Steven Havill: Red, Green, or Murder

“Perhaps so.” She pulled the car out onto Bustos and turned east, toward what passed as the downtown of Posadas. “We already know what Maggie told me yesterday. She had not seen her father Thursday morning-she was busy with business. She claims that Phil called with the bad news about her father right after he dialed 911. And as anyone would expect, she dropped everything and dashed right over. If all that were the case, we wouldn’t have found the bag from Town and Country Liquor, with the receipt inside, in Mr. Payton’s kitchen trash under the sink. If Maggie was telling the truth, the bottle of wine would still be in her car, or at her house.” She thumped the steering wheel. “If she bought the wine and then gave it to Phil to deliver, then Phil is lying.”

“We need a decent, readable fingerprint,” I said. “This is goddamn frustrating.”

“Yes, sir,” Estelle agreed readily. “In this case, we may have to settle for the lack of one.”

“The wine bottle, you mean?”

“Yes. If that were an innocent bottle, there would be clear prints of the person who purchased it, almost certainly…unless that person always handled it by that crinkly foil wrapper around the screw cap-but who does that? You take off the foil, and when the bottle is opened, one hand holds the bottle while the other turns the cap and breaks the seal. When it’s poured, at least one hand clamps the bottle. There’s all kinds of smooth, shiny surface for a perfect set of prints. It’s just impossible to handle it without leaving a record, sir.”

“An ‘innocent bottle.’ What a concept.”

“There’s just no reason to wipe it off,” Estelle said. “Just no reason at all. Unless the handler knew that there was a question of incriminating prints.” She eased the car to a stop in front of the small, neat Posadas Realty building. “I want to talk with them both.”

Through the large front window with its lace curtain trim, I could see Phil Borman standing by the receptionist’s desk, telephone to his ear. His Lexus SUV was parked in the narrow driveway between the realty and the empty building next door, but I didn’t see Maggie’s fancy Cadillac sedan. If one judged by vehicles alone, then the real estate business was booming.

Nine o’clock was but minutes away and the realty office staff had long since gone home. Phil appeared to be alone, and when he turned and saw the county car, he stepped closer to the window. His bland face offered nothing but greeting when he recognized us, and he beckoned us inside.

Whether it was just his gregarious nature or whether he actually had something to tell us, I couldn’t imagine. Estelle left the car running, but before she got out, dialed her cell phone.

“Brent,” she said to the young dispatcher who responded, “who do we have on the road?” She listened for a few seconds. “Will you have her swing by 1228 Ridgemont for me? I need to know if Maggie Borman is over there. Have him call me.” Estelle had her little notebook open, and in response to a question, she added, “Negative contact, Brent. Just the information. Mrs. Borman is driving a metallic gray Cadillac CTS, license Paul Robert Edward One. Thanks, Brent. Make sure Jackie uses the phone, not the radio. I’ll be out of the car for a few minutes at the Borman Realty on Bustos. Bill Gastner is still with me.”

“Do you want me to wait here?” I asked, and the undersheriff shot me a sideways glance of amusement as she snapped the phone closed.

“You’re my backup, sir,” she said. “My moral support. Even if you keep trying to avoid the logic here.”

“I’m not trying to avoid anything, sweetheart. I’m just trying…to avoid it.”

By the time we were out of the car and on the sidewalk, Phil Borman had opened the front door of the office and greeted us pleasantly. “Another thirty seconds and you would have missed me,” he said. “You know, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Just about the time we could really stand some peace and quiet, we’re up to our necks in all kinds of things. These twelve-hour days are killing me.”

“Real estate is hopping, eh?” I said.

“Well, hopping is relative, I suppose. But fits and spurts. Just enough that we can’t ignore the place for a few days, which is what we should do. Come on in.” He stopped and looked up and down the street. “I assume you were stopping by here?”

“We were,” Estelle said agreeably and shut the front door behind us, the chimes jangling an irritating, cheerful greeting.

“Come on back,” Phil said. “Coffee? I can make some in a jiffy.”

“No, thanks, sir.” Estelle was always faster on the draw than I was, but I deferred. Hell, a nice cup would have been welcome, since the promised dinner hadn’t materialized. Borman slumped down in the big leather chair behind his desk and waved us to the comfortable seats where he normally placed his victims. Estelle took one of the guest chairs, but I roamed the back of the office, looking at Phil’s art, his diplomas and various licenses. “This whole business with George,” he said, and let the thought trail off.

“Sir,” Estelle said, “our records show that you called 911 at 12:58 p.m. yesterday to report that your father-in-law had suffered an attack of some kind.”

Phil nodded. “The minute I saw him all slumped there, I knew he was gone.”

“You called Maggie shortly thereafter?”

“Sure,” Phil said. “I told you yesterday. The instant I hung up from 911, I called Maggie and told her that she needed to come over.”

“Where was she at that time?”

“I…I have no idea, really. Her cell, you know. But…” he held up a hand while he gathered his thoughts. “I think she was with a couple from Lordsburg. She had said earlier that she was going to be tied up with them.” He hunched his shoulders. “If not with them, then with any one of a dozen other projects. That’s why I went over to George’s in the first place. She wasn’t going to be able to make it. He hadn’t been feeling real perky lately, and like I’d told you, we’ve been keeping close tabs. For one thing, he ignores his meds about half the time. He won’t call Dr. Perrone, and I tell ya…” He smiled in resignation. “He got mad as hell if we meddled.” Phil cleared his throat and glowered a pretty good imitation of George Payton. “’I don’t need a goddamn nursemaid.’” At that moment, I liked Phil Borman even more.

Phil held out both hands toward Estelle. “Look, I knew he had ordered lunch from the Don Juan, and he said that they were going to deliver for him. I figured to help him clean up afterward. That’s all. Maggie suggested that, too, but I had already planned to do it.” He looked quizzically at the undersheriff. “That’s what I told you yesterday.” He frowned as Estelle opened her cell phone. Its vibration had alerted her, and she didn’t apologize for the intrusion.

“Reyes-Guzman.” She listened for about the count of five, and then said, “Thanks, Jackie. That’s all I need.” She folded the phone back into her jacket pocket.

“Had Mr. Payton mentioned to you that Bill Gastner was planning to have lunch with him yesterday?” she asked.

“Yep. He told me about that a day or two ago. And then yesterday Bill got busy and had to cancel.”

I felt as if I’d become invisible, but resisted the temptation to dive into the conversation.

“When did Mr. Payton tell you that?”

Phil hesitated. “Well, he didn’t. He called Maggie and told her. Look, she knew that she was about to get busy, so she offered me. You know, to get his lunch, but George said that it was all taken care of. I mean, I would have done it gladly. So she didn’t have to worry about it.”