Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

His dark eyes held hers, watchful and alert. “Why take the money at all, then?”

“It’s there, it’s easy, and maybe he figured it would lead us off in the wrong direction. Mike, we’re not looking for a simple thief. We’re looking for a killer. And that’s what got me to thinking. Whoever hit Bill Gastner didn’t confront him, like someone with a grudge. There were no words exchanged. No threats. Bill had no warning, never saw it coming. Just one very hard blow from the back, and if the weapon hadn’t struck the door jamb at the same time, that would have been it. It would have done the job.”

“If it was the same person, why didn’t he just use the gun?” Mike’s speech cadence had picked up a notch as his mind engaged.

“If he had, that would have connected the two, for sure. No doubt. And who knows? Maybe the killer did plan to use the gun. Maybe he crouched in the dark on that patio, gun in hand. Maybe he had second thoughts. Maybe he had time to think about the noise out in that quiet neighborhood. Maybe he tripped over the piece of rebar while he waited, and that changed his mind. Maybe it was one of those bright ideas at the last minute.”

One eyebrow twitched, but Mike remained silent.

“But see,” Estelle persisted, “it was the same sort of simple attack. One blow, and that was it. We both know that if they’d met face to face, he would have had to use the gun. Bill’s a tough old guy, even pretty quick on his feet when he’s not thinking about it. The killer didn’t hang around to argue, to gloat, or for that matter, to ransack Bill’s house. The keys were right there. He could have gone inside with no problem. But he didn’t. One blow, and he’s gone.”

“Someone local, then,” Mike said. “It wasn’t just someone down off the interstate who saw an opportunity and robbed Janet. He’d have no reason to wander around town until he stumbled on Gastner coming home.”

“That’s exactly right,” Estelle said. “It’s someone local, and it’s someone who doesn’t want to be caught. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

Jana Lynn arrived with the food, but didn’t linger. The burrito, thoughtfully reduced in size from the dish that would have brought a grin of anticipation to Bill Gastner’s face, rested fragrant and daunting in front of Estelle. She had ordered it only to encourage Mike Sisneros to eat, and now the idea of trying to work her way through its ten thousand calories cramped her stomach. The omelet parked in front of Mike Sisneros could have nourished a small army.

“Tell me about her,” Estelle said as she started to unwrap one end of the burrito, exposing the filling without having to eat the thick tortilla or the blanket of cheese that held it all together. The request prompted silence. “Mike, look,” Estelle said. “You’re a good police officer. You know what we’re up against. We have a victim. We have precious little forensic evidence. We have no one who has stepped forward and presented himself as a suspect. There’s a missing gun in the picture. The gun belonged to the victim’s fiancé. Do you want to quote me some statistics about domestic violence?”

“I’m the most likely person to have killed her,” the deputy said dully. “That’s what the statistics say.”

“That’s right. That’s what they say.”

“Captain Mitchell didn’t arrest me last night, and here I am, trying to stuff my face this morning. The undersheriff hasn’t arrested me either, so I guess I’m off the hook, huh?” He almost managed a tired smile. “For a while, anyway.”

“So it appears. But you’re a good cop, Mike.”

“That’s what you said.”

“So you tell me where we should start.” She pushed her plate to one side. “Mike, I don’t know anything about Janet. Let’s start that way. I haven’t met her half a dozen times in the last six months. I know she worked at A amp; H. Doing what, I don’t know. And I sure don’t know why anyone would want to kill her.”

He shook his head slowly, the omelet growing cold after the initial explorations. “I went to school with her,” he said, and Estelle could see that he wasn’t seeing the designs his fork drew in the omelet’s crusty surface. “Well, sort of. She was a year behind me. I didn’t hang out with her or anything. She was one of those kids that…well, that nobody really notices. She had her friends, I had mine. She went to work for the welding shop right out of high school. I know that, ’cause my father’s a welder and taught me how, and we used to buy supplies and stuff like that over there. I’d see her once in a while.”

“When did you start going out with her?”

He heaved a sigh. “Remember that nasty fire over at the Popes’ place a couple of years ago?”

“Of course.”

“She was one of the ones who helped round up some of the horses and donkeys that got loose after that. She lives in that trailer park right there when you turn off from Grande to Escondido? I mean, she did. Anyway, she broke her ankle that night. Stepped crooked or something, walking back home along the road. I was the responding officer to that.”

“Ah.” A damsel in distress does it every time, Estelle thought.

“We got to talking, and it just kinda grew from there. At first, she didn’t seem too excited to have anything to do with a cop, but she came around.” A ghost of a smile touched his face.

“She was never married before?”

“No. Kinda took our time, didn’t we?”

“I wouldn’t call thirty-one over the hill, Mike.”

“I’m thirty-two. She’s a year younger.”

She grinned. “Well, then. That’s over the hill. I speak from painful experience. She has family?” The night before, Mike Sisneros had been vague about Janet Tripp’s relatives.

“She has one sister.” Sisneros frowned at the table. “She lives over in Kansas. I know Janet has her address and number in her little book. But they don’t talk much.”

“Parents?”

“I…well, her mom died ten years ago or so. They were divorced. I know that. Her dad just walked out on ’em one day a long time ago. Left ’em high and dry. Janet doesn’t like to talk about it. So we don’t. I mean we didn’t.”

“Sometimes this is a hard time of year for folks with family problems,” Estelle said.

“Yep. That’s what the textbooks say.” He glanced up and shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Why didn’t she go with you to Lordsburg on Christmas Day? Wasn’t she planning to originally?”

“Maybe. Yeah. I guess she was. But I know that sometimes she’s a little uncomfortable around my mom. It’s one of those things-she has to kind of work up to it, you know? My mom is…well, she’s bossy. And she doesn’t like it much that I’m living with a white girl. And not married to boot. Mom is the Catholic of all Catholics when it comes to things like that.”

“A white girl?”

“What can I say. To Mom, there’s Indian, and there’s white, and never the twain.”

“She’s Hopi?”

“Zuni.”

“And your dad?”

“My stepdad is Zuni. My dad-dad is just plain old Mexican. That’s white as far as Mom is concerned.” He grinned but his eyes didn’t go along. “Maybe that’s where all the problems start, huh? A psychologist would have a ball.”

“So Janet decided not to go over to Lordsburg at the last minute?”

“Yep.” He worked the fork into the omelet until the utensil could stand upright by itself. “That was something that we were going to have to work out.”

“Your mom, you mean?”

“Yep.” He gave the fork a twist and withdrew it and put it down on the tablecloth. “I don’t see it,” he whispered. “Who’d want to do…”