Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Huh,” Wilcox said, and then there was silence for a heartbeat. “Oh…,” and he chuckled quickly. “I’m sorry-this just slipped my mind. One of the boys borrowed that to pick up some stuff over there the other day.” The relief at solving the mystery was palpable in his tone. “Hank had a couple of errands he needed to run up that way, and I loaned him the truck. He said he had some furniture to move. Something like that.”

“Hank, sir?”

“Hank Sisneros.” He laughed again. “He used to live over that way, I guess. He asked if he could use the truck, and with the holiday and all, I thought, ‘What the hell.’ No big deal.”

“Ah.”

“But you said the truck’s abandoned? I don’t understand what that’s all about.”

“Well, parked, sir. At a local business that’s closed. No driver.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. He’ll turn up, I guess. Old Hank, he likes the bottle. You might check one of the watering holes.”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem.” Oh yes, it’s a problem, Estelle thought. “You know what he looks like, dontcha?” Wilcox said. “He’s short, kinda wiry. Mexican fella, I think. No wetback, though.”

“An older man?”

“Well,” and Wilcox laughed again. “That depends on your point of view, Sheriff. I would guess that he’s about fifty-five. I don’t consider that to be particularly old anymore. You sound like you might, though.”

“Thanks for your help, sir.”

“No problem. I guess the good news is that if he’s wrapped himself around a bottle somewhere, at least he isn’t driving my truck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you run into him, tell him to bring my truck the hell back here. We got jobs to do in the morning.”

“I’ll do that, sir.” Estelle switched off and stood quietly beside the truck. She reached up with her left hand to rub the back of her neck, and realized the odd feeling was the hair on the nape of her neck standing erect.

Her heart thumping in her ears, she returned to the car and looked through her log. On Friday night, Tony Abeyta and Jackie Taber were the deputies who had been assigned to talk with the rest of the motel’s patrons.

She punched in Jackie Taber’s number, and the deputy answered promptly.

“Jackie,” Estelle said. “On Friday night, when you and Tony talked with the other patrons at the motel? I need to know about the owner of the white contractor’s truck that was parked there.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, forcing her memory. “Willis’s van, then the sports car, and the white truck. Down a few spaces.”

“Nobody was in that room,” Jackie replied. She hesitated. “We didn’t talk to ’em.”

“No one there, but the truck was?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you remember how the plate came back?”

“Just a sec.” Estelle could hear the rustle of paper. “The tag was November Thomas Charlie seven one one. Appears on a white 2003 Chevy three-quarter ton. Registered to Bruce Wilcox out of Deming.”

“ Ay, he was there,” Estelle whispered.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Hank Sisneros was driving that truck,” Estelle said. “I’ve got it over here in the pharmacy parking lot. Just the truck. No Sisneros.”

“I’m on my way,” Jackie said.

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Estelle said. She could hear the sound of the deputy’s vehicle in the background. “But I think I’ve got an idea. Silent approach, Jackie. Stop at the trailer park on Escondido. Okay? He doesn’t know we’re here, and I don’t want him to know.”

“Copy that. I’m on my way.”

What was now the parking lot of the clinic had formerly been a tangle of choked undergrowth. Guadalupe Trail curved around the five acres that had been Bill Gastner’s backyard, but now asphalt replaced the stunted oak, thistle, New Mexico olive, and ragged juniper. A narrow hedge of those unruly plants, perhaps fifty feet wide, separated the back border of the parking lot from the weeds around what had once been Gastner’s flagstone back patio-before he had stopped trying to keep up with the invasion.

Estelle stood between her county car and the plumber’s truck, surveying the parking lot, listening to the gentle breeze and the occasional hiss of traffic on the interstate a block to the north. Through the hedge, Estelle could see the faint glow from Gastner’s kitchen window. She dialed dispatch again.

“Ernie, I’ll be out of the car at Gastner’s for a few minutes. Is Tom clear yet?”

“He is. He’s inbound now.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to him. You’ll hear him say that he’s headed to Regál for a few minutes. Just acknowledge that, Ernie.”

Estelle clicked off and redialed. In a moment, Deputy Tom Pasquale responded.

“Tomás, this is Estelle. How far south are you?”

“About four miles, ma’am.”

“Okay. Expedite north, but silent approach. I’m at Bill Gastner’s, and I think something might be going on. I’m not sure what. When you pull into Guadalupe, don’t turn down Escondido, all right? I don’t want any extra traffic around Bill’s house. Just wait by the driveway of the trailer court on Guadalupe. Jackie’s already there.”

“Got it.”

“And you need to radio dispatch and tell Ernie that you’re headed toward Regál.”

There was a second or two of silence. “You lost me,” the deputy said.

“If someone has a scanner, I don’t want them knowing where you are, Tomás.”

“Oh, sure. Got it.”

Estelle turned off her phone and slipped it in her jacket pocket. Bill Gastner did have a scanner in his kitchen, although he rarely turned it on. It served as a handy flat surface to cover with pocket junk. Someone else might find it handy indeed. If Hank Sisneros had come to Mike’s apartment and either cajoled or coerced the young deputy to go with him to Gastner’s, knowing there was a flood of cops outside wasn’t going to help matters.

Skirting the back wall of the clinic, she cut across to the east side of the parking lot, well away from the sodium vapor light near the clinic’s back door, staying in the dark shadows along the thicket. The vegetation was musty, and once she heard the rustle of something in the dead leaves. She wanted badly to turn on her flashlight to make sure that she wasn’t about to stumble over a skunk, but resisted the impulse. The thick vegetation blocked whatever light might have strayed into the thicket from the quickly darkening sky.

She followed the perimeter of the parking lot until she was directly behind Bill Gastner’s house, the kitchen window now clearly visible as a yellowish patch through the brush. She stopped. A hundred times, she had either looked out through that kitchen window, or stood on the back patio, or even walked through the thickets. Now, with only the parking lot light behind her and the faint light from the kitchen in her eyes, the fifty feet between her and the house was a formidable barrier.

She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating on what she remembered. Off to the left of the kitchen window was an enormous cottonwood, its limbs lopped and pruned over the years so that when one dropped it wouldn’t crash through the roof of the house.

Taking a deep breath, she started toward that tree, one easy step at a time. She felt the ground ahead of her with the toe of her shoe, slipping each footstep into the dry vegetation.

The cottonwood loomed ahead of her, and she reached out a hand, touching its rough bark, reconnecting her balance with the sturdy, friendly trunk. She waited until her breathing eased and her pulse slowed. A dozen paces away, the back wall of the old adobe was a black shape against the tree-laced evening sky. Through the kitchen window, bare of curtains, she could see the top of the refrigerator and the wall cabinets beside it.