Steven Havill - Before She Dies

Estelle smiled. “A busted ankle is not the end of the world, sir.”

“And a conked head. And broken elbow.”

“Not broken. Just bent.”

“Whatever. I was told you went home.”

“I did, sir. Tia Sofia and I talked. She said that Linda would remember more and more as she regains her strength. I just thought it might be restful for both of us if I spent some time here, with her. Someone for her to talk to.” She glanced at Linda. “Someone to write to.”

“You were home for at least an hour, then,” I said.

“At least.” Estelle laughed and shrugged.

“How’d you get back here?”

“Sofia drove me. There was some shopping she wanted to do anyway. She took el kid.”

“Brave woman,” I said, and was about to say something else when the small pager on my belt chirped. “Don’t go anywhere,” I said, and left the room. The nearest phone was at the nurses’ station, and when I dialed the Sheriff’s Department, Gayle Sedillos answered on the second ring.

“Sir, Nick Chavez asked that you stop by as soon as you can. He says it’s urgent.”

“At the dealership?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll go over right now. Any other messages that can’t wait?”

“No, sir.”

“Thanks, Gayle.” I hung up and sat for a minute, deep in thought. After a moment I realized I was being watched, and looked up to see Francis Guzman leaning against the fiberglass window frame. He was wearing his quiet, long-suffering doctor’s face, a little bemused, a little preoccupied, a little concerned.

He didn’t say anything as I leaned back in Helen Murchison’s chair and rubbed both eyes. “I saw Estelle. Do you want me to take her home?”

The young physician grinned with resignation. “It wouldn’t do any good. She’d probably walk back. Es una aguila descalza , as my Aunt Sofie would say.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s an old Mexican expression. Roughly translates that she knows what she’s doing.”

“Yes, she does. And she’ll be all right.” I heaved myself to my feet, saw Francis’s brow furrow with concern, and held up an index finger. “Don’t you start.”

His frown stayed put. “You be careful, sir.”

I nodded and slipped past him. “How do things look for Linda?”

“She’s a fighter.”

I stopped and looked sharply at Francis. “That’s not really an answer, doctor.”

He looked down at the floor. “I guess I was just thinking of what she’s still facing down the road. She’s lost an eye and suffered nerve damage to some of the centers that control gross body motion.”

“She’s paralyzed, you mean?”

“She’s going to have difficulty walking, yes. And she’s going to face a series of operations to reconstruct the bones of her left jaw and the left side of her face. Like I said…it’s a long road.”

“She’ll make it.” I glanced down the hall and saw one of the nurses enter 106. “And we’re going to catch the son of a bitch who’s responsible for all this, too.”

After telling Estelle that I’d stop back around noon, I drove around the block and down Bustos Avenue to Chavez Chevrolet-Oldsmobile. He’d told Gayle it was urgent, but to Nick, everything was urgent. Selecting a luncheon guest for Rotary Club was urgent. Selling me a new truck was urgent. As I pulled into the parking area in front of the small showroom, I was planning to allot him about thirty seconds of my time.

I got out of the car and he met me at the door. One look at his face told me that he was going to need a hell of a lot more than thirty seconds.

Nick Chavez painted on his glad salesman’s face and ushered me across the showroom floor. We had to skirt a new addition-a brand-new Blazer. Nick patted it affectionately on the hood and at the same time hooked his arm through mine as if we were the oldest of buddies.

“Have I got a deal for you, Bill,” he said. “Come on in here and let me show you some figures.” One of the other salesmen looked up from his desk and grinned at me-much the same grin a hungry cat might give his still-kicking dinner.

“I don’t think I have time for this,” I said without much conviction. Nick was smiling his best salesman’s smile from the nose down. His eyes gave him away. I followed him into his office like a docile, committed customer, and he closed the door behind me.

“Sit, sit,” he said, and beckoned me toward his own swivel chair behind the desk. I started to move toward one of the others, and he motioned with considerable impatience. I shrugged and took his chair, commanding a nice view of the showroom, the other salesmen’s desks, and the parking lot outside.

Nick sat down in the customer’s chair, his back to the world. He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes closed. One hand closed around a pencil, and the point hovered over a salesman’s work sheet. He looked for all the world like a salesman who had negotiated all night, and was now at the point of splitting his commission with the customer just to nail down the sale.

“I’m really pissed, Bill.” He opened his eyes, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

I leaned forward and rested my hands on the desk like a helpful father confessor. “What’s the problem, Nick.”

He was one of those people who talked with his eyes closed, as if he were reading a script etched on the inside of his eyelids. “Look, I don’t know why I checked. After you and me talked yesterday, or whenever the hell it was, I got to thinkin’, you know. And the thing that bothered me the most was…ah, to hell with that.”

I leaned back, unsure of where this interesting flow of disconnected thoughts was leading him.

“Look at this.” He pulled a bound pad of forms out of a folder and slid it across the desk toward me. “Temporaries.”

“I see that,” I said. Anyone who purchased a vehicle in New Mexico had seen them-approximately half the size of a standard sheet of typing paper, the temporary permit was filled out by the dealer and taped in the back window of the vehicle until plates could be issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles.

“Now look here,” Nick said, and leaned forward. He kept his voice low and pointed with the pencil. “Each one of them has a serial number. See that?”

“Yes.”

“Consecutive, the whole pad. We buy the pad, and issue the temporaries one at a time.”

I nodded.

“So, the numbers should match, right?”

“Should match what?” I asked.

Nick frowned with impatience. “If we sell ten cars in a week-and wouldn’t it be goddamned nice if we did that-then we should use ten of these.”

“All right.”

“So we’re missing some.”

“Someone took some, you mean?”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I don’t understand the ‘maybe.’ It seems a pretty simple inventory problem.”

Nick ducked his head. “Sure. That’s what’s so goddamned embarrassing. And that’s one of the things that’s got me so pissed. I mean, we aren’t required to keep some kind of careful record of these things, you know. I mean, I don’t know anyone who does. We stick one copy in the back window, stick the back copy in the file, and that’s it. Who the hell’s going to spend all day long checking those kinds of goddamned things.” His voice had risen, and he suddenly checked himself. He continued in a near-whisper.

“And I guess that’s kind of dumb, when you consider that these things are the equivalent of a free license plate for thirty days,” he said.

“So you think that you’re missing some temps, and you don’t know for sure how many. That’s it?”

Nick nodded. He turned and reached into the folder again. “The past two months I can account for. Why? Because it’s been slow, and just by chance we’ve been workin’ off this one pad. And I used the first one. I remember havin’ to go get it out of the file.” He slid a piece of paper across and I tilted my head so my bifocals could focus on the neat rows of numbers. “That number there on my list corresponds to this number on the temp.” He tapped the printed number on the first permit of the pad.