Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“I ain’t touchin’ it.”

Estelle heaved a sigh of relief. No one had been hurt, and she knew where the bullet had gone. Now it was just a matter of filling in the little details.

“Tell me what happened, Bernie,” she said.

“Look,” he said quickly. “I did not sell alcohol to those kids. I don’t know where they bought it, but it wasn’t here. They wanted to buy more, I can tell you that. That’s what started the argument. Stuart didn’t know what to do, and I’m glad that I was workin’, because I stepped in and told ’em that it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Who was doing the buying?”

“The one in handcuffs, there,” Bernie said, nodding at the state car, now with a backseat occupant. “Him and the one that the sheriff is talkin’ with. The others were just buyin’ snack stuff.”

“You asked them to leave the store?”

“You betcha. They camped out there by their car, bein’ obnoxious. I guess it was just to get my goat. Well, they did that, all right. So I called you guys. I wasn’t going to go out and confront all five of ’em by myself.”

“That was the wise thing to do, sir.”

“Well, maybe. Maybe not, you know. I called your office twice, ’cause at one point I saw the kid who got himself arrested there throw something at a passing car. So I’m all, This is just going to get worse, you know what I mean? That’s what I thought to myself. So I called again. Brent said he was sending Denny over.”

“Did you see what happened then?”

“What, when he fired the shot? No, I couldn’t see. He was behind the cop car, there. I heard this loud bang, and just about the same time a kind of a clang. Jesus Christ, I thought. What the hell is he doing? Not that I wouldn’t have liked to take a baseball bat to that drunk kid myself. But I don’t think I’d shoot him.”

“Where were you standing when the shot was fired?”

“Right in the doorway of the store. I saw the state cop guy coming into the lot from Bustos, and that’s when it happened. Damn good thing Denny didn’t shoot the state cop. I can see the newspaper headlines now.” He managed a feeble laugh.

Given a few hours for frayed nerves to mend, there was a good chance that a lot of people would be laughing, Estelle reflected. Two other cars approached simultaneously from opposite directions on Grande, and Estelle groaned inwardly. One was Linda Real’s little red Honda, but the other was driven by Frank Dayan, publisher of the Posadas Register.

Satisfied that no person had been in the path of the errant.45 slug, Estelle turned her attention to the most seriously injured-Deputy Dennis Collins. During the various comings and goings of investigators, the young man hadn’t moved more than a step or two from his position by the driver’s door of his county vehicle.

Estelle was proud of him for that-it was exactly the right moment for silent restraint, to speak when spoken to. She knew this wasn’t an easy moment for the normally gregarious, cheerful deputy whose ego, normally large and fully inflated, must have been withered like a shrunken pea. There was no handy excuse for dropping a loaded gun-Dennis knew that, and kept silent.

The last thing Collins needed at that moment was an interview, but it appeared that Frank Dayan was zeroing in on him. The newspaper publisher’s step was slower than usual-he appeared weary and worried, and Estelle knew Frank’s concern wasn’t because of a ruckus in a convenience store parking lot. Even though there was no yellow ribbon to stop him, Dayan hesitated as he approached. He knew better than to cross into a crime scene, even with the absence of a yellow tape. Collins, obviously unoccupied, alone, and on the periphery of the action, was a logical target.

“Excuse me, Frank,” Estelle said as she approached, and Dayan stopped in his tracks.

“Am I-,” Frank started to say, but Estelle gripped him firmly by the elbow, and together they walked up the sidewalk, well beyond Bob Torrez’s truck. Collins did not follow.

“You’ve been over at the hospital?” Estelle asked as they walked.

“Oh, you heard about that?” He stopped. “The most tragic thing, Estelle. Just boom.” He chopped the air with his hand. “Kerri just dropped in a heap. Thank God there were people around who knew what to do.”

“Is there anything that Pam needs?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, but gosh. Who knows with a thing like this. She’s still over at the hospital, of course. I think they’re going to airlift Kerri to Albuquerque.”

“A rough time.”

He groaned a response, then straightened his shoulders and surveyed the parking lot. “What’s going on here?”

“We have a situation at the moment,” she said as they walked. “We’re going to need your cooperation with this.”

“Of course,” Dayan said. “I was just on my way home and saw all the traffic. We have a robbery, or what?” The dapper publisher sounded hopeful.

“I wish it were that simple,” Estelle replied. She weighed how much to tell Dayan, who over the years had proven himself to be discreet when necessary-his newspaper would publish the following Wednesday, and a lot could change in the next five days. Frank viewed any other media-the big metro papers and TV stations in particular-as competition, even though they probably didn’t know his small town paper existed. “It appears that there was an assault on the deputy’s vehicle,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

“I saw the damage to the windshield. Somebody took a shot at him?”

“No. Someone threw a loaded beer bottle.”

Dayan grimaced in disgust, and Estelle wasn’t sure if the newspaperman was disappointed that the story was as insignificant as a chucked bottle, or if it was just his comment on rowdy youth. “That’s it?”

“Well,” Estelle said carefully, “we’re continuing to investigate exactly what happened after that.” Frank would be irked at her sin of omission when the full story came out. “There may be some public intoxication involved.”

“Oh,” he said. “These days, isn’t there always. What’s Marge Chavez’s connection? I saw her pulling out when I was on my way down Grande. They throw bottles at her car, too?”

“No. We’re always interested in what witnesses have to say. Apparently she was fueling her car at the time the incident happened.”

“Oh,” Dayan said again. “Any injuries? Collins looks all right.”

“No injuries, Frank. I’ll have something for you a little later, but right now I need to talk with the deputy. With juveniles, things aren’t always clear-cut. Will you excuse me?” She touched him on the arm and he nodded vigorously.

“Sure, sure.” He ducked his head and looked toward the State Police car. “You have someone in custody already, it looks like.”

“More for you later, Frank,” Estelle said again. “Okay? And please…give my best to Pam. If there’s anything she needs, have her call me. I’ll stop by and see her in the morning.”

He smiled at the undersheriff, holding up both hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said. “I’m headed home anyway. It’s been a long day. I’ll talk to you later, all right?” He started back toward his car and then paused. Estelle saw him pull a tiny camera out of his pocket and snap several pictures, of what it was impossible to tell. Given his lack of photographic talents, it might be just as impossible after the photos were downloaded. She returned to Collins, who stood quietly by the door of his truck, watching Dayan.

As she crossed back toward the deputy, she was intercepted by Linda Real. The young woman carried a bulky camera bag, with another camera slung over her shoulder. Linda half turned and aimed a cheerful wave at Frank Dayan, her former boss.