Come Dark (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

The custodian pressed his lips tightly together and crossed his arms over his chest, fortified against any further probing questions.

“It's not going to do no good,” Sheriff Torrez said calmly. “This ain't going to go away.”

Lavin glanced toward the door, as if contemplating escape. After a long moment, he closed his eyes and seemed to be working hard at controlling his breathing. “Look,” he said, “I won't…I can't…I don't know.” He stopped faltering and shook his head. “This is
not
the sort of thing I'm gonna do. Just not gonna do it.”

“How's obstruction of justice sound to you?” Torrez' face was expressionless, and Estelle could see Barry Lavin drawing into himself.

“Just one thing, Mr. Lavin,” Estelle said. “Give us just one thing.”

“I don't know what you mean by that.”

“I don't know who you're protecting, sir. If it's Coach Scott, he's beyond your help now. If you're worried about smearing his reputation, the quicker we can clean up this mess, the better. If you know who came in here last night, and you're protecting the killer, that's a huge mistake. There's every possibility that he'll strike again. If Coach was expecting a
woman
to show up—and you implied that was the case—is that whom you're protecting?”

Lavin looked at his watch. “Look, I'm not
protecting
nobody. That's what I'm sayin'. All this?” and he waved a hand helplessly around his head. “It's not any of my affair. Talk to Coach Avila, if you want. She knows as much as I do. Maybe more.”

His face paled when he realized what he'd said.

“And what do
you
know?” Estelle persisted quietly.

Lavin shook his head, determined. “You talk to her, all right? If she says—” He stopped suddenly, then added lamely, “Well, talk to her.”

“So you have a number where we can reach you at any time, sir?”

“'Course.” He pulled a slender cell phone from his left breast pocket and held it up for inspection. “Always with me. You never know.”

“Indeed, you don't.”

As she jotted down the number, Torrez leaned over and in a perfect stage whisper said, “Might be easier just to take him into custody on an obstruction charge. That way, ain't no question about where he is.”

Lavin's knuckles clenched white around his phone. “No cause to do that,” he said. “Jesus, how the hell does something like this happen? Upsets everybody's life.”

“Especially Scott's,” the sheriff murmured.

“Sir, we'll escort you out the front door. The building will be locked and stay that way until we clear it. There will be a sheriff's seal, chain, and lock on each door. There will be an officer posted, twenty-four/seven. We
will
prosecute anyone who tampers with the seals.”

Lavin relaxed a little. “When are you going to open the place up, then? I got a lot of work to do around here.”

“Your work will have to wait.” She offered him a brittle smile and extended a business card to him. “If you decide to remember something that we need to know, call me. Anytime. And as we sift through this, we'll need to talk with you again.”

She escorted Barry Lavin out of the office and up the hall toward the front of the building, staying on the narrow walkway indicated by the yellow tape. He didn't utter a word as she pulled the outside door closed behind him.

Despite the security for the crime scene, Estelle held no illusions that a significant clue would surface, that the invited State Police investigators—if they arrived at all—would have an “
Ah ha!”
moment. So far, it appeared that the killer had been careful but unhesitant, perhaps just dumb-lucky. If he—or she, as Lavin had hinted—had exchanged even a half dozen words with the victim, Estelle would be surprised.

This assault had been no talkfest. Scott hadn't even had the time to turn off the shower, which he surely would have done to be able to carry on what would pass for a normal conversation. That would have been his first move. But he hadn't done that. He might have taken a step or two forward, but the shower behind him had remained full-on. And then hours of cold water had rinsed away most of what little evidence there might have been.

Even the shooting itself puzzled her. Each of the four shots was a direct center-mass hit, including what was probably the second round as the victim convulsively spun sideways. In the heat of emotions, that was a difficult shot—made after a quick recovery from the recoil of the first. Or dumb-lucky.

True, the range was short, but Estelle had seen people miss from three feet, so distraught or excited or enraged they had no real idea where the muzzle pointed—the “Mrs. Smalley in the barn” syndrome she remembered. This shooter was no Mrs. Smalley.
Calculating
was the first word that came to mind. And that first shot to the groin? Was that intentional?

Lavin had suggested a woman might have visited in the quiet of the night, but somehow that did not fit Estelle's impression of the crime. Certainly a woman
could
have pulled the trigger. Powerful handguns were not just the province of men. In his own abbreviated way, the custodian had never said that the shooter was a woman. He had implied only that perhaps Coach Scott had been
expecting
a woman. It hadn't played out that way.

