Convenient Disposal (22 page)

He accepted the card, read it carefully, and tucked it into his back pocket. “Yeah,” he said. “Did you talk with Tony?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded and accepted that as a sufficient answer.

“I’m sorry about your sister, Mauro. We’re doing all we can. And I appreciate your help.” She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He didn’t pull away.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Tony Acosta looked pleased to leave his Language Arts class, locked down as it was in the middle of a vocabulary test. What Bob Torrez would have described as Tony’s “shit-eating grin” faded when he saw Estelle.

“Tony, this is Undersheriff Guzman,” Maestas said after the classroom door had closed and they’d stepped far enough away that the other kids wouldn’t hear them. “She needs to talk to you for a little bit.” Maestas nodded and stretched out a hand toward Estelle. “Stop back by the office when you’re finished, all right?” Somehow, Maestas made the question sound as if he’d said, “I’m still the principal around here.”

“Thanks, sir,” Estelle said. She motioned toward the exit sign at the end of the hallway. “Let’s go outside,” she said to Tony. The door opened onto a small landing with a railing, a perfect outdoor conference area.

She read the worried look on Tony’s plump face correctly, because he visibly brightened when she said, “Carmen’s going to be all right, Tony. That’s the latest word from your folks.”

“Did they say when they’re coming back?” he asked.

“No…it might be a couple days yet. Look, I know one of the other deputies has talked to you already, but I had just a few questions, all right? A few things to clear up.”

“Sure.” He didn’t look sure. Estelle watched his face and decided that Tony didn’t have as much delinquency baggage as his little brother. The older boy had no trouble making eye contact. He favored simple jeans and a heavy-metal T-shirt that would have gotten him expelled a decade before. While Mauro worked at hiding his lean, trim form under baggy gangbanger clothes, Tony seemed relaxed inside his skin, his pudgy build making him seem the younger of the two brothers.

“When you and Mauro left school on Tuesday after your fifth-period classes—at noon—did you go home, or anywhere near Candelaria?”

“No, ma’am. I went over to a buddy’s apartment. I don’t know where Mauro went.” Tony’s version of the afternoon differed in essentials from Deena Hurtado’s scenario, but the boy
might
have forgotten his visit to the convenience store…or Deena might have fabricated it.

“So at no time on Tuesday did you happen to see any strangers around your street? Anyone you didn’t know?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Who does Carmen know that might have assaulted her like that? Is there anyone?” He shook his head. “Not Paul Otero?”

“Nah,” Tony said quickly.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Paul’s a lover, not a fighter.” His cherubic face lit up in a broad smile that showed an expanse of braces. “Like me.”

“How well do you know Kevin Zeigler, Tony?”

The boy looked surprised. “Well enough to know
he
didn’t do it.”

“You sound pretty positive.”

“Well, I am. He just wouldn’t. He’s a friend. He’s our neighbor. Did you guys find out where he went yet?”

“No, not yet. Tell me about him.”

“About Mr. Zeigler? He’s a neat guy.” Tony stopped suddenly, looking as if he wished he could retract what he’d said. “I mean, you know. He’s okay.”

“You’ve gone riding a time or two with him and William Page, I understand.”

“Yeah. They got these really bad bikes, you know. I mean, they’re about as expensive as a car.”

“That’s what you rode when the three of you went up on the mesa a couple of weeks ago?”

Tony nodded.

“Not your own bike?”

“I ain’t got a bike right now. The frame broke.”

“So you rode Kevin’s mountain bike?”

“Yeah. He let me take it.”

“What did he ride?”

“He took one of the racing bikes. William had the other mountain bike.”

“You had fun?”

Tony hesitated. “Well, it was okay.” A slow rueful smile crept across his face. “Those guys don’t just go out to play around. I mean, they’re
fast
. ”

“Tough workout, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.
Very
tough. I thought I was going to die.”

“All the time you were with them, or any other time, they never talked about trouble with anybody?”

“Trouble?”

“Sure. Arguments they might have had with someone…disagreements, that sort of thing.”

“No, not that I heard. They’re kind of cool.”

“Kind of cool.”

“Yeah. I mean, I know about ’em, you know. I think they’re kinda funny, sometimes. Like a couple of old ladies.” He limp-wristed a small wave. “But they’re okay. They don’t give me a hard time.”

