Before She Dies (9 page)

Chapter 13

Not so many hours before, Linda Real had smiled at me from across the Sheriff’s Department parking lot as she walked toward the patrol car, lugging her camera bag, notebook, and God knows what else reporters carry. And then the last time I’d seen her, on that Sunday night when she should have been on her way home from a date with a nice, friendly kid who knew how to behave himself, she was a torn, bloody rag doll.

Now, lying at the mercy of all the hissing, clicking intensive care gadgetry, she seemed tiny, frail, childlike. Her head was bandaged with the exception of her right eye and cheek. Drip tubes stabbed into the back of her right hand. Her left hand was curled at the wrist, as if she were trying to hold on to something.

Holman, Estelle, and I had arrived at the hospital shortly before nine that Monday evening. We entered through the back service entrance, and outside the double doors of the intensive care unit I was relieved to find only the village cop who was working security.

Standing beside the hospital bed, I watched what I could see of Linda’s face and wondered where she was.

I could remember distinctly a long, complex dream that I’d had sometime during the swim to the surface after open heart surgery three years before. After hiking for hours along an abandoned narrow-gauge railroad bed, I’d found a red glass crystal bell from a Shay locomotive. Then I’d spent days trying to find an antique dealer who would give me an honest appraisal for the imaginary artifact.

Maybe Linda’s mind was off somewhere, engaging itself in adventures of its own while her assaulted body recuperated.

Estelle reached over and took Linda’s left hand in hers. There was no response.

I glanced over at Dr. Francis Guzman. Estelle’s husband looked as weary as the rest of us. A full head taller than I was, he leaned against the wall, hands thrust in the pockets of his white coat.

“Any changes?” Martin Holman asked. He stood at the foot of the bed looking like a priest in his dark suit. If Linda awoke suddenly and saw him, she’d know she was in trouble.

Francis pushed himself upright and nodded toward the door. We went out in the hall; Patrolman Tom Pasquale looked up hopefully.

“Why don’t you go get yourself a cup of coffee,” I said, and Pasquale was off like a shot. He wanted to be out chasing bad guys, and there weren’t going to be many in the hospital hallway. Dr. Guzman crossed his arms.

“She’s stable. That’s about all the good news there is.”

“Stable?” Holman asked.

He nodded. “We’ve got the bleeding under control. That was our biggest worry.” He put his hand on the left side of his neck. “Two pellets did significant damage to the vessels in her neck. That was worrisome. One of them caused…” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “Well, a traumatic aneurysm is the best description. Fortunately for her the pellets were low velocity, comparatively. One of them nicked the wall of her left carotid. We had a balloon forming there.”

“She was lucky,” I said.

The physician nodded. “Another millimeter and the artery would have ruptured. That would have been that.”

“When do you think she’ll be able to talk?” Holman asked.

Francis managed a tired smile. “I can’t read a crystal ball, sheriff. She’s had nine hours of surgery so far. You assault the body that much, and it retreats. With the pain she’s going to be in when she regains consciousness, she’ll be under heavy sedation anyway.”

“Nine hours for a neck injury?” Holman said, puzzled.

“Not just the neck. She’s lost her left eye and the outer orbit is fractured. One of the pellets broke off two front teeth and did all kinds of damage before rattling around in her left sphenoidal sinus.” Holman winced, but Guzman didn’t stop. “And another pellet hit her jaw just under her cheekbone, an inch or so under the eye. Nasty, splintery fracture. There’s going to be lots of cosmetic surgery required down the road.”

“A long struggle ahead,” I said.

“You bet.” Francis took a deep breath. “A long, painful road. There’s a pretty long list of minor injuries that we haven’t even begun to think about yet. If she pulls out of this, there’ll be more surgery, more physical therapy. And with the loss of vision and the disfigurement, you can count on some psychological trauma as well. And by the way, Frank Dayan was here just a few minutes ago. He told me that his company is going to offer a ten-thousand-dollar reward. Did he talk to you about that?”

“I haven’t seen him since last night,” I said. “But anything will help.”

“Any leads?”

“None to speak of,” I said. “All we can guess is that the deputy stopped along the shoulder of the road for some reason, maybe to assist what he thought was a stranded motorist.” I held up my hands. “Shots were fired from across the highway, and then from right beside the patrol car. Three shots. That’s it.”

“No radio calls?”

I shook my head.

“Then Miss Real may be the only witness, is that right?”

“That’s it.”

“So there may be some risk for her.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “My gut feeling is that the killer is long gone. Some scumball just passing through.”

“But you’ve arranged for an officer to be posted here for the time being…”

I nodded. “Just a precaution. And to be here in case Linda regains consciousness and can answer a few simple questions. Someone needs to be here.”