Chapter Eighteen

Marilee Avila's head was down on her folded arms, using the corner of Lieutenant Tom Mears' desk as a pillow. A wastebasket was drawn close to her feet. Mears himself was next door in the small conference room, stoking the coffeepot for another round—a recipe for a long, tough session.

Estelle watched Avila for a moment. The coach wasn't sobbing, and she wasn't dead. Her back moved slightly with each breath. Maybe sound asleep?
Who could blame her?
Estelle thought. She stepped away from the office and slipped into the conference room.

The lieutenant turned at the sound of the door closing. “Well, good afternoon.” Mears sounded way too cheerful. He glanced at the clock as if to make sure as the second hand swept past four-thirty. The day had evaporated. The lieutenant pointed at one of the pump carafes. “That's plain hot water, if you're looking for tea.”

“Thanks. I saw Emilio Avila sitting out in the foyer. What time did he come in?”

“His wife called him from the school parking lot, I think. He was waiting here when we arrived. He's had a long wait, but I didn't want him in on the interview yet.”

“Absolutely not. What's Marilee been able to tell us?”

Mears puffed his cheeks. “Well, no bombshells, unfortunately.” He leaned a hip against the counter and watched the pot, arms folded across his chest. “At least not from her. After a game, it's her habit to leave after all the kids have gone home. She makes sure that everyone has a ride, blah, blah, blah. She leaves all the record-keeping, the stats, all the news contacts to Coach Scott, and he does those chores right after each game.” Mears shrugged. “She says that's what he did last night, and he told her he was expecting a long session of it, too—all the interviews. Lots of interest when you're a winner.”

“But there's something else? You said you'd watched part of the video.”

“I watched some of it. I skipped here and there, and happened on one little section that you need to see.” He turned and regarded Estelle. “I know how much you appreciate coincidences.”

“What are you saying?”

“There's a little section of the film that shows Coach Scott keeping company with Stacie Stewart and Dana Gabaldon.” He watched the expression on Estelle's face as her black eyebrows pulled together in the center. “It might be more accurate to say they were keeping company with
him.”

“I want to see that first.”

Mears nodded thoughtfully toward the TV/DVD unit on the counter. “I surveyed a bit here and there, then marked it at the spot. By the way, what did you think of Lavin?”

“I think he's a scared man, LT.”

“He's been in the military, had some experience over in Bosnia. He would know firearms.”

“Yes, he would. And despite the country bumpkin persona he likes to project, he's quick. His reaction
not
to enter the shower, but just to turn off the water at its source—that's resourceful thinking. But beyond that, I don't know.” She nodded at the television. “I'm ready.”

The screen came to life, and Mears turned the volume down. The camera operator had used a tripod, and clearly knew how to keep the camera steady through a variety of shots.

“Now, most of the time, the cameraman pays attention to the game. But right here…” And then the camera's eye drifted to the stands to catch Coach Scott explaining something to newspaper publisher Frank Dayan, his hands as active as a fighter pilot's explaining a complex combat maneuver to another pilot.

“A good personality shot,” Mears said. “The way he zooms in on the faces so that they fill the frame?”

Just down the row, right at courtside, were two men with a gigantic television camera carrying the Channel 9 logo—serious hardware that Estelle was sure the high school cameraman would love to possess. The student camera started to roam again, looking for interesting faces.

“Stop,” Estelle said quickly. Mears froze the frame. “Back up just a bit.”

Scott and Dayan once more engaged in conversation, and they weren't alone.

Seated behind Scott and to his left was a startlingly attractive woman whose blond hair was teased into a windblown look. Beside her was another woman, the camera catching only the side of her smooth face. “Stop there.” Even as the camera froze, it caught the blonde as she leaned forward a bit, resting one elbow in a companionable gesture on Scott's left shoulder—just for an instant, a few words exchanged, Scott laughing about something the woman said. She then turned to her companion and the conversation continued even as the camera swept past them.

“Again,” Estelle said.

“That's Stacie Stewart,” Mears said. He zoomed the frozen frame slightly, capturing Stacie with elbow touching Clint Scott. “And Dana Gabaldon.”

“Again.”

The lieutenant obliged.

“Did you find any other bits that include her?”

“Not in a quick survey. We're going to have to watch the whole tape, from the beginning.”

