Come Dark (8 page)

Chapter Nine

Deputy Tom Pasquale leaned back in the chair, regarding the computer screen. Not a touch typist, and years before having paid more attention to the shapely neck of the young lady in the seat in front of him than to the high school English grammar syllabus, writing came as a chore for him. At the moment that Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman knocked on the cubicle door—the deputy's personal office was hardly more than that—Pasquale was stymied by the word “disguised.” He deleted his last attempt and typed “dressed to look like,” which may have been more exact in meaning, anyway. He looked up at the undersheriff.

“I may be here all week.”

“The SO in Cathay will appreciate your efforts,” Estelle said. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a couple of questions for you.”

“Sure.” He pushed back from the keyboard, always pleased when he had the chance for more than a passing “hello” with the undersheriff.

Estelle entered the office and pulled the single steel folding chair out of the corner. “When you drove into the parking lot at The Spree
,
you came in from the north side?”

The deputy looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Yes.”

“And you were driving toward the store, down the parking lot aisle that would be in front of where Stacie Stewart parked her Volvo. She was on your right.” Her slender, expressive fingers drew the map in the air.

“Yes.”

“When you first saw her, did you actually see her climb out of the car, or was she already starting to walk away from it?”

Pasquale hesitated. “I saw her when she was just leaving the car, about twenty-five yards away from me. I saw her slam the driver's door. She had a small purse slung over her shoulder, and she turned toward the store. She just walked behind all the other cars, staying out of the middle of the aisle.”

“She was alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did she notice you?”

“Yes, ma'am. She looked back at me and waved.” Pasquale twiddled his fingers. “And then she continued on to the store, walkin' pretty quickly.”

“You watched her all the way? You actually saw her go through the auto doors and enter the store?”

“Yes.”

“There was no way she might have turned and walked along the storefront, where all the yard and garden inventory is on display?”

“No. I saw her go into the store.”

“Did you see her for long enough that you could describe her mood?”

Knowing that his undersheriff appreciated precision without stinting on information that might turn out to be important, Pasquale thought carefully, framing his answer.

“Just busy. Not wastin' any time. Like she knew exactly what she was after.” He shrugged. “Friendly enough when she saw me, but she didn't stop to chat. No big sexy smile for me.”

“Would the sexy smile have been the norm?”

Pasquale ducked his head with embarrassment. “Well, no.”

“No particular urgency, then? Did she seem preoccupied?”

Pasquale shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe, 'cause she wasn't wasting any time. She just kind of breezed by, you know?”

Estelle regarded the young deputy for a moment. “Give me your best estimate, Thomas. From the moment you saw her enter the store to when
you
went searching for her inside…how many minutes was that?”

He closed his eyes, replaying the mental tape. “Okay, she got out of the car, walked down the lot quickly and went in the store. That's a minute, or minute and a half. Then I cruised a little farther and saw the Fusion with the Illinois plate. I thought about that for a couple minutes, then called dispatch for the twenty-eight. Couple minutes there. The hit came back in another couple of minutes. I asked Mike to recheck for me. He did that, and then the sheriff called me on the phone. He was comin' in for the complaint about a kid locked in a car. Just a little while later, he rolls up, asks me where the complainant was, old Miss Barber, and I pointed her out. The sheriff drove over, and he and Miss Barber talked for just a little bit while he scoped out the situation. Then the sheriff went to pop the window, and at the same time told me to go inside and search for Stacie.”

Estelle held up her hand. “At that point—from when you actually saw her enter the store until
you
entered after her—how many minutes do you suppose that was?”

Pasquale pulled a small notebook out of his pocket, found an empty page, and computed. He found an answer he agreed with and looked up at Estelle. “I'd guess between eight or nine minutes. Maybe as much as ten.”

“So if she was taken, that's how long the abductors had to work. Grab her, keep her quiet, and exit the building—or for her to find a hiding spot where nobody would think to look. Nine or ten minutes.”