Guzman looked absently down the hall in the direction the patrolman had gone. “My guess is that tonight is going to be the critical time. You might want an officer here who’s a little more…ah…concerned? Pasquale has the bedside manners of a pickup truck.”

I smiled. “Gayle Sedillos is coming in at ten, doctor. And the rest of us will be in and out.”

The young physician reached out and took Estelle by the elbow, shaking it affectionately. “How’s Sofia?”

Estelle grimaced. “Eating fried chicken and feeling left out of things.”

“I bet. I’m going to run home for a few minutes while Dr. Perrone is on the floor. I’ll ask Lucy Padilla to come over to the house and give a hand. I didn’t mean for Sofia to get stuck as nana.” He looked over at me. “My aunt likes children at a distance.”

“I noticed that,” I said.

“Maybe Sofia can come up with some interesting ideas,” Francis added, and I shrugged. I was open to anything.

Estelle Reyes-Guzman retreated to her tiny cubicle at the sheriff’s office to dust the lug wrench for prints. Holman and I were within fifty yards of Nick Chavez’s house on Fourth Street, behind the high school, when the radio crackled.

“PCS, this is three ten,” I replied, and shot Holman a glance. “Now what,” I muttered.

“Three ten, ten-nineteen.” I recognized Estelle’s voice then, and immediately pulled into a handy driveway to turn around.

“Why doesn’t she just say what she wants on the radio instead of asking us to drive all the way back to the office?” Holman asked.

“Because she doesn’t want half the county to hear the conversation,” I said. “And it’s only a few blocks.”

It wasn’t Estelle who wanted us. The sheriff and I walked into the dispatch room to be greeted by Howard Bishop, who looked almost awake.

“I thought you’d want to know,” Estelle said, and nodded at Bishop.

“Sir,” the deputy said, “NCIC has a hit on a stolen 1996 Chevrolet Suburban, white over blue.” He stopped and I impatiently beckoned him to continue. “Taken from Todd Svenson Motors in Albuquerque sometime between eight P.M. Saturday and nine A.M. Sunday morning. The only reported auto theft of a new vehicle since the previous Monday.”

“This one was taken right off the lot?”

Bishop nodded. “The manager’s name is Kenny Wilcox. I called him a few minutes ago. APD took the report shortly after nine Sunday morning, when Wilcox drove by the car lot on his way to church and noticed the Suburban was missing.”

“Keen eye.”

“Well, he said he had it parked on one of those inclined ramps for show.”

“How was it taken?” Holman asked.

Bishop frowned. “No broken glass. If they jimmied the door or window, they didn’t leave any traces behind. Wilcox said he had one of those steering wheel bar-locks on it, and that the axle was chained to the ramp.”

“The chain was cut somehow?”

“Yes,” Bishop said, puzzled by the obvious question.

“How was it cut, Howard?” Estelle prompted quietly.

“Wilcox didn’t know. They didn’t leave the chain behind.”

I looked at Holman. “Now there’s neat and tidy, Martin.”

Holman’s eyes narrowed. He was happy to be on familiar turf. “Did they have a lockbox on the truck?”

Bishop shook his head. “Wilcox said they don’t use window lockboxes anymore. Too easy just to crush. Even kids were swiping the keys. Wilcox said they take all the keys in at night.”

I sat down on the edge of the nearest desk. “Did you happen to ask the man what kind of tires the truck had on it?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t swear to the brand. That wasn’t on the invoice. Two other vehicles that came in the same shipment from the factory had Generals. But the size was listed on the invoice, and we got a match with the cast the sheriff worked on. Sixteen-inch LT235/85Rs. Standard size for that type of vehicle.”

“Bingo,” Estelle said softly, then added, “it’s something, sir. The first real lead we’ve had to follow. It may be just coincidence that the wrench we found is the same kind that comes as standard equipment on those vehicles, but it’s worth pursuing.”

Holman let out a high-pitched chirp of delight when the full import sank in. I smiled at Bishop. “Good job, Howard. Get on the horn to the Federales in Chihuahua and tell ’em what we’re looking for. If the killer was headed over the border, he’s had all the time in the world. He could be halfway to Mexico City by now. But they may turn something up.”

“I’ll have prints off the wrench in another few minutes,” Estelle said. “You might call Wilcox back and have APD dust down that ramp, if they haven’t already. We might get a match.”

Bishop nodded and I slapped Holman on the arm. “Let’s go talk with Nick Chavez.”

Holman glanced at his watch, ever the politician. I chuckled. “It doesn’t matter about the hour, Martin. This is the best time of day to work. You don’t have to worry about crowds.”

Chapter 14

At ten o’clock that Monday night, the streets of Posadas were deserted. Sheriff Holman and I drove west on Bustos Avenue past the park, and then turned south on Fourth Street.

