Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Ten four,” the dispatcher said. “You coming back in here tonight?”

“Probably-after dinner sometime. Why?”

“Just wondered, is all.”

She was about to break the connection when she hesitated, her tired brain finally interpreting what she was seeing. Posadas had at least two reputable plumbing contractors, and Drs. Guzman and Perrone had always made a point of hiring them. Why would they then call-or ask Lonnie to call-a contractor from Deming, especially for a nighttime emergency?

“Ay,” Estelle whispered. Deming. She gazed at the truck for a long moment. What was the nature of coincidence? Deming, less than forty miles east, was the nearest city of any consequence.

She glanced at the dashboard clock. At 5:36 p.m., the pharmacy had been closed for more than an hour…. If a contractor passing through had stopped for a refilled prescription, or a bottle of aspirin, he would have been long since on his way. That someone had found a plumber who would respond to a call on Sunday afternoon was in itself remarkable.

“Ernie, run a plate for me, okay?”

“You got it. Go ahead when you’re ready.”

“I’m looking at New Mexico November Charlie Thomas seven one one.”

“Just a sec,” Wheeler said, and then in the background she heard another call, this one on the radio. “Stand by, three oh two,” Wheeler responded.

“Don’t make him wait,” she said. “I’m in no hurry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wheeler said, and for the next few seconds he and Deputy Pasquale exchanged numbers, Pasquale snooping into dark corners and working traffic on State 56 just south of the village.

After a moment, the dispatcher came back on the phone. “Estelle, November Charlie Thomas seven one one should show on a commercial vehicle, a white 2003 Chevy three-quarter ton. It’s registered to Bruce Wilcox, doing business as Peerless Plumbing and Heating.” He rattled off the address. “Negative wants or warrants.”

“Thanks, Brent. I’ll be with the owner of that vehicle at the clinic. Apparently he’s inside with Lonnie.”

“Ten four.”

She pocketed the phone, picked up her heavy flashlight, and switched off the car, locking it behind her as she got put. Walking on the narrow sidewalk, she skirted the building and arrived at the front door. Through one of the narrow, grilled windows, she could see the top of Lonnie Duarte’s round, fuzzy-haired head back in the pharmacy. The rest of the store was dark. Lonnie reached up and made a notation in a large ring binder that lay on top of the counter. He was obviously alone, intent on his work.

Estelle retraced her steps to the clinic’s side entrance, a plain, windowless door marked employees only. In a moment, she found the correct key and let herself in.

Lonnie’s head appeared around the corner, and a broad smile of recognition lit up his pleasant features.

“Well, hi there. Did you forget something?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so.” She closed the door behind her. “You’re working late.”

“Always, always,” Lonnie said. “It amazes me how much paperwork there is, all the time.”

Estelle nodded agreeably. “There’s a truck parked outside, next to your car.”

“There is?”

“A plumbing contractor’s truck. Was he in here earlier for something?”

“No. No one like that. At least I don’t think so.”

Estelle frowned. “He could have come in earlier…” She let the sentence trail off. If the plumber had come in earlier, he’d be gone by now. If the truck had broken down, someone would have towed it away.

“Just wondered,” she said. “I was just swinging by and noticed it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Lonnie said. “Maybe it’s a Christmas present from a grateful patient.”

“Don’t you wish. You have a good night.” Estelle left the same way she had come, and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, regarding the truck. Frowning, she backed away, moving out into the parking lot for a different perspective. With an electric jolt, the memory flooded back. This wasn’t the first time she had seen this truck-or at least one very much like it.

At the Posadas Inn motel, a white utility truck had been one of the vehicles parked outside the rooms…just a few spaces down from Todd Willis’s battered loaner van.

Moving quickly, Estelle returned to her own vehicle, dialing the office as she did so.

“Ernie, are you clear for a minute?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Check the Deming phone directory for a listing for Bruce Wilcox, and also Peerless Plumbing and Heating, please.”

“You got it.”

She could hear him humming tunelessly as he scrolled through the electronic pages. “I have a Bruce and Alma Wilcox on Rincon Drive. Is that the one? It’s the only Bruce Wilcox listed.”

“We’ll see.” He gave her the number, as well as the two listings for Peerless Plumbing and Heating. “Thanks, Ernie. What’s Tom’s twenty now? Still south of the Spur?”

“He’s out at mile marker thirty-one on State 56. A confused tourist, I think. He was going to head on down and check both the saloon and a couple of places in Regál when he finished up. He says that one of Mike’s buddies lives down that way. Art Sanchez?”

“Okay. When he’s clear, have Tomás start up this way.”

“Where do you want to meet him?”

“I’m not sure yet. Just have him stay central until I get back to you.”

“You got it. Captain Mitchell is right over on Bustos. He and Lieutenant Adams are checking all the alleys and stuff. And Jackie’s over making sure the school complex is clear.”

“That’s good,” Estelle said. “I’ll let you know.” When she dialed the number for Wilcox, the phone was answered on the second ring by an answering machine, and then almost immediately that was cut off. A brusque voice said, “Yup?”

“Mr. Wilcox?”

“That’s right.”

“Sir, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman over in Posadas. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

“In Posadas, you said?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, what can I do for you?” He sounded as if he was eating something while he talked, and Estelle could hear a television in the background.

“Sir, let me make sure I have the right party. Are you owner of Peerless Plumbing and Heating?”

“Sure am.”

“I was curious about one of your trucks that’s parked over here in Posadas.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“One of your trucks, sir.”

“Marko, turn that thing down,” Wilcox shouted without bothering to cover the telephone mouthpiece. “Now, say again?” he said to Estelle.

“One of your trucks is parked at a business here in town, and the driver isn’t with the vehicle. Does one of your staff live over here, or were they over here shopping? Something like that?”

“I don’t think so,” Wilcox said.

“How many employees do you have, sir?”

“Just five of us at the moment. We’re a little short-handed. But listen, I don’t understand this thing about one of my trucks.”

“A white 2003 Chevy three-quarter ton, sir. License November Thomas Charlie seven one one. It’s got toolboxes on the side of the bed, a couple ladders, and a small load of PVC pipe. It looks like somebody’s doing a job over here or something. Except no one’s around. The truck is untended.” She stepped out of her car, and walked the length of the white pickup. With a great deal of care, she reached out and opened the driver’s door. “It’s also unlocked,” she said. She leaned inside without making any contact and inhaled deeply. The smell of whiskey was pungent. As if her response was triggered by that aroma, she closed the truck’s door and then turned quickly in place, surveying the shadows of the parking lot.