Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Good argument for a helicopter,” Madelyn said quietly.

“When you talk to our county manager, you might mention that,” Estelle replied.

“Three-oh-eight, ten-twenty?”

“Comin’ up on Twenty-eight,” Torrez replied, referring to the state highway that headed south from Las Cruces to El Paso, first on the east and then the west side of the Rio Grande.

“Ten-four.”

Estelle’s phone blipped again and she palmed it without taking her eyes off the road and the upcoming string of tractor trailer trucks running in convoy. She reached down and flipped on the siren, its raucous yelp probably not enough to penetrate through the noisy cabs of the big rigs.

“Guzman.”

“Estelle, I think she made me,” Deputy Abeyta said. “I did a really dumb thing.”

“What?”

“I forgot to take the magnetic shields off my doors. She looked right at me.”

“Ay,” Estelle breathed, understanding why the deputy didn’t want that signal broadcast all over southern New Mexico. “Maybe she didn’t have time to read the fine print.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. She’s heading northbound now on Twenty-eight.”

“Stick with her…from a distance, Tony.”

“Affirmative. If she takes off with that car, I sure ain’t keepin’ up with her.”

“Bobby’s just about off the interstate. He’ll be headed toward you.”

“Just a sec,” Abeyta said abruptly.

Estelle waited, phone hard against her ear.

“She’s pulling into a little plaza here,” Abeyta said. “And right up to the video store.”

“Stay back, and go ahead and use the radio, Tony. The sheriff needs to hear what’s going on.”

“You got it.”

“Three-oh-eight, three-ten.”

“Three-oh-eight.”

“The subject left the house and drove to a video store. Abeyta thinks she made him.”

“How’d that happen,” Torrez said brusquely, but he didn’t wait for an explanation. “I’m just takin’ the exit now.”

“Ten-four.”

She dropped the mike in her lap and glanced at Madelyn, whose silence spoke volumes. Her right hand was vise-gripped on to the door sill, and her left was entwined in her shoulder harness. The radio burst into life, and this time Tony Abeyta’s voice had shot up an octave.

“All units, subject is northbound on Twenty-eight. She blew me off. She isn’t headed back to the house.”

“Three-oh-eight copies,” Torrez said, managing to sound bored.

“Three-oh-two, tell LCPD to take the male subject into custody,” Estelle radioed.

An uncomfortably long silence followed, and Estelle could feel the tension clamping the muscles of her back hard enough to make them ache. Ahead, a line of traffic obediently queued up in the right-hand lane.

“All units, subject has turned off on one of the county roads east-bound. All I can see is a dust trail,” Abeyta said. Even as he spoke, Estelle heard another radio come to life in the background.

“All units, stand by,” Abeyta added. In a moment, he was back on the air. “All units, be advised LCPD has one subject in custody.”

“Ten-four. Stay on her,” Estelle shot back.

“All I got is dust,” Abeyta said. “I think she’s turned north.”

“Ten-four,” Torrez said, his voice as casual as a rancher leaning on a fence, straw sucked between his teeth. “I know where she’s goin’. Tony, pull a one-eighty and get back to northbound Twenty-eight.”

Up ahead, Estelle saw an SUV pulling a rental trailer flick on its turn signal, ready to swing into the left lane. She braked hard, but eventually the piercing wail of the siren broke through the driver’s fog of inattention. He swerved back into the right lane so hard he almost dumped the trailer on the shoulder, the tires kicking up a cloud of dust.

“She’s headed for the interstate,” Estelle said. “She did read the fine print.”

“Why would she do that?” Madelyn asked, shouting over the roar of the car. “The state highway would take her straight south to El Paso. She could cross over to the interstate at any time, and go straight to the border crossing.”

“She could still do that,” Estelle replied. “If she heads north to I-Ten, then she could turn eastbound to I-Twenty-five. South from there. Or north. Or anywhere she wants.”

“But she’s got to know you’re after her.”

“Actually, all she knows is that big, clumsy Posadas County Sheriff’s Department Expedition is trying to catch her. She’s got all the confidence in the world she can outrun him. She doesn’t necessarily know we’re out here.”

“How could she not?” the writer asked, rearing back in her seat with an instinctive braking effort as Estelle had to slow for a car carrier determined to pass a bumbling RV.

“You’d be amazed at what some people pass off as logic,” Estelle said. “Nobody outruns a radio.”

“They think you’ll give up the chase?”

“Some might actually think that.”

“All units, three-oh-two is comin’ up on Twenty-eight. We’ll be northbound. Negative contact.”

“All units, three-oh-eight.” Estelle could hear the squeal of tires in the background. “Subject just turned north on Twenty-eight. Northbound. Don’t think she saw me.”

“Three-ten copies.”

Madelyn leaned forward, straining against her seat belt, as if she could see beyond the miles that remained. “Do you know what she’s going to do?”

“We’re going to find out here in about two minutes.” Consuela Juanita Vallejos would have breathed a sigh of relief that she had shaken her initial pursuer…that he was now wandering vainly about the network of county roads that crisscrossed the farmlands south of the city. If she was smart-and in some ways, she certainly was clever, Estelle thought-CJ would slow her pace to avoid attracting attention when she pulled back onto State 28 to join the flow of traffic.

“Three-oh-eight, three-ten.”

“Eight. She’s headin’ for the westbound entrance ramp to the interstate.”

Westbound? Estelle frowned. “Let her do it,” she said.

“Ten-four. I’m a block back. She’s stickin’ to the speed limit.”

“Three-ten is eight miles out. We’ll find a spot to join the parade.”

“Be interesting to see where she thinks she’s goin’,” Torrez mused, and Estelle clicked the transmit twice in response.

“Where in heaven’s name is she going?” Madelyn asked.

“Perfect,” Estelle said to herself without answering the question. She braked hard. Across the way, a highway department dump truck was on the shoulder, rumbling along with its flashers on, the crew looking for trash hazards. The center median was a rough pasture, and she kept the car’s speed up as they crossed. Back on the pavement and westbound, it took them only a few seconds to overtake the truck, and she pulled far enough in front of it that the highway crew would have time to stop. She pulled the county car to a halt well off the pavement, and got out, trotting back toward the idling orange truck.

Puzzled, the driver looked down at her as he cranked down his window.

“I wasn’t speedin’,” he said, offering a denture-filled smile at his own joke.

“I need some help,” Estelle said. “Can you take a break for a few minutes?”

“That ain’t hard. What do we got to do?”

“Just stay parked. We’ve got a vehicle westbound on the interstate that we’re interested in. I need a place to wait.”

“Puttin’ out spike strips?”

“No. Not yet.”

He shrugged. “Lemme know,” he said.

“Thanks.” Returning to the car, she pulled toward the pavement just enough that she could watch the westbound lanes in her side mirror.