Nick Chavez’s home was one of those cinder block things that were built in droves during the fifties when the mines showed signs of life. Contractors had bulldozed the field behind the high school and dumped enough concrete to make fifty or sixty slabs, then slapped the houses together. The three bedroom “homes,” as realtors were fond of calling them even when they were empty, came with all the options—metal windows that let in fine dust during every windstorm, flat roofs that only leaked when it rained, and stucco that began peeling even before the second summer of blistering New Mexico sun was over.

Nick could have afforded something more fancy, but his Fourth Street home had served him well, with additions sprouting and spreading as the years and the kids went by. A hundred yards from the front door was Pershing Street and Posadas High School’s football field. Eleven Chavez kids had graduated from PHS, the last just two years after my own youngest son.

For sixteen years I had been driving a Blazer that I’d purchased new from Nick Chavez…and for the past fifteen years he had never let slip an opportunity to try to sell me a replacement.

Somewhere deep in the house a television blared, but eventually the doorbell broke through the din. In a few minutes Nick Chavez opened the door, blinking against the harshness of the porch light. Any father with eleven children—even if they are all grown and flown—is going to jump to the worst conclusions at ten o’clock at night with two cops at the door. Nick put on a hospitable face.

“Hey, Bill,” he said. “Kind of past your curfew, isn’t it?” He grinned at Holman, who looked uncomfortable. “Sheriff, how you doin’?”

“Nick,” I said, “we’re in a bind. Can you spare us a little of your time?”

“Sure.” He held open the storm door and beckoned. “Come on in. Marty, are you tired of playin’ cops and robbers yet? You want a real job?” Martin Holman may have sold used cars at one time in his varied career, but he’d never voiced the slightest inclination to return to the lot. I knew his purchase order for election year campaign posters and cards had already gone to the printer. And when he stepped through the door, Holman squared his shoulders a bit and looked like a proper sheriff—trim build with broad shoulders, a little gray just beginning to creep into his neatly clipped sideburns. I always felt like an old worn-out basset hound standing next to him.

Nick Chavez closed the door and frowned. “I heard what happened yesterday. It’s hard to imagine who would do such an awful thing. How’s the young lady?”

Thanks to the efficient media, the entire world had heard one version or another of the shooting. I didn’t answer Nick’s question, but instead gestured toward the formal living room, untouched by humans except for regular dusting. “Can we talk in here, Nick?”

“Sure. Sure. Let me get you something to drink. Coffee?”

“No, thanks.” I shook my head.

“How about you, sheriff?”

Holman nodded. “That would be just right. Black.”

I sat on the edge of a flowered sofa while Holman prowled the room, examining Mrs. Chavez’s collection of porcelain figurines. She tended toward gnomes, elves, and other small, ugly caricatures. Holman picked up a casting of a leprechaun examining a rabbit’s injured paw and turned the figurine this way and that. He set it down carefully and picked up a business card that someone had placed on the mantel.

“Florie Gallegos for Assessor,” he read. “She’s been in office a hundred years.” After carefully replacing the card, he added, “You know that Estelle is going to run against me.” He said it as a statement, with just a hint of self-pity mixed with accusation creeping into his voice.

“She told me yesterday. We didn’t have a chance to discuss it.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” He thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned against the fireplace mantel.

I took a long time to answer and finally settled for, “No.”

Holman’s eyebrows shot up and he started to say something. But Nick Chavez returned, carrying two mugs of steaming, fresh coffee. He set one down carefully on the small end table near my elbow.

“You say you don’t want any, but you really do,” he said. He handed Holman’s mug to the sheriff. “Spill any of that on the carpet and my wife will cut your heart out,” he grinned, then turned serious. “Now, what can I help you gentlemen with?”

I looked at Nick Chavez’s open, expectant face, round and friendly like one of the porcelain figurines. He settled his short, chubby body onto a chair that looked like something out of
Wuthering Heights
and clasped his hands between his knees.

“We’re chasing shadows, Nick,” I said.

“I don’t follow.”

I hesitated, then said, “This is just between us.”

He nodded vigorously. “Sure, sure.”

“We have reason to suspect that the deputy was shot after he stopped to assist a motorist. Maybe shot by that motorist, maybe by a third party.”

“Ay,”
Nick said softly.

“We also have reason to think that one of the vehicles involved was both brand-new and disabled somehow.” I saw Nick’s eyes narrow a little. “Svenson Motors in Albuquerque reported a Chevy Suburban stolen sometime Saturday night. There is some circumstantial evidence that points to that as the vehicle involved. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

I shrugged. “As I said, it’s circumstantial. Pretty thin. But it’s our only lead. That’s it. Period.”

Nick pursed his lips, then said, “A stolen Suburban is going to be hard to find, Bill. If he’s got some hours head start, he’s in Mexico by now, that’s for sure. Are you working with the Federales?”

“Yes. But they won’t turn up anything.”

