Steven Havill - A Discount for Death

“Eight hundred and sixty-five dollars and fifty-six cents,” Estelle said.

“Per person.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So thirty-seven times that eight hundred dollars.”

“Yes, sir. Thirty-two thousand twenty-five dollars and seventy-two cents.”

Schroeder turned in wonder to the jury. “Thirty-two grand a year , for four years.”

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced at his notes. “My math tells me that’s a hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Four thousand out, a hundred and twenty-eight thousand in.”

“Yes, sir.”

For a long moment, Schroeder stood quietly, gazing at his notes. “Undersheriff, during your investigations of these activities, did you come to believe that there was any certain type of person that Mr. George Enriquez favored with his insurance ‘deals’?”

“A certain type of person, sir?”

A flash of impatience shot across the district attorney’s face. “Did any of the thirty-seven people share common characteristics…or to put it another way, was there anything about their circumstances that they had in common?”

“It appeared in each instance that the person either had difficulty obtaining insurance through normal channels or had an insurance history such that their rates would be higher than they were able to afford,” Estelle said.

“So each one was a tough case. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In Mrs. Pope’s case, why would home-owner’s insurance through normal channels have been difficult…or expensive?”

“They were heating with a defective, out-of-date wall unit as well as a wood stove elsewhere in the trailer that had not been installed according to code. They had also run a number of extension cords out to livestock pens in lieu of appropriate wiring. The mobile home itself was an older model that had been extensively altered by the home owners over the years.”

“You understood this after conversations with fire department investigators?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had you been an insurance agent visiting the Popes’ property, would you have issued a policy based on what you saw?”

“I’m not an insurance agent, sir. I couldn’t say.”

“But George Enriquez issued the policy, didn’t he?”

“As far as we can tell, there was no policy issued, sir.”

“I stand corrected.” Schroeder grinned at the jury. “Mrs. Pope thought that she had an insurance policy and was no doubt grateful to Mr. Enriquez for providing some form of protection against loss. It appears that she was making monthly payments on that fictitious policy. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

He was about to say something else when the door beside the vacant judge’s bench opened. Howard Bell, the court bailiff, stepped into the courtroom, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. “Excuse me a minute,” the district attorney said to the jury, and walked across the courtroom toward Bell. The two men conferred briefly, and then Schroeder nodded and strode back toward the witness stand.

As he bent close, he pushed the microphone boom far to one side. “You’ve got a phone call that you need to take, Undersheriff Guzman,” he said. “Use the phone in the judge’s chambers.” He turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to take a short break. Please remain in the courtroom. If it’s going to be more than five or ten minutes, I’ll let you know.”

Estelle’s pulse kicked as she hurried out of the courtroom, glancing at the wall clock as she passed the door to the court clerk’s office. She’d been in court for less than thirty minutes-a little more than an hour since she had left Perry Kenderman with instructions to go home and behave himself.

Estelle settled the telephone receiver back in its cradle. Another button flashed on the phone console, a message just as quickly routed somewhere else in the county building as business carried on as usual. She pushed the chair back in and skirted around Judge Lester Hobart’s tidy walnut desk.

Back in the courtroom, most of the jurors lounged in and around the jury box. One walked the perimeter of the room, swinging her arms to encourage a return of blood to her extremities. The jurors looked toward Estelle with interest as she reentered. Dan Schroeder leaned on the broad table used by the prosecution during regular trials, his hands planted among a sea of papers. He glanced up as Estelle approached. She leaned over the table, her back to the jurors.

“Sir, we have a problem,” Estelle whispered.

Schroeder straightened up.

“George Enriquez’s secretary found his body a few minutes ago.”

The district attorney looked hard at Estelle, the hand holding the papers sagging back toward the table. He drew a slow, deep breath. “Where?”

“In his office, sir.”

Schroeder slumped against the table and dropped the papers. “Christ,” he muttered. “Natural causes?”

“No, sir. The sheriff asked that I break loose here, if that’s possible.”

“Of course it’s possible.” He shook his head in frustration. “Keep me in the loop, all right?”

Estelle nodded.

“I’ll get these folks out of here in the next few minutes.” He flashed a humorless grin and rapped on the table with his knuckle. “I guess we’ll find out what the grand juror’s oath of secrecy is really worth.”

As Estelle turned away, he stepped around the table and touched her elbow, whispering directly into her right ear. “And we need to talk about Officer Kenderman, too. Today sometime, if you can fit it in. I’ll be in Posadas at least until tomorrow morning, so…” He released her elbow. The jurors, sensing that something important had happened, had taken their seats, including the power-walking woman. Estelle nodded at them and left the court.

The sheriff’s office was no more than a hundred steps away, across the small enclosed courtyard. Gayle Torrez, the sheriff’s wife, administrative assistant, and head dispatcher, glanced up as Estelle hurried in.

She made a face of frustration and opened the glass door to the dispatch room. “Bobby just took off,” Gayle said. “Dennis took the first call. Howard’s over there, too.”

“Right at the insurance office?” Estelle asked.

Gayle nodded. “And I called Linda. She’s on her way.”

“Good.”

As soon as Estelle pulled her unmarked car out of the county parking lot, she looked down East Bustos toward the oval sign that announced GEORGE ENRIQUEZ, AGENT-CLU, HOME, AUTO, LIFE INSURANCE. The long, low stucco building was tucked in the lot immediately adjacent to Chavez Chevrolet-Olds, the two businesses separated by a low chain-link fence.

A county patrol unit was parked straddling the street’s center line, facing westbound and nose to nose with one of the village cars. Nate Olguin, a part-time officer with the village, touched his cap when he recognized Estelle, and waved her through. The sheriff’s battered pickup was parked along the curb at the west end of the auto dealer’s lot. The ambulance hadn’t arrived, but Dr. Alan Perrone had, his dark green BMW so close to Deputy Collins’ Expedition that their bumpers appeared to be touching.

As Estelle drove past and prepared to swing a U-turn, she saw two other vehicles in the lot beyond Torrez’s truck. Several people were standing in the parking lot of the car dealership, leaning against the new cars and waiting to see something interesting. As she pulled the car to a halt, Estelle heard the distant wail of a siren from the direction of the hospital.

A yellow crime-scene ribbon stretched from the corner of the car dealer’s fence across the sidewalk to a street sign, then across the westbound lane to Collins’ unit, finally angling back across the street to the corner of a small abandoned building west of the insurance agency that at one time had been a hairdresser’s salon. Deputy Dennis Collins was standing at the front door of the agency, head swiveling this way and that as he watched street and sidewalk. As Estelle ducked under the ribbon and approached, he stepped away from the building.