“We looked everywhere, ma'am. Every storeroom, employees' lounge, bathroom, Dumpster, you name it. And Tilda had the whole store on camera, too. She was not there. No way.”

“Are the cameras on DVD?”

“I didn't ask. God, if they are, we'll watch her walk right in, and see when she leaves.”

“You need to give Tilda a call and see if the cameras are recorded. That's more important than the paperwork just now. If she left the building by her own volition, that's the time window—nine minutes or maybe a little more.”

“Let me call.” He pushed back and reached for the phone.

Back in her own office, Estelle composed a carefully worded e-mail message to Stacie Stewart, saying nothing about Ginger or the puppy, but requesting a contact as soon as possible. She knew that the message was just a
delete
keystroke away from being a waste of time.

That finished, she opened her own notebook and found first the Summers' land line in Las Cruces, and Dana's cell phone. She hesitated, then dialed the Summers' residence. After seven rings, the answering machine kicked in. That in turn was interrupted by a man's abrupt, “Yeah-lo.”

“Mr. Summers?”

“Speaking.”

“Sir, this is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman over in Posadas. May I speak with Dana, please?”

“Sure. She's out in the backyard at the pool. Just hang on a second.”

Estelle did so, hearing the slam of a door and far off voices. A full two minutes later, Summers came back on the line. “She's gone out shopping or something. You want a call back? Is there some kind of problem?”

Two minutes to establish that she went shopping…or something?
Estelle thought. “A call back would be good. Whenever it's convenient for her. No emergency.”

“This is in regards to…?”

“If you'd have her call me, I'd appreciate it,” Estelle said.

Summers hesitated, and then decided not to pursue the evasion. “Okay. Sure. I'm not sure when they're planning to be back.”

“That's fine. Just whenever you see her next.” She recited her contact number and then hung up, wondering if Mr. Summers, whom she had never met, had repeated her name to Dana—who would recognize it. She pictured the woman sitting beside the pool in a deck chair, perhaps sharing an intimate moment of conversation with her mother. If Dana Gabaldon was like a vast majority of young women, her cell phone was within arm's length.

“No dice,” Tom Pasquale said. He had appeared in Estelle's office doorway, ghost-quiet until Estelle was off the phone. “They don't have recorders hooked up yet. Just a live feed. That's another thing on their ‘to do' list.”

“Everyone leaves a track, Thomas. Somewhere, somehow. We all keep looking until we find it.”

***

The new office of Posadas Electric Cooperative nestled just north of the hospital, and Art Acevedo's tiny yellow Smart Car was parked in the last slot at the north end, unthreatened by the flow of sharp-cornered utility trucks in and out. Estelle eased the Charger into the space beside the diminutive vehicle, recalling County Manager Leona Spears' comment about how cute the tiny Smart would look with a red and blue light rack mounted on top, and sheriff's stars on the doors. The sheriff had not been amused, largely because Leona had made the quip in public at a County Commission meeting—one of the rare meetings that the sheriff had bothered to attend. Estelle was fairly certain that Bobby Torrez hadn't realized that the county manager was kidding.

Art Acevedo was leaning on the receptionist's desk, pointing at something on the young woman's computer. He and Millie Wagoner looked up at the same time, and Acevedo beamed, his huge, round face looking far too much like a human emoticon. Straightening up, he extended a meaty paw, and even swung out his elbow as if preparing to crush her hand. But his grip was gentle.

“Sheriff, we got the air conditioning runnin' today, don't we?”

“Nice out there, nice in here.” The office was typically frigid. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“You bet. Where's the big guy? We could all go to lunch together.”

“Bobby is tied up with about half a dozen things. I wish we had the time.” She followed Acevedo down the narrow hallway, past the gallery of huge photos showing Posadas Electric in operation. The gallery continued in the manager's office with various photos of Acevedo posing with governmental luminaries—including three of him schmoozing with former governors. A color photo enlarged to near-poster size and framed in heavy walnut hung behind Acevedo's desk. In the photo, Acevedo wore a hardhat and was shaking George W. Bush's hand. The president, smiling, was gesturing with his left hand at something off on the horizon.

