Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“I don’t think that I could send Francisco away,” she said. Once the words were out, they sounded silly to her. “For one thing, I can’t imagine Carlos home all alone. He and Francisco are the next best thing to Siamese twins, sir.”

“Tough stuff,” he grunted. “So what are the options? All of you could go, right? I mean, whether it’s Veracruz or Juilliard in New York doesn’t matter much, does it?”

“It matters a lot , sir. But yes. We all could go. We’re not going to, but we could. ”

“You think hard on what an opportunity that is, sweetheart,” he said, lurching around so he could reach the door handle. “Hell, there’s sick people in every corner of the world. It can’t matter a whole hell of a lot where hubby works. Sick is sick. With Sofía’s influence, the whole bunch of you would have to get used to living in grand style. Hell, you could get a job working for the federales , or some such.”

Estelle laughed. “That’s what Francis said, sir.”

“Well, listen to somebody, sweetheart. Hey, look,” and he leaned back toward her. “I’ve been around a while, and when my wife was alive, we went to concerts and stuff like that. Best one I can remember was that opera guy, what’s-his-name? The Mexican.”

“Plácido Domingo?”

“Yeah, him.”

“The ‘opera guy.’” She laughed. “He’d love that.”

“Well, he is. Anyway, we saw him in concert in Houston, back when he was younger. You know, he spends a lot of his time working with young musicians. Anyway,” and he paused and reached up to pat the bandage on his head. “What was I trying to say?”

“That you’ve been around, sir.”

“That’s it. And anyone who hears the little wart play, or who watches him make love to that damn piano, or watches the way he tells stories with it…hell, anybody will tell you the same thing. He isn’t some little kid who should be stuck with once-a-week piano lessons in some backwater place out in the desert. What a goddamn waste to the world that would be, sweet-heart.” He stopped suddenly and thumped the computer lid. “It’s none of my business. Except it is my business, because he’s family.” He shrugged. “So there it is. Do what you got to do, sweetheart. Don’t let it wait.”

“Francis and I need to talk about it some more. Right now we’re leaning toward bringing the world to him, instead of vice versa. Let the rest of the world find out that there really is a Posadas.”

“What a concept,” he said brusquely. “And a damn good idea, too. I could have come up with that if I had half a brain.” He opened the door and struggled out of the car. “Stop letting work interfere with your home life. That’s my advice for the day.” He shot her a wide grin. “Notice how effortless it is to say asinine things like that.”

He stopped in front of the door and regarded the sad little acacia by the step.

“Ruined that, didn’t I.” He twisted and looked back at the corner of the patio where the piece of rebar had been found. “Either I was preoccupied, or deaf, or stoned,” he said. “Not to hear someone crunching across that gravel behind me.” He frowned and turned to the door. “I can’t remember if I was in the process of turning, or not,” he added. It took him a minute or so to find the right key, and then to find the keyhole. “Don’t get old, sweetheart. That’s my best advice.”

He swung the heavy door open. “There we go, then. Let’s eat. And you can tell me what you’ve found out about Janet Tripp. I’ve been lying in bed thinking about her a lot lately.”

“Mike Sisneros went to school with Janet,” Estelle said. “Sort of. He was a year ahead of her. He didn’t go out with her or anything like that, but he knew her. That’s all.”

“Infatuation from afar?” Gastner asked.

“I don’t think so. He just knew who she was, that’s all. And then over the years, he had occasion to see her once in a while at A amp; H Welding. Just a familiar face. He was the officer who provided initial treatment when she was hurt the night of the Pope fire. She stepped in a ditch and sprained or broke her ankle.”

“Ah,” Gastner said. “I didn’t remember that.” He scooped another generous load of burrito, deftly wrapping the strand of cheese around the loaded fork. “She lived over at the trailer park on Escondido. I recall that. See?” He held up the morsel. “Feed the brain, and off you go.”

“She’s been with Mike for a while now,” Estelle said.

“Now, yes. But when she was on her own, that’s where she lived.”

“There’s a sister, too. Mike says that she lives over in Kansas. He’s going to find the number and address for me.”

“No one’s contacted her yet about Janet?”

“No, sir. Do you remember anything about the sister?”

“Not a damn thing.” He frowned. “That may require several more of these.” A tiny fragment of green chile lay at one end of the empty platter, and he speared it with his fork. “Her folks,” he mused, and shut his eyes. Estelle wondered what mental process it was that sifted through half a century of memories and associations, searching for a single face or a single name. Bill Gastner had once described his memory as being like an enormous walk-in closet filled from floor to ceiling with trivia scribbled in fading ink on millions of 3 × 5 cards, a true ROM.

“Terry Tripp used to work for the electric company,” he said after a moment. “The mother. I think that’s where she worked. If it wasn’t too long ago, Kevin Tierney could tell you for sure. I don’t recall who was manager before him.” He closed his eyes again, perhaps watching the cascade of file cards. “She died of cancer. God, how long ago? I have no idea. Ten, fifteen years? Something like that?”

“How about Janet’s father?” Estelle asked. Gastner had pushed the plastic take-out box away, and she scooped it off the counter and put it in the sack of trash under the sink.

Gastner rested his chin in his hand, elbow on the counter. “This is interesting,” he said. “I haven’t thought about any of these folks for a long, long time.” He turned just enough so he could see Estelle. “You know, when Janet came into the Sheriff’s Office for the last time, whenever it was? Christmas afternoon? God…that’s yesterday. Anyway, I thought of her mother. I guess in part it’s because they looked a lot alike. I’m sure that at one time, I knew who Mr. Tripp was.” He shrugged and one hand sought out the bandage on the back of his head. “But that’s too long ago.”

“Ancient history,” Estelle said.

“Be careful with that ancient stuff,” Gastner said. “Mike didn’t know?”

“No. Eddie and I are both going to talk with him again today sometime.”

“ His dad was a piece of work,” Gastner said. “Mike’s, I mean. A joyous drunk might be a good way to put it. He was one of those guys who just plain loved alcohol. A real love affair with old Nancy Whiskey. And you know what? I don’t recall a single time when he was actually arrested for DWI, or public intox, or anything like that. You ask Bobby Torrez. There’s never been a cop who had it more in for drunken drivers than Bobby. You know that. But even he never managed to nail old Hank for anything.”

“Careful, or lucky, or both. Mike says his old man had a fine temper.”

“Well,” Gastner said, hunching his shoulders, “probably.” He sighed. “But he and Irene split up eventually. Mike’s mom. Irene? She dumped him, he dumped her, I guess it doesn’t matter. Old Nancy got in the way, is all.”

“And a few other issues, Mike says,” Estelle added.