“We need to. Back up a few feet. When we show this part to Coach Avila, I want to catch her off guard. I want to see her reaction. If you'd back up to the last shot of the game itself? Before the camera swings to take in the coach and his fans?”

Estelle rose, and it was exhilaration that boosted her pulse. “And then, you'll work on this? Maybe use Tom Pasquale when he comes on shift tomorrow morning. The day shift is driving him antsy, especially since he's been caught up in depositions and missed rolling on
this
call. He'll appreciate watching the game tape.”

Mears laughed. “He's
always
antsy. That bit with the couple from Illinois helped cool his adrenalin a little. He and Jackie can team up to watch this.”

“Who do you have watching Scott's place?”

“Jonas volunteered. Dispatch checks in with him about every fifteen minutes.”

“Wakes him up every fifteen, you mean.” Estelle smiled. Dick Jonas was having difficulty meeting the physical requirements for the department, but was trying. An intelligent young man in every other respect, his obesity had been a roadblock, his weight ruining his knees and hips. Sheriff Torrez' response to an employment application had simply been, “No,” looking disgusted as he said it.

Estelle had been a little more tactful, giving Jonas a target goal of two hundred pounds for his six-foot height. That meant shedding more than a hundred pounds, and Jonas was determined. Shed the weight, and they would review his application—that was the deal. Even so, Sheriff Torrez had made sure that Jonas didn't stay in the crime scene. He'd been escorted out by the lieutenant—although maybe Jonas hadn't interpreted it that way.

But in an understaffed, strapped county like Posadas, even an unschooled special deputy could serve a purpose out of the limelight, and keeping watch over a residence, under constant contact with dispatch, was one of those tasks.

“Does Coach want anything?”

Mears shook his head. “She's trying her best not to throw up.”

“
Ay.
Facing the kids next week is going to be a challenge for her.
”

Chapter Nineteen

This time, when Estelle walked into Mears' office, Coach Marilee Avila looked up with bloodshot, wet eyes. She clutched a wadded tissue and dabbed away the tears as she stood up. A small, compact person, she was obviously in misery. Her gut contracted in spasms as she clutched the edge of the desk for support.

Estelle felt an initial wave of sympathy for the woman, but circumstances were too tangled to let those emotions rule the day.

“Sheriff, what's going to happen?” She lurched a step forward and clasped Estelle's hand with both of hers. Estelle ushered her back down into the chair before she fell into it.

“Earlier today, you came to the school. About the time all the emergency personnel arrived?” The undersheriff kept her tone quiet, even sympathetic. “How did you find out about Coach Scott's death?”

“I was telling Tom—the lieutenant—that I live only a block and a half from the school, over in that neighborhood behind the old pharmacy off South Pershing? My God, the lights and sirens. Naturally my first thought was for one of the kids, you know. Lots of our senior athletes drive, and…” She stopped and dabbed at her eyes as the tears started again. “There's kind of a hedge along that little arroyo there, and I could see middle school and all the activity. So I knew…”

“You weren't with the rest of the folks in Lordsburg at the in-service?”

Avila tried for a game smile. “Guilty as charged. You tell me what standardized testing has to do with teaching phys ed, and then maybe…”

“So you were home, saw the commotion, and drove over?”

“I
ran
over
.
But the deputy wouldn't let anyone into the building except the cops. I saw Ginny Trimble, and she said that she heard that something had happened inside. She didn't know any more than I did.”

“And Ginny is…?”

“She's a senior starter on the team. One of our stars.”

“Where does
she
live?”

“Down the way a little. On MacArthur, I think.”

“What brought her back to the school?”

“I don't know.”

Estelle pulled the small notebook from her hip pocket. “Did you see any other students? Besides Ginny?”

Avila shook her head. “And now that I think about it, Ginny said that she was on her way over to study with Michelle. Michelle Sena? One of our other seniors on the team. She and her mom live over on Tenth, just across Bustos, north of the school. That's probably how Ginny happened by.”

“Study on a Friday with no school, after an exhausting Thursday night, with a weekend coming up?
That's
dedicated.”

“These kids are, Sheriff. They know very clearly what they have going here.”

“You left the school after the game on Thursday night about when?”

“I suppose about nine. Maybe nine-thirty at the latest.”

“Short game.”

“Oh, my.” A trace of a smile broke through. “If the JV game hadn't been first, we'd have been out of there by seven o'clock.
Almost
a shutout. I felt kind of bad for the Colts. They tried hard, too.” Marilee Avila clearly preferred becoming lost in reminiscences about the game.