“So, if I can't talk you into lunch, how about coffee? Tea? Cold beer?” Acevedo laughed pleasantly, and folded his hands on his desk blotter.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Well, that's easy. What's going on? You following up on that utility pole from last night?” Acevedo's face lost some of its good humor. “I heard the driver was flown out to Albuquerque. Banged-up pretty badly.”

“I only read the report this morning, Art. But that's my understanding.”

“Hard one. First he kills a deer, then goes off the lane and splits one of our poles.” He grimaced. “All of that in a twenty-five zone on a gravel road.”

“No twenty-five for that one. Deputy Bishop said it looked more like fifty or sixty.”

“Christ. Well, they do it all the time, don't they? So what's on your plate this morning? Is one of ours in trouble?”

“Mr. Acevedo, has Stacie Stewart been in today?”

“I'm sure she is, somewheres. You want to speak with her?”

“If it's convenient.”

He reached across to the phone complex and was about to push a button when he stopped abruptly. “No, wait…she doesn't come in on Fridays.” His grin flashed. “You almost got me there.” He glanced sideways at Estelle. “She works some amazing hours.”

Estelle waved a hand as if Stacie Stewart's schedule was of little importance. “I'll catch her tomorrow. Thanks anyway.”

“Monday will work,” Acevedo corrected. Estelle rose, and Acevedo pushed away from his desk. “Come see us more often.” His handshake was a repeat, and he kept his grip a little longer than necessary. “Have you been able to spend some time out at the project?”

“The Project,” the nickname around town for Miles Waddell's
NightZone
, had consumed most of the county's resources for the past two years.

“More than enough.”

“It seems like that's all we're doing.” Acevedo shook his head in resignation. “It'll be a monster money-maker for us when it's all up and running. By Christmas, they're saying now.”

“With luck.”

“More like Christmas of next year, I'm thinking. If I see Ms. Stewart, you want me to have her call you?”

“Yes, please. When you saw her
yesterday,
did she happen to mention anything out of the ordinary to you? Trips out of town, or anything like that?”

“You know, I didn't see her much, 'cause I was out
there,”
and he nodded to the southwest, in the direction of the theme park. “But I saw her late in the day, gosh, not long before quittin' time.”

“Did she say something like, ‘See you Monday'?”

“That's exactly what she said. She asked if I was going to the big game, and I said I had to miss it. But, yeah…‘
See you Monday.
'
Why? What's going on?”

“We just need to talk. About daycare.”

“Oh,” Acevedo said, his expression showing complete understanding. “Well, I'll tell her you called.”

“Thanks.” Outside, she sat in the car for a moment. Did Dana Gabaldon know where her friend had gone? Did she know that Stacie's child, Ginger, had been locked in the car along with the excitable puppy? If that were the case, of course she would be reticent about talking with the law. The questions were worth spending two hours out of county. Estelle started the Charger, set the air conditioning for seventy-four degrees, and pulled out of the parking lot, heading south on Grande toward the interstate. In less than a block, dispatch had answered the phone.

“I'll be in Cruces for a little bit,” Estelle said. “I should be back by four.”

“Affirmative,” Mike Esperanza said. “They got something going on at the school. They may be calling you in.”

“Two hours, and I'll be back. The sheriff didn't say what it was?”

“That's negative.”

Estelle had not driven two miles when the phone jarred her thoughts, and she thumbed the controls on the steering wheel.

“Guzman.”

The sheriff's voice was amped a little beyond his usual whisper and he didn't mince words. “Needja back ASAP, Estelle. We got one down at the school.”

“Accident of some sort?” Something going on? There
was
no school on this particular Friday. Bob Torrez didn't make contact with hopes of a meeting later in the week, or even later in the day. ASAP meant just that, regardless of what the
something
was. She braked hard and swung into the broad, jouncing center median.