Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Anglo?”

Miranda nodded. “I think so.”

“Did you see this man, or anyone else, talking with Chief Martinez? In all this coming and going?”

“No. I think he like came in afterward?”

“The chief did, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“How long afterward?”

Miranda shrugged. “Just a few minutes, I think.”

“Let me make sure I understand you, Miranda. The big guy comes to the door, starts to open it, and then changes his mind when someone yells to him. Just a few minutes later, Chief Martinez comes in, buys some aspirin, uses the phone, and then goes back outside. That’s the way it happened?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gastner leaned on the counter and regarded Miranda impassively. “When you say ‘a few minutes,’ young lady, what do you mean? Are we talking, say, two minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

“I…,” Miranda started to say, and stopped.

“Just take your time,” Gastner said gently. “Relax, take your time, and remember what you were doing. Remember what you saw. We have all night.”

Miranda looked down at the computer keyboard, frowning. “Okay,” she said. “Those people in the old van-she’s the pregnant lady-she and her husband had just gone, like to park? That’s when this guy comes to the door? The big guy with the ponytail.”

“Seconds later, you mean?” Gastner prompted.

“Like, just seconds. The van was parked right there by the door, and they started up and like swung around?” Miranda pointed to her left. “I mean like, right away, they’re gone and this ponytail guy is at the door.” The words came in a rush, as if she had finally warmed up to her role as key witness. “Like he would have had to almost step out of the way when the van pulled around. And then , this ponytail guy just like changes his mind and leaves. He walks off that way?” Miranda pointed to her right. “That’s when the chief came in, just after that.”

“How long would that be?”

“Like just a little bit.”

Gastner smiled encouragement. “If you started counting from the time when Ponytail left to when the chief entered, how far would you get?”

Miranda closed one eye, the opposite eyebrow lifting. Estelle watched as the girl replayed her mental tape. “I think I’d like get to thirty, maybe?”

“That soon. Just thirty seconds?”

“Yes. It wasn’t very long and stuff.”

Estelle frowned at Gastner. “That’s why he chose to park along the side, rather than pulling under the portico. The van would still have been in the way.” To Miranda, she said, “I’d like the room number of the van folks. May I see their registration card?”

The girl hesitated. “She was really pregnant?” Her hand drifted down to her own flat belly. “For a minute I thought all the ambulances and stuff was for her.” She slid the card across the counter toward Estelle. “They’re in 110? That’s the room down at the end. That’s where Mr. P said they should go.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I had to call him, ’cause they said they didn’t have any money and stuff? And she wasn’t feeling too good?”

Estelle looked at the card. “He filled this out? The man did?”

“Yes.”

Neat block letters filled the card. “Todd Willis,” Estelle said. “Las Cruces.” She glanced at Gastner. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

He shrugged. “No bells in this old head.”

“They seemed like nice people. I was kind of afraid that she was going to have her baby like right here in the lobby,” Miranda said.

“Are you up on first-aid procedures?” Gastner chuckled, and Miranda flashed a quick, nervous smile.

“Not hardly.”

Estelle continued to examine the card. “They both came into the lobby to check in?” she asked without looking up. Miranda glanced first at Gastner and then at Estelle, as if unsure whether or not to answer the question.

“I think they did ’cause they couldn’t pay. Like maybe they thought…” Miranda let the rest of the thought trail off.

“Good technique,” Gastner said.

The door behind Miranda opened, and a dapper, swarthy man in razor-creased tan slacks, white shoes, and salmon-colored polo shirt stepped into the office.

“Mr. Patel, good evening,” Estelle said. She reached across the counter and shook the man’s hand-his return grip so light and limp that it wouldn’t have supported a pencil.

“Hey, Adrian,” Gastner said. “Good to see you.”

“Miranda tells me there has been a problem,” Adrian Patel said precisely, with just a hint of rolled r’s in his speech.

“Yes, sir,” Estelle replied. “Chief Eduardo Martinez was just taken to the hospital. We think with a coronary. It also appears that his vehicle may be missing.”

“You mean all this while he was here at my motel?” Patel asked.

“Yes. Apparently he came into the lobby to purchase some aspirin. There’s a possibility that he may have had a confrontation with someone outside, in the parking lot. But we don’t know yet.”

“This is all most unfortunate.” Patel heaved a deep sigh. “A confrontation, you say? With a guest?”

“We don’t know.”

“Ah. What may I do for you, then?”

“For one thing, sir, we need to talk to two guests who might have seen the incident. We understand that they’re in Room 110, down at the end.”

“Ah,” Patel said, and nodded. “Yes. We have those from time to time. Sometimes a bed and a meal may make a world of difference to them.”

“Yes, indeed,” Gastner said.

“I should think that they would still be in their room at this time,” Patel said. “Should you need to talk with them.”

“Just a couple of quick questions would be helpful,” Estelle said.

“I will remain here,” Patel said. “Should you need to talk with myself or Miranda again about this, you will feel free.” He nodded as if to add, and that’s that.

“We appreciate your help,” Estelle said. She paused, regarding Miranda. “They didn’t call 911 from the lobby. Is that correct?”

“No, ma’am,” Miranda said promptly.

“And not from their room?”

“I don’t think so. The panel here lights all up and stuff if a phone line is in use?” Miranda said.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Once outside, Estelle stood under the portico, hands thrust in her pockets. “Interesting,” she said.

“Yep,” Gastner agreed. “Interesting and stuff. ”

“The young couple can’t afford to pay for a room, but they have their own cell phone and van.”

“These are the times we live in, sweetheart. And stuff.”

“That new baby is going to have an interesting life.” Estelle grinned. “And if you’re going to talk like that, you have to have a bare midriff, sir.”

He looked down at his gut. “Scary thought.”

Estelle hunched against the drizzle, breathing the clean, wet air outside, relieved to be clear of the aroma of carpet cleaner and disinfectant. The two of them walked back to the county car and then drove the length of the motel toward Room 110.

The van was parked with its tires cocked against the concrete curb. If the occupants of Room 110 had pushed aside the lightproof plastic curtain, their view outside would have been of the van’s blunt, rusted, and dented face. Estelle pulled the county car in behind and perpendicular to the vehicle, stopping just far enough away that she could both read the tattered license plate and watch the yellow door of Room 110.

“That old boat has seen some miles,” Gastner said. He leaned back in the seat and cocked his head, looking at the ski-laden Toyota. “Oklahoma skiers,” he said. Two spaces farther down, the white utility truck was parked facing out, its doors clearly marked with magnetic signs. “And a Deming plumber.”