Steven Havill - Convenient Disposal

Estelle sat down on Zeigler’s back step and fished her phone from her jacket pocket. After a brief a moment, she jotted down the Socorro phone number for William Page that the electronic voice from directory assistance provided. The phone rang five times before connecting.

“Hello. You’ve reached the residence of William Page. Either leave a message, or try me at PageLink, Incorporated.” The number he gave was also a Socorro listing.

Estelle dialed again.

“Good afternoon,” a cheerful voice responded. “This is Marci at PageLink. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Marci,” the undersheriff said as if they were old, close friends. “This is Estelle Guzman down in Posadas. Is William there?”

“Sure,” Marci replied brightly. “Hang on just a sec.”

In a moment, a soft tenor voice came on the line. “This is Page.”

“Mr. Page, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman, calling from Posadas.”

There was a pause. “Yes?”

“Mr. Page, we’re trying to reach Kevin Zeigler. An emergency has come up, and it’s something where we need the county manager’s input. I was hoping maybe he’d called you…that perhaps you knew where he was at the moment.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Page, apparently Kevin had some urgent business out of the office. He left a meeting of the county commissioners at noon and hasn’t returned. He didn’t tell his secretary where he was going. I thought maybe you might know.”

The line went silent, and Estelle gave Page a few seconds to think before she continued on, keeping her tone conversational. “I thought there was a possibility you might have talked to him this morning.”

“I did,” Page said. “I called the office and we chatted for a while, yes. It’s my impression that there was quite an important county meeting today.” Page sounded as if he was leaning into the phone, keeping his voice intimate. “But I have no idea where he might be. I’m not clairvoyant. What’s going on, Undersheriff?”

Estelle hesitated, loath to share any more information than necessary. “Mr. Page, we may need to gain access to Kevin’s house here on Candelaria. There’s been an incident next door.”

“At the Acostas’, you mean?”

“Yes. I need to talk with Kevin.”

“His secretary at the county office always knows where he is,” Page said. “But why do you need to get into the house? Did something happen there?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why we need to find him. As I said, Kevin left the county meeting around noon. He didn’t return.”

“I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” Page said. “I thought this had something to do with county business. That’s what you made it sound like. Now you’re talking about his neighbors. What happened down there?”

“It’s an incident involving one of the Acosta children, Mr. Page. Because it’s next door to Kevin’s, and because his county truck is parked here in the driveway, it’s logical that we would want to find out if he saw anything that would be of help to us.”

“Is his car there?”

“The little blue Datsun? Yes, it is. But the house is locked, and no one answers. I was hoping that you might be able to help us, since you talked to him this morning.”

“You’ve got me thoroughly confused,” Page said. “Look, you said that he was next door at the Acostas’?”

“No, sir, I didn’t say that. He isn’t home. We responded to an emergency call at the Acostas’ address. There is reason to believe that Kevin might have been home, next door, at some time during a critical period in that incident. We have a warrant to search the premises, but I thought it would be helpful-”

“A warrant ? Jesus H. Christ, what for?” Page said.

“It’s imperative that we talk with Kevin, Mr. Page.”

“Well, I can see that, but look. If he’s not at home, then he’s not at home, right? He’s off somewhere, running errands. His secretary should know.”

“His secretary doesn’t know, sir. And his vehicles are both here.”

“The county has more than one truck, for God’s sake.”

“I realize that, Mr. Page,” Estelle said patiently. “And I realize he has a cell phone, and he has a pager. And the county vehicles all have radios. Mr. Page, it’s this simple. We need to talk with Kevin, and no one knows where he is. I thought there might be an outside chance you could help.”

“Look, you don’t need a warrant to get inside the house, sheriff. There’s a key under that tin lizard on the front window-sill. Just use that. What happened next door, anyway? You said one of the kids was involved in something?”

“That’s how it appears,” Estelle said.

“And that’s all you’re going to tell me? It sounds like I should come down.”

“Actually, that would be helpful.”

“Absolutely, then,” he said. “I can be out of here in ten minutes. Just a second.”

Estelle heard the telephone mouthpiece covered, and then distant voices. Page came back on the line. “If I leave here at four, I can be in Posadas by seven. How would that be?”

“That would be just fine, Mr. Page. I’d appreciate it if you’d check in at the Sheriff’s Office when you come into town…before you do anything else.”

“I can do that. Now let me ask you a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you at least wait until I’m there before using that search warrant?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Page. That’s not going to work.”

She heard what might have been a sigh of frustration over the line. “Look, it just seems to me that if Kevin saw something next door, if he was a witness to something, he would have let you know,” Page said.

“That’s what I would have thought, sir.”

“There’s more to this than what you’re telling me.”

“We don’t know yet what happened, Mr. Page. As far as the county manager is concerned, it may turn out to be nothing at all. If I need to reach you in the next couple of hours, will you have a phone in your car?”

“Of course.” He gave her the number. “I’ll be there by seven,” he said.

“Be careful on the highway, sir.” She switched off the phone and remained sitting on the small stoop, lost in thought. Finally, she dialed the county office again.

“Penny, any word from his nibs?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

Penny Barnes didn’t buy it. “Not a thing, Estelle. What is going on? You know, this isn’t like him. Not like him at all. Did you find his friend?”

“No, it’s not like him,” Estelle said. “And yes, I talked with Mr. Page. Did you happen to think of anyone else to check with?”

“No. But I’ve called everyone, everywhere. He hasn’t been at the county barns, he’s not out at the landfill-I even called Jim Bergin out at the airport. Nothing. He isn’t answering his cell, or the radio. I’ve got everyone looking and calling. Like I said, he’s playing hooky somewhere.”

I hope so , Estelle thought. A still-warm truck with the keys in the ignition, parked next door to an attempted murder, wasn’t her definition of hooky.

The house key was where William Page had said it was, tucked in a slot in the belly of the small tin lizard on the windowsill. Not allowing her latex gloves to touch the brass doorknob, Estelle turned the key and nudged the door with her left elbow. She could hear Bob Torrez’s breathing behind her. Pausing at one side of the doorway, she inhaled deeply, scanning what she could see of the living room at the same time. Nothing appeared out of place, and the air carried the faint, clean aroma of a well-tended home.

“He ain’t here,” Torrez murmured.