Steven Havill - Before She Dies

He spilled the carrots out on the board, slicing each one lengthwise and then across, building a mound of perfect little carrot quarters. After processing about ten, Sanchez shrugged. “Pat Torrance, he drank too much. It looked like he was going to puke, so I asked him to go out back before he made a mess of my bar.”

“And that’s all? One drunk cowboy?”

“Es todo.”

“It appears that it was a pretty quiet night up until then, sir,” Estelle said to me. “No strangers, nothing unusual.” She closed her notebook and slipped it back in her purse. “Mr. Sanchez, when was the last time you spoke with Sergeant Torrez?”

For a moment, Victor Sanchez’s face was blank. Estelle folded her arms and leaned against the table. “The deputy who arrested Tammy Woodruff, sir.”

Sanchez’s eyes narrowed. “Conozcolo, senorita.” Estelle ignored the emphasis Sanchez placed on the jibe at her age and appearance. True enough, Estelle Reyes-Guzman was far from matronly.

She smiled faintly. “Bueno. Cuando estaba el tiempo ultimo cuando hablaba con el?” Sanchez shot a sideways glance at me. I raised an eyebrow as if I understood Estelle perfectly and was waiting for an answer.

“I spoke with him Friday night only.”

“Not since then?”

“No.”

Estelle looked down at the growing pile of carrots. “Did someone mention to you last night…after Francisco and the others left and the police came…did someone mention to you which patrol car was involved in the shooting? Did someone mention who the deputy was?”

It was Sanchez’s turn to look puzzled, and if he was faking it, he was a great actor.

“Nobody said nothing about which one, senora. I found out that it was Paul Encinos only after Pat Torrance came back and told me that is who it was.”

“Torrance was recovered by then?”

Sanchez shrugged and almost smiled. “ Podria andar . But he did not go down to the place. He said he heard from someone else out in the parking lot that it was Encinos. I know him, you know. I know his family.”

“Encinos, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“But no one said anything about which patrol car was involved?”

Sanchez cocked his head and frowned at Estelle. “No. What difference does it make?”

She didn’t answer but pushed away from the table as Sanchez collected the last of the carrots for the soup.

“Sir, thank you. If there’s anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

Sanchez shook his head and started toward the refrigerator again. “No mas, chiquita, no mas.”

We stepped outside. Beyond the circle of the sodium-vapor light in the parking lot, the prairie stretched away into the chilled darkness of that February evening.

“He’s got all kinds of pet names for you, doesn’t he?” I asked. “What’s chinita mean?”

Estelle smiled wearily. “Around here, you’d translate it about like, ‘little half-breed darling.’”

“Cute. He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

“He’s known my family for generations, sir. He knew my Great-uncle Reuben. In fact, Reuben built one of the fireplaces in the barroom for him. Years ago.”

“I should have known. You asked about the patrol car. You don’t seriously believe that the killer thought that Paul Encinos was someone else? Bob Torrez told me earlier that he was thinking the same thing.”

Estelle shook her head. “No, sir. I don’t think anyone would notice the number on a patrol car. I just wanted to see the look on Victor Sanchez’s face. That’s all.”

“No connection?”

“No connection, sir.”

I sighed. “You want to go down to the hospital with me for a bit?”

“If you’ll stop on the way for something to eat, sir.”

I laughed. “I didn’t think you ever stopped to eat, drink, sleep…”

Estelle grinned. “No, sir. You need something to eat. I saw you watching that soup. And I want to show you something.”

My spirits lifted. Earlier, while parked behind the highway department’s gravel pile, Estelle hadn’t just been ruminating about Victor Sanchez. There was something else brewing in her mind.

I was too tired and depressed to care much about eating, and that alone said something about my condition that evening. Because she wanted to talk on the telephone privately with her husband, Estelle suggested we meet at her house.

Francis Guzman’s aunt met us at the door. She frowned hard at Estelle and muttered something in Spanish that I didn’t catch. I recognized the word that had something to do with sleep, and true enough, we both had ten-gallon bags under our eyes. But that wasn’t unusual. The entire department would be operating on fumes if something didn’t break quickly.

Senora Tournal wore a tailored blue suit of casual cut, the white blouse fluffed and lacy at the throat. Her black shoes were mirror-perfect. She was not the image of the perfect nanny. Rather, she looked like she was waiting for a tardy junior partner to arrive so that she could begin a board meeting.

Sofia Tournal had no children of her own. I wondered if, behind that handsome face that registered only concern for her niece, Mrs. Tournal really enjoyed being corralled as a baby-sitter.

As if she could read my mind, Sofia Tournal glanced at me and offered a half smile. “The kid is asleep, Estellita.”

Estelle nodded. “We’re going to be in and out. I’m sorry.”

“No tengas lastima,” Sofia said, and ushered us toward the dining room table-Estelle’s office.

“No tu invitamos para ser nana para el nino, Sofia,” Estelle said, and hugged the older woman.

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Por un dia o dos.” Sofia Tournal may not have minded baby-sitting the kid for a day or two, but spending those days near a hot stove wasn’t in her plans.

Her favorite solution to immediate food problems was American fast food-and her particular passion was fried chicken, the higher the cholesterol the better. She didn’t even cast a second glance at my girth as she vanished out the door, Estelle’s car keys in hand, headed off to fetch a barrel of the crunchy stuff. She knew where my heart was.

I settled in one of the chairs near an uncluttered spot on the table and heaved a sigh.

“Are you all right?” Estelle called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said, not convinced.

She reappeared and set a tall glass of orange juice in front of me. I grimaced. “You got anything to put in this?”

She grinned and ignored my request. Instead she opened her briefcase and drew out a large, clear plastic evidence bag containing what looked like a streamlined socket wrench with no handle. “I found this off the shoulder of the highway,” Estelle said, and handed it to me. While I looked at the wrench, she fished a piece of graph paper from her briefcase. “Right here.”

She had drawn the deputy’s patrol car and then labeled everything else with distance flags. The wrench had been lying sixty-five inches from the edge of the pavement, thirty-five feet in front of patrol car 308.

“You want to tell me how anyone missed this?” I asked. Estelle shrugged and I added, “We all walked through that area a hundred times. This thing is what, about a foot long?”

“Nestled in a clump of rice grass,” Estelle said. “The way it was lying, it was obvious that it was dropped recently.”

“How so?”

“Nothing on top of it. Not even dust.”

I held the bag by the zipper lock and turned it this way and that. “It’s brand-new.”

“Just a few scratches. Do you know what it is?”

“Sure. It’s a lug wrench…or part of one. The ratchet part. And you’re right. No dust, nothing. You could have one of these stowed in your vehicle for years, and never use it. But it would collect dust and dirt with the passage of time. This one is clean as a whistle.”