Blood Sweep (2 page)

Chapter Two

The row of Post-it notes cascaded down the side of the undersheriff's computer screen. Usually more apt to embrace modern gadgets for posting his messages, Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler this time had chosen the old-fashioned approach. He had routed nothing to Estelle Reyes-Guzman's little electronic secretary that rested mute in her pocket during the morning-long session of District Court. Her cell phone was set on vibrate, but had remained quiet. No bailiff had appeared at the courtroom door to beckon her for a message.

Now, with the session adjourned, she settled in behind her desk in the Sheriff's Department office in the Posadas County Public Safety Building. She ignored both her computer's voluminous crop of e-mails and the voice-mail on the phone.

Instead, intrigued, she scanned the rainbow of demanding little 3x3 paper notes that featured the time written boldly on the upper right corner, with the name and number of each caller printed neatly below that. Of course, Ernie had posted them on the slick screen in order, newest at the bottom. Estelle plucked off the last message, penned by dispatch at 11:31 that morning, less than half an hour ago.

D. M. again for you.
Estelle frowned. And who might D.M. be? Ever discreet, the dispatcher also hadn't included an
re:
to illuminate things. She moved up the line, picking out the four D.M. notes until she reached the earliest, having by then surmised that the caller was Dennis Mears—he'd called for the first time at 9:30 that morning, just after Estelle had left for court. And then again. And again. And again at 11:31.

The president of Posadas State Bank and twin brother of Sheriff's Department Lieutenant Tom Mears, Dennis was a model of decorum, and it must have embarrassed him to be so persistent. But he hadn't tried her cell phone, which ran the risk of interrupting her in the middle of something important—in this instance district court testimony during a domestic violence docket.

Equally curious about the other messages, Estelle plucked off the note from Camille Stratton. Brassy Camille, former sheriff Bill Gastner's oldest daughter and denizen of Flint, Michigan, surely had both her father's contacts and Estelle's cell, but she hadn't gone that route either. Like Dennis Mears, Camille had left no message when she had called at 10:26 that morning.

The remaining note, posted from Estelle's youngest son, Carlos, had come in at 10:46. “
Mr. Mears is trying to find you,”
her son had reported.

The undersheriff looked up at the wall clock. Now a minute or two after twelve, odds were good that the banker had left for lunch, either at Rotary, which met on Wednesdays at the Don Juan, or with one of his colleagues. Estelle dialed the bank anyway.

“Good afternoon, Posadas State Bank. How may I direct your call?” Rosie Ulibarri sounded cheerful.

“Rosie, this is Estelle. I see that Dennis has been trying to reach me all morning. Did I catch him?”

“Well, yes, you did,” Rosie said with enthusiasm. “Hang on, please. Oh, and how are those kids of yours?”

“Hale and hearty, thank you.” Rosie Ulibarri had no children of her own, but made up for it by nesting any child within reach.

“Everyone is still talking about that wonderful concert last winter. When do we get an encore?”

Estelle laughed. “I'm not in the loop,” she said. “But soon, we hope.”

“Has he been home for the summer now?”

“The conservatory is year-round, so no. If we're lucky, we'll see him on Labor Day weekend. Maybe.”

“They do make them work, don't they? And he is how old now?”

“Francisco is fourteen in October. Carlos just turned ten last Sunday.”

“My goodness.” She sucked in a quick breath. “Listen to me. Estelle, forgive an old maid's rambling on. Here's Dennis.”

“Thank you, Rosie.”

Circuits clicked, and Dennis Mears' quiet voice came on the line.

“Estelle, I don't mean to pester,” he said without preamble, “but you know how time slips away. Is there a possibility that you could swing by the bank this afternoon sometime? Or if it's easier, I can drop by the S.O.”

“How about two at your place?” Estelle offered.

“Could we make it one?”

She glanced at the clock. The banker's lunch hour had already been shaved of four minutes. “One is fine, Dennis. This is concerning what?”

Mears hesitated. “I'd appreciate it if we could discuss it in person, may we?”

