Steven Havill - A Discount for Death

“Kidnapped?”

“That’s what it’s called, Mrs. Parker. If Kenderman came to your home and took your grandson against your will, then it’s kidnapping.”

“If he contends that he’s the boy’s father…”

“It doesn’t matter what he contends , Mrs. Parker.”

After another long silence, Barbara Parker sounded both irked and resigned. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, it’s not kidnapping in this case.”

“All right. I’ll take your word for it.” Estelle turned and looked at her husband. He shrugged helplessly.

“What do you think I should do?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“What I think is not at issue,” Estelle said. “If you say that Richard was drinking, that’s enough probable cause for us to stop him.”

“I want Ryan back, that’s all,” Barbara Parker said. “I made a mistake. All right, now I want to correct that.”

“Mrs. Parker, if you swear out a criminal complaint that your grandson was kidnapped, we’ll go find him and bring him home. And we’ll put the person responsible in jail. And then the courts will sort out who’s who.”

“A complaint?”

“Mrs. Parker, much as there are a dozen things we’d like to be able to do, there’s nothing we can do if you willingly gave custody of Ryan to Mr. Kenderman. If we stop him on the highway, and then it ends up that he doesn’t blow at least impaired, then we have to let him go. It’s that simple. And then the whole mess starts over again. If Mr. Kenderman took Ryan from your home, against your will, then yes, there’s something we can do about that. If he threatened you in any way. Make up your mind, Mrs. Parker. And I wish you’d do it quickly.”

“I want Ryan back,” Barbara Parker said.

“I’ll ask you again.” Estelle pulled the microcassette recorder from her pocket and deftly punched the tiny controls. “And Mrs. Parker, my tape recorder is turned on now. Think before you answer.” She hesitated, letting the phone fall silent. “Did Richard Kenderman take Ryan Parker from your home against your will?”

After the barest hesitation, Barbara Parker replied, “Yes, Undersheriff, he did.”

“Did you try to restrain him in any way?”

“I don’t see how I could. The more we talked, I could see that he was getting angrier.”

“He threatened you?”

“Well, not in so many words, but his meaning was clear. He was determined to take Ryan.”

“Was he driving the old red Mustang?”

“Yes, I believe that he was.”

“I’ll be back to you,” Estelle said, and flicked off the phone and then the tape recorder. She stood silently for a long time. “What a mess.”

“What’s this character want with the boy?” Francis asked. “I gather that paternity is an issue?”

Estelle nodded. “And I don’t know what Kenderman wants. I don’t know what’s wrong with Barbara Parker that she can’t seem to stand up to this kid. All I know is that the whole thing scares me to death. All I see is lose-lose.”

“You can put Ryan with the state’s protective services division for forty-eight hours,” Francis said.

“I know that. And that’s exactly what I would do if I was holding his hot little hand in mine right now. But that’s not the case.” She flipped the drug I.D. book closed. “Right now, we’ve got a four-year-old riding on the interstate in an old hot rod driven by a drunk. And it goes downhill from there.”

“What do you want to do about all this?” He watched as she folded the small plastic evidence bags and slipped them into her pocket.

With the heavy book under one arm, she turned toward the door. “They’re going to have to wait,” she said. “Can I drop you off at Padrino ’s?”

“I’ll walk over,” Francis said. “Don’t worry about me. But you be careful with this guy.”

“Right now, it’s Richard Kenderman who needs to hear that. And what I know about him scares me, Oso . Listening isn’t his strong suit.”

The county car nosed down against the hard pull of its brakes, then swung right onto Grande, followed by an almost immediate sweeping turn onto the eastbound entrance ramp of the interstate. If Barbara Parker’s “ten minutes” was accurate, Kenderman would have a substantial lead, even if he wasn’t pressing the speed limit.

“Posadas, three ten.” Estelle waited for dispatcher Ernie Wheeler’s foot to find the transmit remote.

“Three ten, Posadas.”

“I need a BOLO on a 1968 Mustang, color red, license Ida Mary Boy Adam David. Operator is Richard Kenderman. One passenger, a four-year-old male. Ten eighty-five. Make sure the state police out of Deming understand the situation.”

“Ten four.”

A second voice broke in. “Three ten, three oh six.”

“Go ahead, three oh six.”

“Three ten, I’m parked on Alamo Drive, looking across Grande at the parking lot of Portillo’s. The vehicle in question is parked there. The driver is out of the car and inside the store.”

Estelle glanced in the mirror, stabbed the brakes, and dove the car across the rough center median of the interstate. With a howl of tires, the Ford leaped back up onto the pavement and headed back toward Posadas. “Three oh six, can you tell if the little boy is still in the vehicle?”

“Affirmative. I can see the kid. He’s standing on the front seat.”

“Box the car in and take the child into custody. Keep the subject away from him and don’t leave him unattended. ETA one minute.”

“Ten four.”

The unmarked car swept down the exit ramp from the interstate, and Estelle looked far ahead down Grande Avenue. The wide, four-lane street that formed the north-south arterial through Posadas was deserted. A mile ahead, Alamo Street, a tiny alleyway behind the hardware store, provided a diagonal view of the Portillo’s convenience-store parking lot, a popular hangout that was one of Deputy Thomas Pasquale’s favorite hunting grounds.

As she passed the intersection of Grande and McArthur, Estelle saw Pasquale’s unit far in the distance, the glint of streetlights off its broad, white roof as he eased across Grande and into Portillo’s parking lot.

“Posadas, three oh six is ten six Portillo’s.”

Estelle’s radio barked again, this time the voice of Chief Eddie Mitchell. “Three, ten, P.D. 1 copies. I’m north of the hospital. ETA about a minute.”

“Posadas, three oh six, ten seventy, ten twenty-six.” Deputy Pasquale’s voice was calm despite the code for crime in progress and the request that responding officers not use lights and siren. Estelle’s pulse leaped. “He’s after more than Twinkies,” Pasquale added.

Estelle leaned forward, trying to will the last half mile away. “Tom, I want the boy out of that car.”

“Ten four. I’ve got him. Kenderman saw me. He’s going out the back of the store.”

Estelle stood on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, lunging the county car into Rincon Avenue, the narrow lane south of Portillo’s. She had a brief glimpse of Deputy Pasquale bundling little Ryan Parker out of the Mustang. “Don’t leave the boy alone, Tom,” she snapped, and then tossed the mike on the seat.

Traveling too fast when it hit the gravel of the lane between Portillo’s and the Posadas Register building, the unmarked car slid sideways and smacked into the concrete-block wall hard enough to thump Estelle’s head against the driver’s side window. She mashed the accelerator, and the car shot forward toward the intersection of Rincon and the alley behind the buildings.

Richard Kenderman had dodged out of the store’s back door and turned right. He appeared at a full sprint just as Estelle’s car slid into the alley. Unable to stop, he crashed into the front fender of her car. He catapulted across the hood, arms flailing, white T-shirt bright in the glare of headlights.