“Why would they?”

“Well,” Tony said, and hesitated. “That’s what people think, you know.”

“Do you know a lot of people who talk about them?”

“No. Not a lot. But it’s not like it’s any big secret or anything.” He shook his head in wonder. “For a long time, my dad didn’t know they were gay. When he found out, he didn’t know what to do.”

“What’s there to do?”

“Well, that’s what my ma told him.”

“Tell me about the last ride you guys did.”

“We just went up on the mesa.”

“Just?” She smiled at Tony. “That’s quite a climb.”

“Yeah. I felt kinda dumb. I had to get off and walk, and here these two old guys are, just cruisin’ right up. Ridin’ circles around me.”

“You didn’t see anybody on that ride? Or when you came back?”

“No. Well, the guys at the dump. We saw them. Kevin said something kinda mad, but I didn’t hear what it was. He said something to William.”

“By ‘the guys at the dump,’ do you mean the landfill manager? Or the young man who works for him?”

“Both. They were both right there at the little house. You know where the scales are? They saw us, and one of ’em lets out this real loud whistle. You know, like you hear on the street.”

“A wolf whistle, you mean?”

“That’s it. One of ’em did that, and Kevin just waved a little, kinda like this”—and he rotated his wrist. “Like he was sayin’ ‘asshole.’ I was a ways behind ’em, and I didn’t hear what he said. Just something to William, you know, like you say to someone when you don’t want someone else to hear.”

“And then you went on up the hill? Up the mesa?”

“All the way to the rim.” He shook his head wearily. “By then I was about half dead.”

“It must have been fun coming down, though.”

“Not really. The road’s rough, and it’s just about as much work as goin’ up.” He flashed braces again. By the time he grew into himself, Estelle decided, Tony Acosta was going to be a lady-killer in his own right. “Maybe a little better on the paved part.”

“That’s the way you came back into town? On County Forty-three?” Tony nodded. “What did you guys talk about, mostly?”

Tony stared at the steps, thinking hard. “Mr. Page talked a lot about his business. What he does with computer imaging and stuff. It sounds neat. He invited me to stop by his place in Socorro if I got up that way. By his business.”

“But neither one of them ever talked about anybody they’ve had troubles with?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Tony, let me ask you something. If Kevin had seen someone—let’s say a stranger—assaulting your sister, what do you think he would have done?”

“He would have climbed right in the middle of it,” Tony said without hesitation. He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Me and my brother were goin’ at it once. My folks weren’t home. He was out back and heard us, and came over. I thought Mauro was going to throw a punch at him when he grabbed him by the arm, but Kevin just climbed into his face, you know? Kinda that wild, ‘go ahead, punk, I dare you’ look? So yeah—he woulda done something. Is that what you think happened?”

“I don’t know, Tony. We’re not sure what happened. We’re hoping that before much longer, your sister can tell us.”

He shook his head slowly in disbelief. “I just can’t see someone doin’ that.”

“Did you know that your sister carried a hat pin in her jeans?”

“That dork,” Tony said. “You know what I told her last week? In fact”—and he suddenly looked very mature and sure of himself—“it was just before that volleyball game where she and Deena had their fight?”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her that if she kept wearin’ that stupid thing, someone was going to rip it out of her hand and shove it right up her ass.” He blushed. “Really. That’s what I told her.”

“I’m sorry that you were right, in a manner of speaking,” Estelle said.

“Yeah. Me, too. Too bad it wasn’t her ass.” He held his shoulders up and made a face. “They don’t think it went into her brain though. That’s really gross.”

Estelle handed Tony one of her cards, and he regarded it thoughtfully. “This is just in case you remember something else that you think I should know, Tony.”

“We’re going to miss having them around,” he said. “I mean Kevin and William.”

“We’ll do our best, Tony.”

“Yeah, but how often when someone goes missing like this do you ever find ’em alive? I mean, Kevin didn’t just go to the pizza place and forget to come back.”

“I wish we had an answer for that.” Estelle thumbed the latch on the outside door. “You’d better get back to class.”

“Hey, no rush,” he said with a smile. “It was just a test. I already finished.”

“Aced it?”

He cocked his head in easy self-assurance and stepped back inside, tucking Estelle’s business card in his hip pocket as he did so.