“Did Coach Scott have any arguments this past week that you recall?”

“Arguments how?”

“Just that. Arguments. Serious differences of opinion.” Estelle paused. “Something serious enough that someone would want to settle it with a gun.”

Avila blanched. “My God, no. You're kidding. Coach was one of our most popular faculty. The second-graders adore him.”

“A second-grader didn't shoot him, Coach.”

Avila flinched. “Our players respect him deeply, Sheriff. Like I said, they all understand what sort of momentum they have going here.” She grimaced. “Or
had
going.” Her shoulders slumped. “You know, Coach Scott spent
hours
working out strategy. Yeah, I know. Strategy in
volleyball?
But listen,
that's
what the team had. You know, a lot of high school coaches, especially in the less popular sports, aren't experts. I mean, they coach because the school can't afford to hire a bigger, specialized staff. So they hire a new science or social studies teacher, and the first question is, ‘What can you coach?' And most young teachers appreciate the coaching increment they get, even if it isn't a fair trade for the hours.”

She heaved a huge sigh. “In some schools, volleyball is truly a minor sport. It's not uncommon for the players and coach to show up and just bat the ball around, hoping the other team will make a mistake first. They never progress beyond the “set, set, spike” mentality. Coach Scott taught our girls to
look
for the advantage. Always heads up. Always looking. Never caught flat-footed. Find a weak spot in the other team and pound 'em there.”

“He wanted aggressive players.”

“Absolutely. Constant pressure. Nobody relaxes, not even when the score shoots out of control like it did last night.” She leaned forward, face intense. “Look, Coach studied the game, Sheriff. He watched the game videos. He even
scouted,
if you can imagine that. He wanted to see volleyball move up the ranking of important sports.”

“A dedicated man,” Estelle said quietly. “So who was he seeing?”

Marilee Avila jerked as if she'd been struck. “Seeing?”

“Thursday night, after the game. He was working late in his office. It appears that he opened the back door so whoever it was could gain access.”

Avila stared at the undersheriff in disbelief. She tried to start a sentence a couple of times, then gave up and rose to her feet. She turned toward the door, then uttered a long, shuddering sob and changed course slightly, stopping with her forehead leaned against the doorjamb.

“Coach Avila, this is obviously painful for you. But please…help us with this tragedy. We have a witness who is suggesting to us that a woman might have been involved with Coach Scott's death.” She paused, watching Avila's body go so tense that her shoulder muscles bulged under her powder-blue polo shirt. After a moment, Avila turned away from the door and collapsed back in the chair.

“Why would anyone
shoot
him? That's what you said happened.”

“We're still investigating every angle of this, Coach. But right now, yes. We believe that Coach Scott was shot four times. We'll have some definitive answers after the autopsy.”

Avila bit her lip and made an odd little peeping sound of anguish.

“Someone wanted him dead. There was no sign of discussion, no negotiation, no self-defense.”

“In the office?”

“No. In the shower.” Avila's hand drifted up and covered her mouth. Her gaze riveted Estelle, searching.

“They forced him into the
shower
?”

“We don't think so. It appears that he was
using
the team shower. His clothing was folded neatly on the locker room bench.” Estelle shifted in the chair. “And Coach, what I'm telling you is in absolute confidence.”
Not likely,
Estelle thought. Coaches Marilee and Emilio Avila would spend a sleepless night discussing the murder.

Estelle regarded the woman for a long moment. What did Marilee Avila know that Barry Lavin was himself privy to?

“How long have you been involved with the program, Coach?”

“Me?” She frowned. “I started coaching in 2007. So nine years.”

“Volleyball from the beginning?”

She nodded. “And golf for a couple of years. But that didn't work out.” She smiled at Estelle's raised eyebrow. “Our local golf course is not good enough for competitive play. Other schools won't put up with the rattlesnakes, tumbleweeds, and cactus. So it's impossible to host matches. But that's okay. The interest wasn't there, either.”

“Scott had been coaching before that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“They never gave you the head coach position. Wouldn't that be expected with an all girls' team?”

“Coach Scott already had a lock on the spot, Sheriff. But we work well together. I covered the areas where…where it might matter. When we travel, I take care of all the team logistics—when we stay in a motel, I organize who rooms with who, that sort of thing.”

“And supervise the locker room.”

“Of course.”