“You bet. Your office at one o'clock.” She hung up, more than a little puzzled. If the bank president wouldn't discuss the topic over the phone, his absolute discretion was being put to the test. If it were an issue with her husband's clinic, which now included a dental suite as well as general family surgery and a full-scale pharmacy, Mears would not have called Estelle. The Guzmans' personal accounts were impeccable, well-padded, and under the care of a CPA. Mears wouldn't have bothered her about a goofed check.

That left the Sheriff's Department as the most likely target of concern, and there were any number of ways that some of the deputies, hard-pressed to make ends meet, or not mindful of their credit card balances, could misstep with the bank. Still, Estelle couldn't image Dennis Mears calling
her.
She wasn't in charge of Sheriff's Department employee banking unless one of them had tried to rob the place.

She sighed and reached out to paste Camille Stratton's note on her desk calendar. What Bill Gastner's daughter wanted was anyone's guess, but long-distance from Michigan didn't necessarily add urgency. Camille called often, keeping close tabs on her aging and stubborn father—and at the same time, nurturing the ties with the Guzmans and their two boys, for whom Bill Gastner was an active godfather—their
padrino.

Even as Estelle withdrew her hand from the calendar, her desk phone rang, the dispatch circuit blinking.

“Estelle, Camille Stratton is on line two. Did you want to talk with her?”

“Sure. And I'm meeting with Dennis Mears at the bank at one. I need to keep things clear. I don't know what's up with him.” She glanced at her calendar. “And I have another meeting at three. Don't let me forget.”

“Who could forget Leona Spears?” Wheeler said dryly.

Sure enough—the great waft of the county manager's perfume would mark the undersheriff's office for the rest of the day. The grand lady—grand in many ways—would fill the doorway, her habitual, voluminous muumuu patterned as usual with gigantic sunflowers. Estelle was sure that Sheriff Bob Torrez, painfully taciturn and monosyllabic at the best of times, was embarrassed by Leona Spears. He ducked meetings with her whenever he could. But the department budget was the undersheriff's turf anyway, and Estelle—who
could
talk easily with the stubborn sheriff—knew Bobby Torrez's wants and wishes list. And she found it easy to enjoy the ebullient county manager's company.

She pushed the button for line two.

“Camille? What a nice surprise!”

“Well, good afternoon to
you
,
hermana.
” Camille Stratton's Midwest twang grated on the Spanish. “Say, did you happen to talk with Dad this morning?”

“I haven't. Court's been taking a lot of time this week. We're going to try for dinner tomorrow evening.” She glanced at her calendar to make sure that Friday was still clear.

“Court,” Camille said with disgust. “I was
so
relieved when that silly manslaughter lawsuit against Dad got tossed. I mean, there were absolutely no grounds, but you know how those things can drag on and on and on until every last lawyer has sucked up every last shekel.”

“Worrisome,” Estelle allowed. “And we're all glad it's over.”

“Well, if you shoot somebody, I guess you can expect that to happen, but Dad certainly didn't have any choice, did he? The asinine judge should have just chucked the whole thing on day one.”

“Everyone gets to have his say, silly or no,” Estelle said.

“I suppose. Anyway, done is done. Did you happen to talk with him yesterday?”

Estelle's mind went blank. Had she? Court proceedings had taken all day on Tuesday, and then her mother had been a worry—detached, far from her usual acerbic self, obviously preoccupied about something—but at age ninety-nine, who knew what? Estelle talked with former sheriff Bill Gastner so routinely that for a moment she had to think hard. “The last time I talked with
Padrino
was Sunday night at dinner, Camille. Carlos made green chile lasagna.”

Camille laughed. “God, those kids of yours. We need to clone them. And, oh,” she said suddenly, “we had some friends over the other day and watched the CD of the Posadas Concert with Francisco and that other youngster. His classmate.”

“Mateo Atencio,” Estelle prompted. “The flutist.”

“About the tenth time for us, I think. Just breathtaking. And I think my youngest—she's home now from Berkeley—is in love with your son. Or maybe it was Mateo who made her swoon. Or both. Hell, I don't know. Anyway, once again it was quite a treat. Mark did some Internet skimming and found that the boys are giving a concert in
Chicago
in late September. Did you know about that one? At the Garden Auditorium downtown?”