“What a charmer,” Estelle murmured. She walked around the end of the building, cutting cross-lots toward her county car. She didn’t bother stopping to chat with the principal, Charlie Maestas. Back in the car, she keyed the radio.

“PCS, three ten is ten-eight at the high school.”

“Ten-four, three ten.” Estelle waited, but no further message followed. No one else was having any better luck than she was.

Chapter Thirty

A pickup truck loaded with elm limbs towering precariously over the cab was parked on the scales in front of the landfill office, and the attendant leaned on the door, chatting with the driver. His clipboard was tucked under his arm, and when Estelle pulled into the landfill, he glanced back at her and then continued his conversation.

The undersheriff turned hard to the left and parked the county car with its nose to the chain-link fence, beside a flashy motorcycle and a dilapidated imported pickup truck. She got out and stretched. The landfill featured an impressive view, but she knew that its location had been one of Kevin Zeigler’s pet peeves. More than once at county meetings, she’d heard his comments about the location. To bury refuse
above
the village, even though the location was five miles out of town, made no sense to Zeigler.

An area in the bleak eastern prairie, out beyond the MacInernys’ gravel pit, had been offered to the county. To relocate the landfill, and perhaps to then hire a private contractor to manage it, were decisions toward which the county moved with the speed of an inchworm.

Off to the left, Estelle could see the dirt two-track that wound up the mesa from town, and she could imagine the three cyclists—one pushing his bike, heart pounding in his ears, sweat soaking his shirt.

“Help you?”

Estelle turned and smiled at Bart Kurtz. “I was sightseeing,” she said.

“Hey, no charge for that.” Kurtz turned and watched the loaded pickup waddle over the rough ground toward the edge of the current refuse pit. “They don’t always go where we tell ’em,” he observed soberly. Of medium height and beefy build, Kurtz was working on a potbelly that looked as if he were pregnant.

When the truck turned away from the pit and headed toward a large pile of limb wood and similar burnable trash far in the back of the open, graded area, Kurtz slapped the clipboard for some sort of emphasis, and turned to look at Estelle. “You just cruisin’?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Estelle said.

“Don ain’t here just yet,” Kurtz said as if he didn’t actually believe the undersheriff’s answer. He ambled over to the office door and hung the clipboard on a nail.

“That’s okay,” Estelle said. “Everything been quiet up here?”

Kurtz laughed. A dentist would have recoiled at the sight. “
That’s
the truth,” he said. He squinted into the sun, watching as the pickup backed up to the massive pile of branches. A man and small boy pulled the elm limbs off the truck, sailing them onto the edge of the pile.

“Is that your bike?” Estelle asked.

“Nah. That’s Don’s. That’s his toy.”

“Nice machine.”

He turned and looked at Estelle. “You ride, do you?”

“No.”

One of the village garbage trucks groaned off the county highway onto the dirt road to the landfill. “You might want to step over this way,” Kurtz said, and Estelle did so. The truck pulled onto the scale, the driver expertly centering the eight rear wheels on the plate. The driver looked as if he might have been one of Mauro Acosta’s classmates. He lifted a hand in salute, then lurched the truck forward when Kurtz signaled.

When the big diesel was far enough away that Estelle could make herself heard without shouting, she asked, “Everyone weighs?”

“Everyone. All the time. But if it don’t come up to five hundred pounds, we don’t charge. Like them over there.” He waved a hand at the pickup with its load of tree trimmings.

“I didn’t think so. I don’t ever remember paying. Did the county manager come by here earlier this week?”

Kurtz wiped his hands on his county-issue dark green work clothes, then groped a cigarette out of his breast pocket. He took his time, examining the little butane lighter before lighting it as if it were a complex operation requiring all his skill and attention. “You mean yesterday?”

“Whenever.”

“Didn’t see him yesterday. Nope.”

“How about Tuesday?”

“We aren’t open on Tuesdays, so I wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask Don.”

The large white sign on the chain-link gate, now pushed open against the fence, announced landfill hours for the public from 7
AM
to 5
PM
, Wednesday through Sunday. “The boss is here on Tuesdays?”

Kurtz sucked on the cigarette, inhaling deeply. “Well, sometimes he is,” he said, as if loath to give away too much information. “Paperwork and the like. He takes care of all of that.”

“Are you part-time, or…”

Kurtz shook his head. “Wish I was. No. I’m here, all the time.”