“Is there ever a time, routinely, when Coach Scott might have been alone with the girls? With the team?”

“Absolutely not.” Avila snapped out the answer, the umbrage flushing her face. “You watch the game videos. He sat in the first row of bleachers, usually, just like the team did, but almost always down court a ways, always on the visitors' side of the net. He liked to sit with Frank Dayan, from the newspaper.
I
was the one pacing the floor, or caught up in head-to-head talk with one of the players. Coach liked to watch from a little distance to see if his game strategy was working. To see if the opponents were rattled.”

“Tell me about his personal life.”

“I can't do that.”

“Can't or won't?” Estelle saw the young woman's cheek muscles flex.

“Look, Coach Scott's personal life was none of my business.” Her lips compressed for a moment, then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“But at one time…” Estelle guessed, correctly reading the young woman's body language.

“At one time—” and she stopped abruptly. Her head flopped back until she was staring at the ceiling tiles. “All right, yes. We dated. For a few months,
years
ago. Before I was married. We ended it by mutual consent.” She snapped the words off as if they were made of thin, brittle glass.

“Why was that?”

Avila frowned. “Why was what?”

“Why did the relationship end?”

“Mutual consent. We'll let it go at that.”

“You have a family now.”

“Emilio and I were married eight years ago.” She smiled for the first time. “And, yes—Emilio Junior is seven, Maria is five, and Belinda is three.” Her smile widened. “Maria started Kindergarten this year. Em is in Mrs. Annuncio's second grade. Belinda goes to Little Bear Day Care.”

“During volleyball season, you had occasion to interact with Coach Scott on a daily basis. Who was he seeing most recently?”

Again, Avila fell silent, answering with just a quick shake of the head. With fingers none too steady, she fished a little tin of lip balm from her pocket.

“Would you like some coffee? Anything at all?”

“I'd like to go home with my husband and forget that this ever happened.” She wiped her eyes with the wadded tissue. “But that's not going to happen, is it?”

“No.”

“A lot of people are going to be hurt by all this.” She looked up and met Estelle's gaze.

“Most likely. It's a small town, in all respects.”

“That's not something I want to be a part of.”

“I understand that.”
And Barry Lavin said essentially the same thing
. “But if
everyone
ducks, then a killer walks free.”

Marilee Avila turned and lowered her head, hiding her face in her arms. Estelle waited patiently, letting the young woman struggle. After a couple of minutes, Avila pushed herself upright, and took time to blow her nose and dab each eye. “I need to tell you why I broke up with Clint, all those years ago. I mean
really
why.”

“All right.”

“It's really pretty simple. I just came to
dislike
him.” She gazed at Estelle as if somehow the undersheriff might not understand her, or even believe her. “I mean, you'd think—what's not to like? He's…he was…about the most handsome thing on two legs in a town that isn't known for its abundant social opportunities. You know what I mean? But he was absolutely, one hundred percent, involved with himself. Sure, he liked the little kids, but sometimes I think he liked them
because
of the good press that he won by teaching them. He loved to see his picture in the paper, and nothing better than a classroom shot with the six-foot, four-inch Clint interacting with the cute little kiddos. They came about to his knees.”

“That's understandable, I suppose.”

“Oh, sure it's understandable. And he was a good, conscientious teacher, too. It wasn't just show.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back again.

“So, as you said…what's not to like?”

Avila's laugh was just a husky whisper. “As a coach, there was a streak of genius there, too. A really, really wide streak. I mean, he
really
knew sports. He understood them. Made a science of them. He could encourage his athletes to do the most amazing things, to make the most amazing
effort,
you know? He's put together an enormous scrapbook of the volleyball team's record the past six or seven years. The one he did is back in the coaches' office. On the shelf behind my desk. The biggest—that humungous black one—that's all volleyball. It's an amazing collection. I look through it from time to time. Can you estimate the number of times his picture has been in a newspaper?”

“Many.”

“Yes. Many. And there's nothing wrong with that, either. It's no secret why he makes sure Frank Dayan has the choice seat, the choice quotes. Look, the more photos, the deeper the hero worship runs. And that's a powerful force, Sheriff.”

And sometimes heroes get killed,
Estelle thought.

“But when it comes to homelife, Sheriff, it's so one-dimensional. I would never have expected that. But
dull.
At least to me. He could spend an entire evening analyzing a game video. He'd take one player at a time, and trace her movements. List the strengths and weaknesses. Learn what to work on during the week.”