Steven Havill - A Discount for Death

Estelle hesitated. She liked Eddie Mitchell and trusted him, but she wanted nothing to inadvertently bolster Perry Kenderman’s confidence. “I’d prefer that he rode in with one of the deputies, sir.”

“In custody?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“All right.” Mitchell pivoted at the waist to survey the intersection. “Let’s get this mess cleared up.”

As the chief stepped away from the bike, Dan Schroeder held out a hand and touched Estelle on the arm. “I need to talk with you for a minute.” So far, he hadn’t said a word about the fatality, and it was evident to Estelle that he’d been patiently waiting for that business to be wrapped up.

Schroeder watched Mitchell’s blocky form retreating across the intersection toward Bob Torrez and Perry Kenderman. For a moment he remained silent with his thoughts. “Are you ready for grand jury tomorrow?”

Estelle sighed. “If I fall asleep on the stand, poke me.”

Schroeder managed a tight smile. “Long day, eh.”

“Very.”

“I had a call from George Enriquez last night.”

Estelle raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A long-time Posadas resident and owner of an insurance agency for more than twenty years, George Enriquez qualified as a town father as much as anyone. But beginning at nine o’clock Tuesday morning, a grand jury would start reviewing evidence that Enriquez had engaged in fraudulent insurance practices for more than a decade. District Attorney Schroeder would be seeking indictments on twenty-eight separate counts of insurance fraud, including one count that involved deputy Thomas Pasquale as a victim of the scam.

“Enriquez wants to deal.”

“Deal? I wouldn’t think he had much of a bargaining position, sir,” Estelle said.

“In part, it’s the same old song and dance…give him a few weeks, and he’d clean up the mess, make financial amends-the same sort of nonsense that we’ve heard from him too many times before.”

Estelle nodded and waited.

“And then he said that he wanted to meet with me today.” Schroeder turned toward the utility pole and looked at his watch. “At two PM in my office in Deming. That was seven hours ago.”

“What did he have to say?”

Schroeder straightened his sleeve carefully over the watch. “He never showed.”

“Maybe he changed his mind.”

“That’s possible. But he’s not home, and the answering machine at his office says that they’ll be closed until Friday. It gives an 800 number for emergencies.”

“You mean he skipped?” The idea of George Enriquez uprooting himself and fleeing Posadas was ludicrous. Whenever she saw him, Estelle thought of stuffed animals. Enriquez had the same hugability, the same sort of flannel personality, as a favorite old polyester pet. He wasn’t the kind to go furtive, slipping across the border to life on the gold coast. After state insurance investigators had finished pawing through his office files during the past months, there wasn’t much left to hide.

Besides, nearly every incident of fraud that Estelle and state officers had investigated had been penny ante, the sort of incomprehensible crime for which the monetary rewards were counted in occasional hundreds. In Deputy Pasquale’s case, George Enriquez had told the young man that his motorcycle policy was held by a major company. Each month, the financially naive Pasquale had paid his premium directly to Enriquez. When Pasquale had made a minor claim, Enriquez had made prompt settlement with a personal check. Pasquale was pleased, and completely nonplussed to discover later that he had no policy, that in all likelihood his monthly insurance payment was going directly into Enriquez’s pocket. Other instances with other customers were sometimes lesser, sometimes greater in financial risk.

“Skipped, schmipped,” Schroeder said with a shrug. “We don’t know. Neither does his wife. He left the house this morning. That was the last time she saw him.”

Estelle had talked with Connie Enriquez several times and had found the woman an enigma. She wasn’t the kind who would sit home and twist rosary beads around her knuckles as her husband’s world fell apart. At one point in the investigation into her husband’s affairs, she had simply shrugged her gargantuan shoulders and said, “He made his bed. Let him lie in it.”

“He didn’t give any hint about what else was on his mind? When he talked to you on the phone? You said ‘in part’ it was the same old story.”

“Uh huh.” Schroeder made a face. “Let me just tell you what he said, word for word. First, I said that I didn’t see that we had anything to talk about, that he could ask to testify before the grand jury if he wanted to but that he didn’t have to. I made it clear to him that he didn’t need to be there, that his attorney didn’t need to be there. He understood all that. I told him that the grand jury session would probably take most of the week and that he had at least that much time to put all his ducks in a row. That’s when he said, ‘I can give you something.’ I said, ‘Something like what?’ And then he went off on this long song and dance about all his little shenanigans being so inconsequential.”

“The Popes would have liked to have heard that when their house burned down,” Estelle said. “Had anyone survived to file a claim.”

“I know, I know,” Schroeder said impatiently. “And we’ve been through that. When he finally wound down, I said again, ‘Something like what?’ And this time, he said, ‘I can give you Guzman.’ ”

Estelle heard perfectly clearly, but out of stunned reflex said, “Give you what?”

“ ‘I can give you Guzman.’ That’s what he said. ‘I can give you Guzman.’ ”

“I can give you Guzman,” Estelle repeated.

“Correct.”

“And then what did he say?”

“Nothing. He said he couldn’t talk on the phone. That he’d see me at two PM in my office in Deming. End of story. He never showed. Like I said, he’s not home now.” Schroeder looked at his watch again. “Or at least he wasn’t fifteen minutes ago.”

“So what did he mean by that?” Estelle regretted the question as soon as it slipped out.

“I don’t know,” Schroeder said. “I was hoping you could shed some light.”

“I’m the leadoff witness tomorrow for the grand jury. He’d be able to figure that out.”

“Of course. You’re the officer who put the case together before my office horned in.” Schroeder managed another half smile. “The implication is obvious-that he knows something about you that I need to know-something that throws your grand jury testimony into question.”

“Or that he was just bluffing.”

“That’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.” He took a deep breath and hitched up his slacks, then smoothed his suit coat back into perfection. “Keep me posted on what happens with Kenderman,” he said. “And we’ll take Mr. Enriquez one step at a time. Maybe he just buried himself in a hole somewhere with a good bottle. Being told that you’re the target of a grand jury investigation is a fearsome thing, Estelle. It shakes lots of scary things out of the tree. Run and hide isn’t an unusual reflex.”

Estelle nodded, her empty stomach still clenched in a knot. She watched Deputy Tom Pasquale slide into the village police car, start it, and pull away, headed toward the county maintenance barn and the secure bay the sheriff’s department kept there. Perry Kenderman stood and watched, flanked on one side by Sheriff Robert Torrez and on the other by Chief Eddie Mitchell. The ambulance had already departed with the pathetic bundle that had been Colette Parker.

“Shake the tree,” Estelle muttered as she stepped off the curb.