Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“I just wanted to make sure everyone understands the ground rules,” Estelle said. “Nobody needs permission from Bobby, or from me, to talk about anything they want. That’s all. Or not talk to her, as far as that goes.”

“She had an article last month about that woman aerobatic pilot who just won the national unlimited championship,” Jackie said. “It was pretty good. I left my copy in the workroom, if you want to take a look.”

“I’ll do that,” Estelle said, and slid out of the Bronco. The air was raw, and she ducked her head against the sting of the mist, driven now by the funnel of air through the pass. “She’s coming sometime today, by the way. She should have been here for all this. She might have enjoyed clambering up and down that cliff.”

“I bet.”

“I’ll be home if you need to reach me.”

By the time Estelle walked back to the dry protection of her own unmarked county car, the mist had thickened. The cloud pressed the San Cristóbals down to the prairie, enough to obscure the sodium vapor lights in the parking lot of the Broken Spur Saloon. Another few degrees and it would be sleet, Estelle thought. The asphalt up on the pass would take on a dangerous sheen of black ice. The ambulance was just pulling out onto the highway as she passed.

A few minutes later, as she drove northeast on State 56 onto the flat of the prairie between the Rio Guigarro and the Rio Salinas, the windshield was dry. The mountain made-or at least captured-its own weather, letting hints of it fan out to evaporate over the lowlands. What had happened there in the rocks, moments after the crash, remained just as obscure.

The traffic light at Bustos and Grande turned, and Estelle braked the county car to a stop. Lights blasted in her rearview mirror as a late model pickup truck pulled in behind her, red and blue emergency lights in the grill wiggle-wagging. With a grin, she reached out and keyed the mike transmit button twice in greeting.

A right turn on Bustos and then a block past the Posadas State Bank she turned into the parking lot of the Public Safety Building. The pickup followed and pulled into the spot reserved for sheriff Torrez.

Formerly a Posadas County sheriff himself, and now a New Mexico livestock inspector, Bill Gastner took his time climbing out of the shiny new truck, a mammoth thing sporting chrome grill guards, extra spotlights, and enough antennas projecting from the roof that it looked like an imitation of a mountaintop bristling with radio, cell phone, TV, and microwave towers. The New Mexico Livestock Board’s shield was centered neatly on the door.

Estelle patted the hood of the giant truck, waiting for Gastner to climb down.

“Quite the heap,” she said. “You’ve been promoted, or what?”

“‘Or what,’” Gastner replied. “They thought the old one looked disreputable. Probably like its driver. You just getting in from the pass?”

“Yes.”

“Just the one?”

“As far as we can tell, he was alone when he went off the highway. After that, we’re not so sure, padrino .”

“Local guy?”

“Las Cruces.”

“Nasty,” he said, and leaned against the fender of the truck, crossing his arms over his large belly. “Ready for some breakfast?”

“Because after all, it is after midnight,” Estelle added dryly. “Technically morning.”

“You’re learning, sweetheart. It’s Friday, or was, and the Don Juan stays open until two. We have an hour.”

“Uh,” Estelle groaned, thoroughly familiar with the old man’s prodigious eating habits, at any time of day or night. Gastner combined eating-especially foods that were high octane with green chile-and insomnia as his secret for longevity. “I really don’t, padrino . What I really need to do is go home to bed.”

“Tough country out there, and a nasty night for mountain climbing. You did okay?”

“I did okay,” she said, but sounded unconvinced. “The truck went off that really steep spot right at the top.”

“That cliff on the east side of the highway?”

“Exactly. Right where the Mexican car hauler got hung up on the guardrail last summer. But there are some things that don’t fit.”

“That pass kills its share of people. What’s not to fit?”

She grinned. Gastner’s curiosity was easily whetted. “He might still be there if Connie Ulibarri hadn’t been as sharp as she is.”

“You ought to pillage the highway department and hire her away,” Gastner said. “She saw the crash?”

“No, but the guy hit a deer, padrino . A doe wearing a collar. Connie stopped to collect the collar, and saw the skid marks. The truck’s down the hill, out of sight of the highway. It looks like maybe a day or two? The victim’s a twenty-one-year-old boy. He’s been lying out there all by himself, broken all to pieces, staring up at the sky. But…”

Gastner raised an eyebrow.

“But I think someone else was down there at the crash site. No…” She tapped the hood of the Dodge. “I know someone was. Whoever was there planted a boot on the victim’s hand.”

“What do you mean, sweetheart? Like stepped on him, you’re saying?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Now why would he do a thing like that, other than tripping over his own clumsy feet?”

“That’s one of our questions.”

“Ah,” Gastner said. “Well,” and he pushed himself away from the truck. “You know how that goes. Someone witnesses the accident, climbs down to see, and sees too much. He doesn’t want the complications of that, and just leaves. People do funny things. Sometimes damn unattractive things. Trippin’ around in the dark, he might not have even known he stepped on the kid’s hand.” Gastner polished an insect speck off the hood’s air dam. “Now, I had something to tell you, but damned if I don’t remember what it was.” He inspected the fancy grill of the truck. “Oh,” and he straightened suddenly. “Had a call from some woman who wants to do a story on you. For A Woman’s World . You read that rag?”

“No. But I got her e-mail a couple weeks ago requesting that she be allowed to spend some time with us. She’s coming today.”

“You agreed, you mean? I’m surprised. Goddamn delighted, but surprised, sweetheart.”

Estelle laughed and shrugged. “What could I say, sir. We’re a public agency. If she wants to come and see what we do, then fine. She’s free to do that.”

Gastner regarded her for a long moment. “It’s not the department that she’s interested in, sweetheart. It’s you. Our star.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m tellin’ ya,” he continued.

“And she called you?”

“Uh-huh. I’m to be the ‘deep throat’ in all this. She wanted to know if she could interview me for background…about your early years with the department.” His flinty blue eyes twinkled. “What you were like before your meteoric rise to power.”

“That should take a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll stretch it,” Gastner said. “I just wanted to clear it with you. If you don’t want to talk to ’em, I’ll tell ’em to take a hike. The Constitution is a wonderful thing, you know. The press can ask to their heart’s content. We don’t have to answer.”

Estelle frowned. “There is one thing, though.”

“And that is?”

“She…the reporter…included some pictures from some of my misadventures that have been in the papers-I guess to show that she’s done some research. I didn’t mind that. But there was a photo of Francisco that was taken during his performance in Cruces at the Christmas concert with the university orchestra. I want to give anything that involves him a lot of thought. And I want to discuss it a lot with Francis.”