Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

Estelle started to say something when her husband appeared around the corner by the Hospital Auxiliary’s coffee bar.

“Ah,” Perrone said. “Now we’re all set.”

Reaching out to take Perrone by the elbow, Estelle nodded toward the ward behind them. “How’s Eduardo?” Somehow, it seemed weeks ago that she had last seen Eduardo Martinez, pale and frail, in his ICU bed-not just hours. If his family was still maintaining a vigil, they were cloistered away somewhere, perhaps in the ICU waiting room down the hall.

“That’s the problem,” Perrone said. “I’m starting to think that it might be a good idea if one of us rides on the plane with Bobby, but maybe not. That’s what I wanted to discuss with Dr. Guzman,” and Perrone held up his hand like a traffic cop as Francis strode up to them. “One of us certainly needs to stay here and ride herd on the chief. And to answer your question, Estelle, he’s not good. He’s unresponsive, and the family is trying to decide what to do. He’s reached a point where the machines are breathing for him. Not good.” He nodded in resignation. “Like I said, Merry Christmas, eh?”

He stepped away, yielding his spot in the conversation to Estelle’s husband. “We’ll talk in a bit,” he said to Estelle, and then with a final pat to his associate’s shoulder, he hustled back to the ICU.

“Sofía said not to bother calling Irma,” Francis said, referring to Irma Sedillos, the Guzman boys’ nana and Gayle’s sister. “Everything is under control on the home front, querida. ”

“That’s the least of my worries right now, oso, ” Estelle said. “But Sofía is a sweetheart.” She glanced at her watch again. “I need to swing by the office for a little bit to make sure we’re covered, and then I’ll stick pretty close to here, I guess. If Essie Martinez needs anything…” Her cell phone chirped and she looked heavenward. “If you end up marooned in Albuquerque, let me know, okay? If you go up there on the plane? When things quiet down, maybe we can all take a drive up there to pick you up. Sofía mentioned that she’d like to do that one day while she’s here. A little vacation.”

“Vacation?” Francis said, puzzled. Then he grinned and kissed Estelle lightly, first on the lips, then the tip of her nose, and then squarely between the eyes, just as she’d done to Carlos. “Love you, querida. Be careful. No more heroics.”

Palming the tiny phone that insisted with a variety of chirps, she waved at her husband as he disappeared through the glass doors. “Guzman.”

“Estelle, this is Brent,” the graveyard-shift dispatcher said cheerfully. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No bother. What’s up?”

“Did you happen to hear from Gayle? I was kinda lookin’ for her.”

“I was just about to call,” Estelle said. “We’re all over here at the hospital. Gayle’s not going to be in today, Brent. Can you stay put until I have a chance to rearrange some things?”

Sutherland hesitated just long enough that Estelle knew he’d probably made plans that he was loath to break. “Sure. You mean like the whole shift?”

“It might come to that. We don’t know yet.”

“Well…okay, sure. Is everything all right?”

“The sheriff’s going to be going to Albuquerque for some treatment. Gayle will go with him.”

“Geez, that’s no good. What, for his leg, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. How’s the chief doing, by the way?”

“Not well.”

“Frank’s here, asking.”

“I can just imagine,” Estelle said. Frank Dayan, publisher and quasi-editor of the Posadas Register, matched anyone in town for long, irregular hours.

“You want to talk with him?”

“Sure.”

“Just a sec.”

When he came on the line, Frank’s voice was quiet and concerned. “Merry Christmas, Undersheriff,” he said. “You have your hands full over there?”

“Yes, we do, Frank. We’re imploding.”

“Look, I got your note about the arrests and about Eduardo. How’s he doing?”

“Critical,” Estelle said.

“But not directly because of assault, or anything like that?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Boy,” Dayan said. “If the chief didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all.” Estelle didn’t respond, and Dayan shifted gears. “Look, Estelle…did you get a copy of the short list for county manager? I was going to try and talk to you yesterday-or Pam was going to. We didn’t have the chance.”

“I got one a while ago, Frank. I haven’t looked at it. We got kinda busy around here.” She knew that the county commission had called a short special meeting to sort through and qualify the handful of applications for the county manager’s vacancy, but it was nothing that she had needed to attend…and Bob Torrez could be counted on to flee to the opposite side of the county from anything remotely construed as politics.

“Well, I have a copy with me,” Dayan said. “I think you and the sheriff are going to be very interested.”

“How many applications did they finally end up with?” As she talked, Estelle had made her way toward the front door of the hospital, and now she stood just inside the foyer where framed photos of the staff, including her husband, graced the east wall.

“Five that they’re going to consider,” Dayan said. “Were you planning to come in to the office this morning?”

“I’m on my way there right now.” She stepped outside and saw that the skies had cleared, leaving only a small smudge of clouds to the southwest.

“Maybe we could chat for a minute, then. I know it’s a bad time, with it being Christmas morning and all, but I’m trying to keep ahead of things. It’ll take me all week just to wheedle a comment out of the sheriff.”

“I sympathize, Frank,” Estelle said. Frank Dayan’s newspaper hit the streets on Thursdays, dictated more by the schedule of grocery store advertising inserts than by when breaking news was most likely…something that Estelle was sure twanged the newspaper publisher’s heart in opposing directions. And the search for a new county manager was a significant story for the county in general and the Sheriff’s Department in particular, regardless of Sheriff Robert Torrez’s disinterest in either politics or the press. Torrez had pretty much ignored the previous county manager, leaving the attendance of county meetings and reports to his undersheriff.

“Did anybody local make the short list?” Estelle asked.

“Oh, yes.” Dayan chuckled. “You and Robert are going to like this.” His tone said otherwise.

Frank Dayan handed the undersheriff a photocopy that included five names. Each name was followed by a one-or two-sentence résumé. Estelle settled in her chair and smoothed the single sheet of paper on the center of her desk calendar. She folded her hands and glanced up at Frank, seeing the twinkle in his eyes as he waited expectantly for her to read the list.

“Now this is interesting,” she said, and Dayan’s smile widened, lighting up his narrow, swarthy face.

“That’s an understatement,” he said. “Did you have any heads-up about this?”

“I hadn’t heard that this guy from Oklahoma City had applied.”

Dayan laughed at Estelle’s joke. “Oh, gosh. We’re concerned about him, all right.”

Estelle regarded the newspaper publisher with amusement and saw the expression that meant Dayan was sniffing for good front-page stuff. “I knew that Leona had applied,” she said. She again read the short statement about the candidate who had drawn Frank Dayan’s interest.

Leona Spears, B.S., M.S., Stanford University; Ph.D., California Institute of Technology; 28-year employment with New Mexico State Department of Transportation’s Highway Department. Currently planning engineer, DOT District 19.