Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

Putting the paperwork down, she walked the length of the living room to the bedroom. From all appearances, it was temporary quarters-nothing frilly, nothing extra.

“If you want Mr. Young to stay while you go through the house, that’s fine,” Estelle said as she headed toward the door. “I don’t need to talk to him again. As far as I’m concerned, he’s free to go.”

“You got it.”

She stopped at the door and extended her hand to Nilson. He looked at her with eyes so light blue that the irises appeared transparent. “Thanks, detective.”

“Hey, don’t mention it,” Nilson said. His grip was light and faintly clammy. “How are things over in the land of the free and the brave?”

“Things are interesting.”

“Oh, I bet,” Nilson laughed. “That’s what our life is…interesting.”

Intent on her laptop, Madelyn Bolles didn’t look up as Estelle approached the car. Estelle eased into the driver’s seat, and Madelyn finally glanced over at her.

“Here’s a question for you,” Madelyn said.

“I hope it’s an easy one,” Estelle replied.

“It is. As I recollect, I started this day around sixish? Something like that? By nine, we were down in Regál, talking with Mrs. Roybal. And so it goes. It’s now about four fifteen. I’m curious about what’s next.”

Estelle stretched, pushing both hands hard against the steering wheel. “I need to stop by the hospital in Posadas for a few minutes. The deputy will finish up here.”

“You think there might be time for me to buy you dinner?”

“Dinner,” Estelle repeated, as if it were a foreign concept. “Let’s see how things go.”

“Is that a ‘yes?’”

Estelle laughed. “That’s as close to a ‘yes’ as I can come at the moment.”

Her cell phone rang, and she took her time unfolding it. “Guzman.”

“Hey,” Bob Torrez said. “Eddie just called you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Look, Jackie’s comin’ in to cover at the hospital until you can get up here. We got a match.”

A match, Estelle thought, caught off-guard. “A match of what, Bobby?”

“Tom is one hundred percent positive that the print on the beer can belongs to the girl’s left index finger. One hundred percent. Ain’t no wonder why she ran.”

“I’ll be up there in an hour,” Estelle said. She heard what might have been a groan from Madelyn Bolles.

“She’s conscious and lucid,” Deputy Jackie Taber said. She pulled the door closed behind her. “And frightened. How are you doing, ma’am,” she said to Madelyn Bolles.

“Keeping up, just barely, thank you.”

“The docs are in there now doing whatever it is that they do,” the deputy continued. She looked at her watch.

“What does she have to say?” Estelle asked.

Taber made a face of exasperation. “I haven’t exchanged more than a few words with her,” she said, and held out an arm, tugging at her own uniform sleeve. “She doesn’t much like the looks of this , is my guess. She doesn’t know what we know, and she’s worried.” The deputy shook her head. “That’s all conjecture on my part.”

The door of the ICU suite behind her opened, and Jackie stepped to one side to allow the nurse out. “Hi,” the young woman said, beaming at Estelle. Moira Torrez, the sheriff’s youngest sister, was as petite as her brother was huge. Her dazzling smile included Madelyn but immediately turned sober. “You’re going to want to talk with her?”

“If we can.”

Moira took a quick step out of the way as the door opened again. Dr. Francis Guzman held the door, blocking the opening. “You want a few minutes?” he asked Estelle.

“Yes.”

Still blocking the passage, the physician let the door ease closed behind him. “She’ll be pretty loopy,” he said. “I knew you’d want to talk with her, and we’re keeping the sedation as mild as we can. We’re going to transport her to Cruces here in a few minutes. Pete Vaskos is on hand down there, and he’s going to do an eval and help us with the crushed hip.”

“Spinal damage?”

“Not good, querida . That’s what took the brunt of it. We have nasty fractures down at T-twelve and L-one, as well as a broken pelvis and femur.”

“She’s paralyzed?”

“Yes. From the waist down.”

“Is she going to stay that way?”

“My guess is that she will.” He pushed the door open and held it for Estelle, and as she passed through, she beckoned Madelyn to follow. Dr. Alan Perrone ducked his head in greeting and joined Francis out in the hall, leaving Estelle and Madelyn alone with the patient.

Consuela Juanita Vallejos looked tiny, so buried was she under braces, tubes, and wires. Her eyes were open and a little unfocused as the drugs in her system dulled the edges of consciousness. Estelle moved close to the left side of the bed and looked down at the girl, trying to imagine this desperately injured creature as the vibrant, confident young woman whose appearance had managed to shine through even in a driver’s license photo.

Estelle leaned forward, her right hand resting on the frame near the patient’s head. CJ’s eyes blinked several times as if she was trying to clear the cobwebs.

“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was husky, just above a whisper.

“I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” she said. “With the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department.”

“So, you’re a cop?”

“Yes.”

“I was going kind of fast, wasn’t I,” CJ said. She closed her eyes and tried a brave smile.

“ Way, way too fast,” Estelle agreed.

“I don’t know what happened.”

“You tangled with a truck and then rolled.”

“All I could think of was that the car was going to catch on fire,” the girl whispered.

“You’re lucky.”

“I can’t feel my feet,” the girl said.

Estelle didn’t respond but let the girl struggle with that thought for a few seconds. She took CJ’s left hand in hers, avoiding the IV feed. “Can you feel my touch?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Estelle held CJ’s hand a moment longer. “That’s good, then.” She turned the fine-boned hand ever so slightly, and saw the scar that began at the corner of the girl’s left index fingernail and arched around to the center of the pad.

“I need to ask you some questions, CJ,” Estelle said.

“It was just a dumb thing to do,” the girl said. Her eyes fixed on Estelle, eyes so dark brown and impenetrable that the undersheriff had no difficulty imagining Chris Marsh and Jack Young being swept away.

“What was?”

“My driving,” CJ said. Tears welled up, and one tear tracked down an elegant cheek to stain the pillow. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Still holding the girl’s hand in her left, Estelle slipped the micro-recorder out of her pocket. She held it, a gadget no larger than a deck of cards, so that the girl could see it, then let her hand and the recorder sink to the gurney beside CJ’s head. “I want to ask you some questions, Ms. Vallejos. I know that you’re hurting, but it’s important that we do this now. You’re going to be transferred down to Cruces for surgery here in a few minutes.”

“The doctor told me,” CJ replied. “Are you and him related?”

“He’s my husband.”

The girl’s lips moved to form an oh without actually saying the syllable.

“Tell me about Chris Marsh,” Estelle said.

At first, it appeared as if CJ Vallejos hadn’t heard her. She turned her head away and closed her eyes, the room full of the gentle hiss and beep of gadgets. When she spoke, her voice was small and distant. She turned and looked at first Estelle and then Madelyn, her gaze wary and at odds with the sick child’s voice.