“Don, too?”

“Well, sure. He generally takes Saturday off, though. Makes up for coming in on Tuesdays, I guess.” He examined the cigarette, ticking off the ash with his little finger. “He don’t like to miss the flea market.”

“You’re talking about the one down in Pershing Park sometimes?”

“Oh, hell, no,” Kurtz said. “He goes on down to Cruces for that big one. Hits it every week.” He nodded at where the village truck was disgorging its load, like a giant insect expelling a large, compact dropping that crashed out onto the graded apron just short of the pit. “You wouldn’t believe the things that some people throw away.”

“Oh, I think I would,” Estelle said agreeably. “You said Don’s coming in today?”

“Oh, he’s already been here. We got a blown hydraulic hose on the Cat.” He stepped out from the building. “He just ran down to pick up a new one at Clark’s.”

“There’s always something, isn’t there,” Estelle said. The bulldozer was parked beside an amazing pile of junked appliances. Impressive as it was, the dozer was dwarfed by the collection of hot-water heaters, stoves, refrigerators, washers, and dryers. “I always supposed that with the number of appliances we see shot full of holes out on the mesa, there wouldn’t be many left for you guys,” Estelle said, and Kurtz grunted a derisive chuckle.

More traffic turned into the landfill road, this time a small station wagon followed by another pickup truck sagging under a load of old lumber.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Estelle said as Kurtz reached for his clipboard.

She walked out along the northern fence line, taking her time and paying attention to her footing. Bits of metal, wire, plastic, and rotten wood littered the ground, churned and mixed with the red soil by the constant working of the dozer and dump traffic, presenting a thousand ways to puncture a tire.

The appliance graveyard formed a white mountain, beside another mountain created by discarded tires, and Estelle headed for that. The village garbage truck pulled away from the pit, its fat tires churning up thick clouds of red dust.

Skirting the foot of the appliance mountain, she stopped to look at a stove that had either tumbled off like a loose rock after a rain, or had been set aside. The kitchen range was so new that the manufacturer’s stickers were still affixed to the enameled top, but the fancy stove was junk. Perhaps it had fallen from a truck, smashing its delicate glass face and circuit boards against the pavement.

The tire mountain was several times larger than the one at the county maintenance yard, the bulk of the collection from passenger cars and light trucks.

Estelle skirted the pile and stopped beside the dozer. Sitting in the hot sun, the mammoth machine exuded its own body odor of diesel and grease. The two great frost hooks were poised like stingers from the bulldozer’s rear end. A toolbox rested crosswise on the polished, raw steel of several track cleats, a selection of wrenches scattered around it.

The hose that had blown was small, no larger in diameter than a finger. The rich fluid, jetting out under pressure, had soaked a fan-shaped stain on the dozer’s yellow flank. She started to walk around the front of the machine, missed her footing, and managed to catch herself by slamming a hand against the top edge of the blade.

“Careful there,” a voice behind her called out. She turned, brushing off her hands, and saw Don Fulkerson walking toward her. He carried a length of black hose, the fittings on the end clean, bright brass. “You gotta watch where you’re putting your feet around this place,” he said, and winked.

“I got to looking at other things,” Estelle said. She extended a hand in greeting, and Fulkerson tossed the new hose into the toolbox, then shook hands. His grip was firm, his hands rough and work hardened. He had cultivated an impressive spade-shaped beard, just starting to turn white around the edges. Estelle could picture him leaning back on his rushing motorcycle, the wind cushioning his beard upward like a platter.

“You thinking of taking up diesel mechanics?” Fulkerson said, and winked again. He pulled at one of the wide suspenders that held up his Carhartts.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Bart said it blew a hose?”

“That’s what she did. No big deal, though. We’ll have her goin’ here in about ten minutes.” He patted the track affectionately.

Estelle stepped away from the dozer and watched an elderly man unload his Volvo station wagon, sailing one item at a time onto the pile. “I don’t think most people understand what a big operation this is,” she said.

Fulkerson leaned comfortably against the dozer’s left track, crossed his boots, and fished out first a pack of cigarettes, and then a bag of tobacco and sheaf of papers. He slipped the ready-mades back into his pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette. “Keeps us busy,” he said. “You want some coffee?” He nodded at the thermos, nestled in a jacket stuffed in a bed of hydraulic plumbing under the dozer’s seat.