“September fourteenth.” Estelle had noticed the concert promo in one of the Leister Academy's flyers. “Quite a venue.” She hadn't taken time to read the details, but had been struck by the name of the place, and the small color photo included that showed an indoor glass dome with Lake Michigan in the background.

“We were thinking of going…it's not all that far.
Anyway,
” she said, “if you see Dad today, would you have him call me? I've tried about six times yesterday and today. I think his answering machine is off or something.”

“That's not surprising. But, yes, I'll swing by there this afternoon if I can't make contact before.”

“I'd appreciate it. I know I'm a worrywart, but with Dad, there's no telling. I wish we could find the old badger some live-in romance or something.”

Estelle laughed. “He's been spending a lot of time out at our new astronomy theme park. That's his current romance. Right now, they're in the middle of building the tramway up the side of the mesa. That's neat to watch, but I think
Padrino
is more interested in the site archaeology.”

“Well, no wonder, then. I'm glad he's busy.” Camille laughed ruefully. “A cranky, busted-up seventy-six-year-old heart and stroke patient climbing around on cliff-side boulders and such, swatting at rattlesnakes?
That's
not much of a worry. Especially since he refuses to carry his cell phone at least half the time. And I bought him one of those medical alerts he's supposed to hang around his neck. Does he do that? Noooooooo.”

“He does what he does, whether we know where he is or not. And loves every moment of it. He's incorrigible.”

“Ain't that the truth. When you see him, have him call me, all right?”

“I'll do my best.”

“How's your hunky husband doing? You know, Mark and I want to visit down there sooner rather than later. Mark is fascinated by the international clinic concept that Francis has going. Especially since you guys have let the dentist in.”

“Camille, I wish you and Mark would treat us with a visit. Francis is talking about adding a
veterinarian
to the mix, if you can believe that.” Estelle knew that, with his own wealthy patient load, oral surgeon Mark Stratton would find the small, rural Posadas clinic a culture shock, with its large percentage of patients from south of the border.

“Ye Gods, dogs and cats. Just what he needs. But look, is there any chance of you guys coming for the Chicago concert? We could have a nice reunion over here. It's been too long. And you know our guest room situation. We could quarter an army.”

“We have been talking about it.”

“Well, talk some more, and then do it. These moments are fleeting. I mean, fourteen years old and in concert at
the Garden
? Who woulda thunk? Next thing you know, this handsome little kid musician is going to be celebrating his fortieth birthday for God's sakes, and where will
we
be? You could bring Dad up with you. September is easy traveling. He'd love it.”

“I'll talk to him about that.” Bill Gastner had visited Flint on more than one occasion, and
loving it
had never been a description he'd used.

“And you'll check on him today for me? He thinks I try to smother him from a distance, but my gosh, Estelle.”

“He's a tough case,” Estelle laughed. “We'll be in touch, though. Thanks for calling, Camille.”

“And do think about September. Really do.”

“I really will.”

She hung up and took a long, deep breath. Camille's agenda was indeed to smother her aging father with long-distance care. Bill Gastner didn't accept smothering well. On the infrequent occasions when Camille visited Posadas, Estelle had learned to stay well out of the epicenter. Still, because she had promised to do so, the undersheriff dialed Gastner's home phone. No answering machine came to life even after a dozen rings, and no life in the cell phone.

She had fifty minutes before her appointment with Dennis Mears—she could be at Gastner's spreading adobe fortress in three. On her way out of the Public Safety Building, she stopped at dispatch. “By some remote chance, does three hundred have his radio turned on?”

Wheeler frowned and turned just enough to touch the transmit pedal with his foot. “Three zero zero, PCS. Ten twenty?”

The radio remained silent. “Who knows?” Wheeler shrugged. “Half the time he forgets.” Long retired, Bill Gastner still carried a Sheriff's Department radio in his SUV. Never a meddler, never looking to be underfoot, he still continued to be a valuable information resource for the department, a walking Posadas County gazetteer.