Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“Have you talked with any of them?”

“Not yet. I was going to start on that this evening, with the ones who didn’t go to the game.”

I nodded. “If any. Fair enough. Let me give you a hand. After we eat something.”

Estelle smiled. “And we have a list of students who were absent from school today”-she handed me the list of eighteen names-“and absent yesterday.”

The names were just a blurred collection of words to me, and I laid the list on the table. “That helps us only if the person or persons that Maria was with when she died were students…and only if that student is in one of Maria’s classes…and only if that student chose to be absent from school.”

“A lot of if’s,” Estelle said. “We don’t know if any of them are close.” She sighed. “And you know, the way she was living, with Orosco and all…there’s no way of telling who she was associating with.” She looked up at me. “We don’t even know for sure if the vehicles that Wesley Crocker saw behind the school were driven by…or occupied by…students. And we don’t know if there is actually any relationship between those vehicles and Maria’s death.”

I shook my head and got up. Enough coffee had run into the decanter that I could slide it out and put my cup underneath the drizzle while I poured it full. “You sure?” I said, and waved the decanter at Estelle. She shook her head.

“What do we know?” I asked, and sat back down at the table. “Other than that Manny Orosco didn’t kill the girl.”

“We don’t even know that for sure, sir. He might have been with her last night, panicked when she choked to death, dumped the body, and drained the bottle of sherry after he returned home. Remember, we didn’t find him until almost midmorning today.”

“That’s unlikely. In the first place, Manny didn’t have a car. How would he have transported the body?” Estelle raised an eyebrow. “And I’m not sure he would have been strong enough to carry the girl’s corpse anywhere. I don’t think he would have thought clearly enough to even come up with the scheme. And finally, I don’t think he would have bothered mixing grain alcohol, or whatever it was, with sherry. Not only wouldn’t have bothered…he couldn’t have afforded it.”

“Probably not,” Estelle said. Her voice was neutral and I looked sharply at her.

“What are you thinking?” She shifted in her chair and grimaced a little, an expression I took to mean discomfort. “Can I get you something?”

“No, no. I’m fine, sir. It’s just that I can’t imagine anyone cold enough to watch a little girl die and then just dump the body.”

“What did Francis say about the bloody finger? The torn nail? Anything there?”

“His first guess is that it might be consistent with the victim flailing around as she was choking.”

“ Might be…” I said. “No other tissue under her nails?”

“No, sir.” Estelle frowned. “And there weren’t any traces of drugs or alcohol in her system, so that didn’t contribute. And there wasn’t any sign of a struggle, other than the torn fingernail.”

Estelle pulled a small evidence bag out of the briefcase and handed it to me. I held it at arm’s length, trying to bring the contents into focus. “Whose hair?” I said, taking an educated guess.

“Bob Torrez found it under the bleachers, sir. There were about eight strands caught in one of the steel angle supports, right where it bolts into one of the girder stiffeners.”

“Head height?”

She nodded. “Right where someone would crack their head if they weren’t paying attention.”

“And we don’t know when this nifty little sample was left there, do we?”

“No, sir. We don’t know if it is connected in any way.”

“Lab?”

“Yes, sir. Part of that sample, and a suitcase of other items. I sent Tony Abeyta to Santa Fe with everything we’ve got. Jim Bergin flew him up. Maria’s clothing, the hair sample, the sherry, the tissue and fluid samples from the hospital that Francis gathered.” She smiled. “Hair samples from Orosco, Crocker, and Pasquale.”

“Tom Pasquale? Why him?” And then I held up a hand. “Don’t bother. I know why him. Anything else?”

“That’s about it. I thought I’d do the interviews with Maria’s friends this evening. That way, if any kind of pattern develops, we’ll be right on it.”

I nodded. “One other thing…we don’t know yet how Maria got into the country, do we?”

“No, sir.”

“We need to find her Mexican connection somehow.”

“Eddie Mitchell is working on that. I know that he was planning to meet with Tomas Naranjo of the Federales down at the crossing in Regal this afternoon. He took a set of Maria’s prints, and a photograph.” She pushed herself away from the table and began gathering her papers. Her motions showed signs of fatigue. “We didn’t find anything in Orosco’s truck that would give us a lead. No letters from Mexico, no photographs. Nothing.” She shrugged. “Maybe Naranjo can help.”

“And are you going to get some rest?”

“Sure.”

I stood up and wagged a mock-stern finger at her. “What about dinner? You want to go someplace and grab a bite?”

“Irma baked a chicken for dinner. She told me at noon that if Francis and I didn’t sit down for a dinner together tonight, she wasn’t going to vote for me.” She shrugged. “So I’m blackmailed. Come join us.” She snapped her briefcase shut.

I grimaced and shook my head. “The way I look and probably smell, I don’t think so. And it sounds like you guys need a quiet family dinner.”

“Take a few minutes to clean off the worst of the paint,” Estelle said. She reached out a hand and squeezed my arm. “And you are a member of the family, padrino .” She glanced at her watch. “We’ll look for you about six-thirty.”

“One chicken isn’t going to be enough anyway,” I said, but Estelle was already out of the kitchen and headed toward the front door.

“Six-thirty, sir. Don’t disappoint the kid.”

I grinned at her reference to her son as the front door thumped closed behind her and the house sank back into its characteristic deep silence. This time, though, the place seemed a little more light and friendly. I turned off the coffeemaker and headed for the shower.

Just as I turned on the water, the phone rang. It was probably Martin Holman, worried about Estelle’s hiring Jim Bergin, the airport manager, to fly charter. The county was strapped for funds, but she was right. We were also strapped for time, and we couldn’t fax clothing and hair samples.

I hesitated, then stepped into the shower. What the hell, I thought. Life was too short. A baked chicken dinner with the Guzmans sounded wonderful. Anybody else could wait.

And they did wait, apparently. The telephone may have continued ringing during my entire shower. I had no idea. When the roar of the water subsided, the damn thing was still ringing-or ringing again. With a heartfelt sigh, I gave in and padded over to the nightstand beside my bed.

I snatched up the receiver. “What?”

“Hello, sir.” Estelle’s soft voice carried no reproach or urgency. “I was just making sure you hadn’t fallen asleep on us.”

I laughed. “Not likely, sweetheart. Sorry I barked at you. I figured it was probably the sheriff. I just stepped out of the shower, and as soon as I stop dripping all over my expensive rugs and get dressed, I’ll be over. I wouldn’t miss fried chili-chicken for the world.”

“Baked chicken,” she said. “No chili.”

I groaned in mock distress. “But that’s the next thing to health food.”

“See you shortly,” Estelle said.