Nick shrugged his sympathy for our frustrations with Mexican law enforcement. “What can I do for you, then?”

I sipped the coffee. He was right. The coffee was just what I needed. “How do you steal a locked vehicle without breaking anything?” Nick Chavez grinned and settled back in the chair. “You’ve got to protect your own inventory, Nick. You’re as much of an expert as anyone around.”

“The easiest way is to steal the key.” He made a little twisting motion with his right hand. “But other than that? We take the keys in at night. On some of the high-profile vehicles…like the Blazers and Suburbans…we use a steering wheel bar-lock. But I tell you…” He leaned forward. “Nothing works too good if someone really wants the vehicle. See, first of all, we all used to use window lockboxes. Everybody did. But the damn kids would break them and take the keys. So now, they pop a window and they’re inside.”

“What about the steering wheel bar-lock?” Holman asked.

Chavez shrugged. “I heard that sometimes they spray the lock mechanism with Freon and then tap it hard with a hammer. Just shatters. I’m not sure about that. But the easiest way is just to cut a little chunk out of the steering wheel rim.”

“It’s that easy to do?” I asked.

“Sure. They have to make the steering wheel kind of soft, you know. The metal, I mean. So it bends and deforms in a wreck and doesn’t cut the driver into little pieces. Thieves know that, and with a good pair of wide-jawed bolt cutters…snip, snip.”

“But if they break into the truck by shattering a window, that would leave some glass on the ground.”

Nick shook his head. “Not necessarily. Hold a towel over it and rap it inward. Maybe one of the smaller back windows. You can do it pretty clean.” He grinned slightly. “Or you can slip the door lock other ways, I guess. You know, as fast as they come up with antitheft systems, there’s some smart thief out there who spends all day long figuring ways to beat the system. Count on it.”

“And you can hot-wire these new ignitions? What about all the interlocks, and cutoffs, and what not?”

“Like I said, as fast as the engineers design something, there’s a solution. And it’s a big market down south, let me tell you.”

“Maybe with NAFTA, it’ll dry up,” Holman said.

“Sure,” Nick said, and grinned.

“When’s the last time you had a truck stolen from your lot?”

Nick puffed out his cheeks in thought. “Eight years ago. We keep the inventory down, though.”

“Nothing since then?”

“No. You remember that time. When the Alvaro kid took the Z-28 and went joyriding all night before he blew up the engine?”

“What have you been hearing from other dealers?”

He shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s a lot of theft, especially in the bigger cities. But not from dealers. It’s too risky. The lots are well lit now and some of them even have security all night.”

I looked down at the dark coffee and swirled the cup gently, watching the patterns. Nick Chavez sat and waited. “Nick,” I said, “the deputy’s last call to dispatch was from the general area of your dealership.” I set the cup down and retrieved a small notebook from my breast pocket. After thumbing a few pages I found the entry I wanted. “He radioed dispatch at fifty-three minutes after ten from your dealership.”

“What was going on?” Nick asked. “No one called me.”

“Someone apparently called the police and complained that kids were driving around behind the dealership. Maybe parking in some dark corner, doing who knows what. Deputy Enciños noted in his patrol log that he responded and made no contact. Six minutes later he noted in that same log that he was ten-eight…that he was in service and available.”

“And then…”

“And then he drove about ten or eleven miles west on State Highway Fifty-six and was killed.”

Chavez looked at the floor, his hands clasped tightly with the index fingers steepled together. “Do you have much trouble down at the lot, Nick?” Holman asked, and Nick looked up at Holman as if he had just seen the sheriff for the first time.

“No,” he said. “None. I guess we’ve been lucky. The other place,” he said, referring to D’Anzo Auto Plaza, “they had more trouble…but they’re closed now, so we’re the only game in town. We’ve been lucky, I guess.”

“Isn’t the shop area fenced off in back?” I asked. “There’s nowhere anyone can go, other than just skirting the building, right?”

Chavez nodded. “The main service building is fenced, yes.” He stood up quickly. “You fellas got time?”

“To…”

“Let’s take a run down there. Right now.”

“Nick,” I said, “don’t misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting that there is any connection between the stop the deputy made at your place and what happened afterward. We’re just trying to reconstruct what happened that night.”

The dealer nodded vigorously, and held up one index finger close to his face, like a schoolteacher savoring a moment of explanation. “You never know,” he said. “Now you got me curious.”

“About what?” Holman asked.

Chavez walked to the foyer and lifted a
Posadas Jaguars
wind-breaker off the hook. He shrugged it on. “You said that the deputy responded to the call from your dispatcher at ten-fifty-three, right?”

“That’s right.” I knew Nick’s next question before he asked it, a nagging little gap in events that had been eating away at me all afternoon. “And six minutes later, he’s clear.”

Nick Chavez nodded. “So what is he doing for six minutes, Bill?”