Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“That’s correct, sir.”

“That might not be until tomorrow sometime. I mean, later today. It’s not a convenient drive over there, you know.”

“I understand that, sir. I’m sure the boys will wait.”

“My son’s arraignment hasn’t been set?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk with the officers handling that, sir. But it would be better for your son if the arraignment was later in the morning.”

“Now why is that?”

“For one thing, sir, your son is intoxicated to the point that he isn’t making intelligent decisions. I’m sure you noticed that when you spoke with him. It wouldn’t be in his best interests to make an appearance before the judge in his present condition. Let him sleep for a few hours.”

“Huh.” The line fell silent for a few seconds. “Look, what was your name again?”

“Undersheriff Guzman.”

“Okay, look. I’m going to bring the kid’s checkbook over. He’s going to have some kind of bond to pay, won’t he?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“Any idea how much?”

“No, sir.”

“And what’s he charged with again?”

“At this point, assault on a police officer, battery on a police officer, public intoxication, supplying alcoholic beverages to minors, and four counts of child abuse.”

“Jesus H. Christ. Child abuse? Where the hell did that come from? Are we talking about the same case here?”

“Your son is no longer a minor, sir. When an adult commits a crime that either injures or has the immediate potential of injuring a child…a minor, if you like…that’s the basis for charges of child abuse.”

The phone went silent again except for a rhythmic tapping in the background, as if fingernails were drumming on a desk. “Why the battery charge? Did he try and fight the officer?”

“It’s possible that a piece of glass from either the windshield or the bottle struck the deputy in the hand. That’s still under investigation.”

A long, impatient exhale of breath greeted that. “We’re talking felonies here, aren’t we.” Parker’s tone was no longer as assured.

“Yes, sir.” They wouldn’t remain that way, Estelle was willing to bet, but she wasn’t about to discuss or try to predict what Judge Parker and District Attorney Dan Schroeder would agree to.

“All right, then. I’ll bring over his checkbook a little later. He’s going to bail himself out of this one. Maybe that’ll get his attention. He’s working toward buying his own car, you know. This’ll put a damper on those plans, let me tell you. He was driving his mother’s Lexus this time around. Any damage to that?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that’s something. Is he going to be able to drive home?”

“That will depend on Judge Parker, sir. My suggestion would be that the vehicle’s owner comes and retrieves it.”

“I guess. His mother’s not going to like that.” Parker waited an instant for another suggestion and, when one wasn’t forthcoming, added, “I’ll call the parents back and tell ’em that I can’t play chauffeur.”

“That would be good, sir. I appreciate that.”

Parker sighed. “You have kids of your own, sheriff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then you know all about it,” he said. “May I give you my cell phone number, just in case you need to reach me?”

“Certainly, sir.” She jotted down the numbers as he rattled them off.

“Any time day or night,” he added. “Thanks for taking my call.”

She hung up with a sigh, and made a bet with herself that Elliot Parker’s show of cooperation and understanding would evaporate the instant he learned of the accidental discharge. It was interesting that his son hadn’t mentioned it yet-a sign of just how drunk the boy really was.

Estelle opened one eye and stared at the alarm clock until it swam into focus. That focus came with a start as the numbers coalesced into 6:07 a.m. She wanted to leap out of bed, eager and ready for a new day, but her body expressed no interest in the challenge. A blink of the eyes and the clock skipped to 6:38.

A large, furry face loomed over hers. “How are you doing?” A gentle, soft hand brushed the hair away from the side of her face.

“Mumfh,” she managed. Her husband sat down on the edge of the bed. One hand moved to the back of her neck, gently massaging to find the aches and the tension.

“ Hijo wants to know if you’re awake,” Francis said. “He’s getting impatient.”

“Is mamá up?” Her voice sounded far away.

“Oh, yes.”

“Then I am, too,” Estelle said. “Tell him to go ahead.” She sighed deeply, enjoying the flood of warmth that Francis’ strong fingers brought. “When did late nights become such torture?”

Her husband laughed. “The nights aren’t so bad. It’s the next morning payback that’s a bummer.”

“I need to find out if the Lordsburg gang made it home,” she said, starting to squirm toward the edge of the bed. “And we have an arraignment this morning.” Her husband didn’t move from the edge of the bed, effectively blocking her way.

“I’m sure your staff is perfectly capable,” he said.

“I’m sure of that, too. But I have a dozen things to do besides all that. How’s Kerri? Did you check this morning?”

“Yes, I did. And she’s doing remarkably well. That was around five o’clock. The surgery went routinely.”

“See?”

“See, ¿qué?”

“See,” Estelle said, “you got up and the first thing you did was go to work. In a manner of speaking.”

“That’s because I knew you’d ask.”

From the living room came the first sounds of her older son’s morning ritual, a methodical scale that sounded as if he was thinking hard about each individual note as the piano’s hammers struck the strings. The penetrating aroma of coffee drifted in, along with the faint clank of dishes.

“Irma?”

Francis nodded. Irma Sedillos, Sheriff Bob Torrez’s sister-in-law, had become an extension of the family, more than a dependable nana for the children. Irma was fond of referring to the household as the Guzman corporación , and she understood her role as corporate manager. In addition, Irma had become a companion and best friend to Estelle’s mother, ninety-five-year-old Teresa. Estelle knew that the time would come when the twenty-six-year-old Irma would say yes to her longtime fiancé, beginning her own family. Until that time, they would continue to treasure the young woman’s competence and friendship.

The pace of the piano scales increased as if the musician were turning a rheostat, and Estelle listened as she lay under the comfort of her husband’s warm hand.

During the past months, a new aspect of her son’s musical journey had manifested itself. Rather than continuing his joyful romping on the piano keys, often dissolving into the giggles and nonsense of a little boy, Francisco had crossed a threshold, embracing a new world of tightly disciplined practice. He could focus on something as simple as a two-octave scale for long moments, the metronome in his mind as unrelenting and exacting as the wooden and brass one that ticked away on the corner of the piano, a musical version of Chinese water torture for everyone else in the house.

As his fingers warmed up, so did the pace, and he shifted effortlessly from one key to another, this time alternating scales of sharps and flats as he worked his way around the circle. As his fingers warmed to the task, he pushed the tempo, always accelerating to the ragged edge of losing control and then remaining on that plateau until he was confident to push again.

Carlos appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Irma is making waffles,” he announced, and then darted away, mission accomplished.