“No thanks.”

“What’s with Zeigler?” Fulkerson asked. “I assume that’s who you’re looking for. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cop cars roamin’ around the county.”

“I don’t know what’s with him,” Estelle said. “I wish we did.”

“You think someone dumped him up here?” The crow’s-feet around his sparkling blue eyes crinkled, and he winked—an expression that appeared now to be more of a tic than amused conspiracy.

“We’re checking every place we can think of,” Estelle said pleasantly. “You wouldn’t believe some of the nooks and corners of this county that we’ve found in the past day or so.”

“You know what I think?” He lit the cigarette with a strike match, popped expertly with a thumbnail. “I think he’s in Mexico.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“What makes you think that, sir?”

“Well, you think of the opportunity,” he said, his round, ruddy face settling into an expression of satisfaction, pleased that he should know the answers. “You think of all the money that guy handles in the course of his job.” He inhaled deeply. “That’s a heck of a temptation, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it could be.”

“Damn right.” Fulkerson arose, stretched up, and brought down the thermos. He unscrewed the cup and cap and poured. “You sure?”

“No thanks, sir. I’m not much of a coffee drinker.” A light aroma other than coffee, creamer, and sugar drifted out to Estelle’s nostrils.

Fulkerson spun the thermos cap back on, tossed the container back into its bed, and settled back against the dozer. “So that’s what I figure. Cut and run.” He took a thoughtful sip. “Mexico’s just only over the hill, right? I guess you know all about that.”

“Somehow I can’t picture Kevin Zeigler down in old Mexico,” Estelle said.

Fulkerson shrugged. “You never know what someone like that is going to do.”

“I suppose not.”

“’Course, nobody asks me.” He sipped the coffee, looked appreciative, and winked at Estelle again. “I keep tellin’ the president, there, you know, ‘Before you go doing something stupid, you just ask old Don, here.’ He never does.”

Estelle touched the toe of her shoe to the bulldozer’s track. “Tell me, then. What do you think happened?”

Fulkerson relaxed back and took a longer pull of the coffee, exhaling smoke at the same time through his nose. “Well, you know…it’s hard to say. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he just up and skipped. Like I say, there’s lots of opportunity.”

“But there aren’t bags of loose currency just lying around the county building, sir. Everything is done with purchase orders and checks.”

He looked at Estelle with sympathy at her lack of understanding. “There’s
always
ways, little lady. There’s
always
ways.”

“Did you happen to see him in the past couple of days?”

“Sure.” Fulkerson ground out the cigarette against a steel track cleat. “He come up here Tuesday early. And after that, we were all at the county meeting, wasting the rest of the day.”

“Do you remember what time he was here that morning?”

“Just after I got here. It’d be about seven-ten or so.”

“But you’re closed on Tuesdays. Did he drive up here for any particular reason?”

“Well, Tuesday was the commission meeting. I was up here getting some paperwork ready. Miss Ziggy had requested some facts and figures, and I guess he thought I might forget to bring ’em along. So he stopped by.”

“Miss Ziggy?”

Fulkerson’s face lost some of its Santa Claus innocence, and he let his smirk explain the nickname.

“And then he left with the paperwork, and that was it?”

“Yup.”

“Huh,” Estelle said, and shook her head. “You didn’t see him at any other time after that, other than at the meeting?”

“Just at the county meeting. You were there.” He winked.

“Did the two of you meet back here over the noon hour?”

Fulkerson frowned, his face wrinkling as if to say, “What, are you nuts?” “If he showed up here, he had the place to himself,” he said. “I had better things to do.”

“I noticed that the commissioners dumped the agenda item about the landfill,” Estelle said. “That was Mr. Zeigler’s brainchild, wasn’t it?”

“You can say that again,” Fulkerson said fervently. “What a goddamn waste of money
that
little boondoggle would have been.”

“So you don’t agree with him, then.”

“Sheeeit,” Fulkerson said with considerable disgust. “That’s the last thing a little county like this one needs is some outsider company running the landfill. Ziggy’s a fan of
consolidation
, ” he said, emphasizing the word as if it were a whiff of sulfur dioxide. “
Stream
line everything. Like the village giving up its police department. Now he’s got his hands on that. You just watch, young lady.” He winked knowingly. “You be careful of that one.”