s lying, but I don’t know why.”

“To save his sorry ass, obviously,” Torrez said. “He didn’t follow any kind of procedure, and he forced a fatality.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

Torrez looked askance at her, then grinned. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Estelle took a deep breath. “I just want to be sure.”

“You
are
sure. So where do you want to start?”

“Half the people in Posadas either heard what happened tonight or saw a part of it. It shouldn’t be hard to retrace a pretty fair approximation of the chase route.” She glanced at her watch. “I hate to let any of this wait until tomorrow.”

Torrez grunted what passed for a chuckle. “Pasquale and Mears are on until midnight. Jackie’s on after that. It’ll give them something to do. Like I said, where do you want to start?”

Estelle turned and looked across the street. “How about two ten Twelfth,” she said. “They turned out their porch light just after we drove up. That means they’re home.”

“And don’t want to talk to us,” Torrez said.

“All the more reason.” She reached into her car for her clipboard and double-checked the tape inside the microcassette before sliding it into her jacket pocket. She’d taken two steps back toward 210 Twelfth when the phone on her belt awakened once more.

“Guzman.”

“The two kids are home with their grandmother,” Tom Mears said without preamble.

“They’re all right?”

Mears hesitated. “They’re in bed, asleep. I guess they’ll find out in the morning.”

Estelle heard a sound in the background that could have been a yelp of pain, a sob, or both. “Mrs. Parker’s with you?”

“Yes, ma’am. What I wanted to tell you was that she says Kenderman stopped by earlier this evening to see Colette. They’ve been going together for a little while.”

“How long?” She looked across at Torrez and shook her head wearily.

“For about six months, the mother says. Colette wanted to break it off. Kenderman came by this evening, while he was on duty. He wanted to talk to Colette, and she didn’t want to see him.”

Estelle backpedaled as if she’d been shoved and slumped against the side of her car. “Ay,” she murmured.

“Mrs. Parker tells me that sometimes after Colette puts her daughters to bed, she likes to take a short ride on the bike. No traffic, all by herself—that sort of thing. That’s what she did tonight.”

“And Kenderman followed her.”

“Mrs. Parker doesn’t know about that.”

“She didn’t hear anything?”

“Apparently not. She had the television on and wears earphones so the noise doesn’t disturb the kids.”

“Thanks, Tom. You’re going to get a statement from her tonight?”

“If I can. She’s not doing too well.”

“Do what you can. Bobby and I are going to talk to some neighbors at the other end of the racetrack.” She switched off and then pushed the phone’s autodial. “Wow,” she breathed. She looked at Robert Torrez and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Looks like it started as a domestic,” she said. “Nothing’s going to be simple.”

Sheriff Torrez waited patiently, arms folded across his chest. Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler answered Estelle’s call.

“Ernie, I need a name and number for two ten North Twelfth Street.”

“It’s Luis and Maria Rubay,” Torrez muttered just loud enough for Estelle to hear.

“The sheriff says to check a listing for Rubay,” Estelle added. “R-U-B-A-Y.” She waited for a moment and then jotted down the number. “Thanks. The sheriff and I will be at that address for a few minutes.”

As she was pocketing the phone once more, Torrez nodded across the street at the small brown adobe on the northwest corner, directly across Highland Court from the Rubay’s at 210. “If Maria didn’t see or hear anything, then we can talk to Mrs. Corning. She’s been watching us all the time we’ve been here.”

Estelle grinned. “You know everybody in every house? You sound like Bill Gastner, the walking gazetteer of Posadas County.”

“Not quite,” Torrez said. “I don’t know who lives over there, for instance.” He jerked his chin at the two-story cinder-block monstrosity on the northeast corner of the intersection.

“Maybe we’ll find out,” Estelle said. “Somebody knows exactly what happened.”

“Yep,” Torrez agreed. “Perry Kenderman, for one.”