Steven Havill - A Discount for Death

In 1952, after pouring an eight-block series of concrete slabs along North Third Street as the start of a housing development for copper miners’ families, the developer-in an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity-had planted a row of elm trees along the new curb. Somehow, the tree roots had burrowed their way down to adequate water, and while the houses along Third remained scrubby and minimal, the elms flourished.

The lot at 709 Third Street was blessed with two gigantic trees that straddled the tiny, square residence.

Estelle stopped the unmarked county car and looked up the short gravel driveway. A dilapidated blue Ford Courier pickup truck was parked behind a tiny imported sedan whose make Estelle didn’t immediately recognize.

She reached for the mike, then changed her mind, digging out the small cellular phone instead. Brent Sutherland, the dispatcher at the sheriff’s office, answered as if his hand had been poised over the receiver, waiting for the first call since the sun had cracked the horizon.

“Good morning. Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Sutherland.”

“You sound cheerful this morning,” Estelle said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sutherland replied brightly and then, as if reading out of one of his beloved self-motivational books, added, “After all, this is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

And I wonder if that sunny thought crossed Perry Kenderman’s mind when he got up today , Estelle thought. “Yes, it is. Do you have time to run a couple of plates for me?”

“You bet,” Sutherland said. “Fire away.”

“The first one is New Mexico Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln.” While Sutherland repeated the number, Estelle idled the car ahead a few feet so that she could see the license on the little import. “The second is New Mexico One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike.”

“Ten four. It’ll be just a minute.”

She settled back in the seat, phone resting lightly on her shoulder. The pickup lacked a tailgate, the left taillight assembly, and the back bumper. What looked like an aluminum ramp lay in the back, the sort of thing a bike owner would use to load a motorcycle up into the truck’s sagging bed. The little truck’s right rear tire was soft, adding to the derelict tilt of the aging suspension.

In less than a minute, Sutherland’s smooth, efficient voice was back on the phone. “Ma’am, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln should appear on a blue nineteen seventy-seven Ford Courier pickup truck registered to a Richard Charles Kenderman, two four four De La Mar, Las Cruces. Negative twenty-nine.”

Estelle frowned. Richard Charles , she thought. “Do you know him?”

“Sure don’t,” Brent said. “But he’s got to be related to Perry. Not that many Kendermans around these parts.”

“See what you can track down, will you? What’s the other tag?”

“One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike should appear on a white nineteen ninety-four Nissan registered to a Barbara Cole Parker, seven oh nine Third Street, Posadas. No wants or warrants.”

“Thanks. I’ll be out of the car for a while at that address, Brent.”

“Okay. And before you go, I have a note here from the sheriff to remind you of your appointment at zero nine hundred.”

Estelle glanced at the dash clock. In two hours and three minutes, the Posadas County Grand Jury would convene to decide the fate of insurance agent George Enriquez-on the first day of the rest of his life.

“I’ll be there. Thanks, Brent.” Across the street, a truck started up with a plume of blue smoke, then backed out of a driveway and headed south. From the first house north of the Parkers’, a small, ratty dog trotted out to stand in the street, watching the truck depart. After a moment, the animal turned, glanced at Estelle’s car, and sauntered back onto the brick path that connected house to sidewalk.

When the undersheriff got out of her car, the dog stopped and regarded her, tail a motionless flag at half-mast. Then the ears dropped, the tail flicked, and the dog approached, nose close to the ground.

Estelle stopped on the sidewalk and let the little animal sniff the cuffs of her slacks.

“You know exactly what happened last night, don’t you,” Estelle said. The little dog jumped sideways at the sound of her voice, ears pricked and tail wagging. With no head-scratch forthcoming, the animal turned to pursue interests elsewhere.

Estelle walked up beside the pickup. It was unlocked, the keys in the ignition. The ashtray yawned open, full to overflowing with cigarette butts. A light film of dust coated the dashboard, the perfect canvas for a welter of finger- and handprints and smudges. A hole gaped in the narrow dashboard where the radio had been.

The driver’s door was only partially closed, and Estelle lifted the latch. The rich, cloying fragrance of burned hemp wafted out. “Party time,” Estelle murmured and nudged the door shut. She walked forward past the truck and glanced at the sedan. Other than a cardboard carton that had once held canning jars and now might be home to any number of things, the inside of the Nissan was clean.

As she stepped to the front door of the house, Estelle paused to survey the neighborhood. Little boxy houses nested in small yards with occasional chain-link fences and shaggy, unkempt elms as yet untouched by breezes. At 6:57 that morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Inside the Parker house, she heard a child’s voice, then an adult’s, low-pitched and gentle.

Barbara Parker might have drifted off to sleep after the brutal evening the day before, after cops had left and well-meaning neighbors had gone home, after the children were settled. Perhaps she’d jarred awake at dawn, then forced herself to slip into her daughter’s bedroom to see if the girl was still lying there innocently asleep, the whole incident nothing more than the mother’s personal nightmare.

Taking a deep breath, Estelle rapped on the door.

“Just a minute!” a voice called, and Estelle heard the conversation continuing as footsteps approached the front door. It opened, but the woman’s back was turned momentarily as she said, “Make sure you put the top on Mindi’s,” and then she turned her attention to the visitor. “Hello,” she said. Maybe thirty-eight, maybe fifty-five, it was impossible to tell. The woman’s eyes were bloodshot, the black circles under them accentuated by the prematurely wrinkled skin of a heavy smoker. An inch or so shorter than Estelle’s five feet seven inches, she was fine-boned and so thin that her faded jeans molded over the projections of her hip bones.

“Good morning,” Estelle said. “Mrs. Parker?”

“Yes.” The woman’s tone was neutral, carrying no particular greeting or curiosity.

“I’m Estelle Guzman with the sheriff’s department. I’m sorry to bother you so early.”

The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched. “With two little kids, this is just about mid-morning. What did you need?”

“I need to talk with you for a few minutes, Mrs. Parker.”

“I think I know you, don’t I? You’re a social worker or something with the department.”

“I’m Undersheriff Guzman. I’m investigating your daughter’s death, Mrs. Parker.”

“I talked to the officers last night.” She said it without petulance and opened the door. She beckoned Estelle inside. “You don’t look like you got much more sleep than I did.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “The kiddos are having some breakfast, so you’ll have to put up with that.”

Estelle smiled. “I’m used to it. I have two of my own.”

Barbara Parker shot a quick glance at Estelle as she walked toward the kitchen. “I tell you, without these two little poppets, I don’t think the sun would have bothered to come up this morning.”