Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Ah. That helps.” Melinda leaned an elbow on the computer console and waited as the cursor searched.

“Do we have license photos?”

“Sure we do.” Melinda reached out and pivoted the computer screen so Estelle could see it by leaning over the counter. “This is Ms. Constance. Her DOB is five five eighty-two. That makes her twenty-five, coming up on twenty-six.”

“I don’t think so.” The photo showed a homely young woman whose fleshy, teardrop-shaped face glared into the camera. The rims of her tiny granny glasses nestled grooves into her heavy cheeks. The photo showed the top swell of wide shoulders.…No stretch of the imagination could call this woman willowy.

“Well, then,” Melinda said. “In the same pew, we have Consuela Juanita Vallejos. That’s a nice, old-fashioned name, isn’t it. Ms. Consuela Juanita…” She looked up at Estelle. “CJ for short, maybe? She shows a DOB of eleven nine eighty-four. That makes her twenty-three come November.”

Estelle’s heart jumped. It took a special kind of composure to look beautiful in a driver’s license photo, but Consuela Juanita Vallejos managed to do it. The young woman had cocked her head at the last moment so her face avoided that pasted-on look of Post Office bulletin board photos. Long black hair pulled back, her face finely sculpted, she had allowed the hint of a smile to touch her full lips.

“I see a light,” Melinda said, smiling at Estelle.

“Who the hell is this?” Torrez asked.

“It could be one of Irene Salas’ classmates at State,” Estelle replied. “A lab partner, in fact.”

“Irene give you a description?”

“Of sorts. This one fits enough that I need to run it down to Irene to make sure. Melinda, may I have a copy?”

“Um…,” Melinda said, thinking. Then she shrugged. “What the hell. I’ll give you the photo without all the personal data. How’s that?”

“That’ll work as long as we can have her address,” Estelle said. “And that,” she said, pointing at the phone directory. While the photo printed, she found Serafina Roybal’s number and dialed, stepping away from the counter. “Come on,” she said, waiting as the ring count mounted. After eighteen, the phone connected with a clatter. Serafina’s voice was distant and sounded fragile.

“Hello?”

“Serafina? This is Estelle Guzman bothering you again.”

“Yes, dear. How nice.”

“I need to ask you…has Irene come back from the Riveras’ yet?”

“Well, you know, I think they’re outside working on my old car. Would you like to speak with her?”

“If that’s possible, yes.”

“Let me call her.”

“Take your time, Serafina.”

“Oh,” and the old woman chuckled. “ That’s a certainty.”

As Estelle waited, she looked across at the others. “We need Irene to make a positive ID before we do anything else,” she said. “If this isn’t the girl, we’re back to square one.”

The sheriff raised one hand. “I got some preliminaries from Mears, too,” he said. Estelle nodded, and in the background over the phone she could hear voices.

“This is Irene,” a strong voice on the phone said.

“Irene, this is Estelle Guzman again. Look, I hate to keep bugging you on your holiday, but I have another photo I need you to look at. Will you be at your grandma’s for a while longer?”

“Sure, I guess.” She didn’t sound overly enthusiastic at the prospect of more morgue shots. “You bet. I wasn’t going back to Cruces until morning.”

“ Perfecto . It should be about thirty minutes, then.”

“I’ll probably be back over at the shop,” Irene said. “There or here.”

“I’ll find you. While I’m at it, do you have a cell?”

“Oh, sure. You want that number?”

“Yes. It’s hard for Serafina to get to the phone.” Estelle jotted down the number. “Thanks.”

She snapped the phone shut. “Okay.” She stepped back to the counter. “Bobby, I’ve been beating this same horse to death. I just keep circling around to the notion of how Serafina Roybal’s name was chosen for this sweepstakes thing. I know, I know…we’re probably all on every list in the world. But Chris Marsh was up to something, and he knew where she was-where Joe and Lucinda were, too. This is the first link.” She held up the photo. “Almost certainly, Irene would have talked to this girl about Serafina. She and CJ Vallejos were partners in an anthro class during the fall semester.”

“You got something else?” Torrez asked, openly dubious.

“We’ll see. Irene remembers that Chris Marsh came by that anthro class from time to time to pick up his girlfriend.” Melinda handed her a printout of the photo. “Thanks. She describes CJ as looking about like this.” She passed the photo to the sheriff.

“And?” Torrez said, still unimpressed.

“Can you tell me what vehicles this one has registered?” Estelle asked.

“Most recent is a 2007 Ford Mustang, color blue. License…oh, this is cute. ‘MY PONY.’”

“Ay,” Estelle whispered. “There we go. She did buy it.”

“‘There we go’ what?” Torrez said.

“That jibes with what Marsh’s neighbors at the trailer park told Tony. This is the girlfriend. She’s got to be.” She read the address. “Off campus, for sure. I want Irene to confirm this photo,” she said.

“Betty Contreras has one of those phone-fax-copier thingies,” Melinda said. “Might be quicker than driving all the way back down to Regál.”

“That’s an idea, but it’d take almost as much time to include Betty in the loop as not. Besides, I need to see Irene Salas face-to-face when she IDs the picture.”

“Mears finished dusting the beer can, by the way,” the sheriff said. “He was goin’ over to the county boneyard to finish with the truck. I’ll give him a heads-up.”

“We have to have that,” Estelle agreed. “By itself, this is nothing.” She looked at the photo. “Just because she was Chris Marsh’s girlfriend for a while doesn’t mean she had any other connection with what he had going on. But if her prints are on the beer can, then that puts her at the scene of the accident.”

“Abeyta’s still over there? In Cruces?” Torrez asked.

“Yes. He was scouting car dealers.” Estelle leaned toward Melinda. “One more tiny little thing?”

“Oh, here we go,” Melinda said. “My retirement out the window.” She smiled. “What?”

“Did she buy the Mustang from a local dealer?”

Melinda made a face and scrutinized the computer screen. “Just a sec.” In a moment, she sat back. “The dealer code is New Mexico.”

“And?”

“Sonoraland Ford, Lincoln, Mercury. You need the address?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Why not,” Melinda said, and read it off.

“We’ll need this down the road, maybe,” Estelle said with satisfaction. “Right now, Tony needs to hotfoot it over to the last known address.”

“From a distance,” Torrez said. “When you talk to him, make sure he don’t go runnin’ in there by himself. I’ll tell him the same thing.”

“Nobody does anything, yet,” Estelle replied.

“But you’re thinkin’ that way,” Torrez said. He turned to his sister. “Any wants or warrants?”

“Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said. “One step at a time. You’re headed back to Regál to ID this picture. If we get a hit there, then we got enough cause to question this Vallejos.…Come up with a print match from something from the crash site and that’s it. I’m going to head that way after I talk with Mears and see what else he’s got. Lemme know.” He rapped the counter with his knuckle. “Thanks,” he said to his sister.