The Beretta was heavy in her hand, one cartridge in the chamber and fourteen in the magazine. She snapped the safety off.
“You gotta tell ’em,” Kenderman said, and for the first time Estelle could hear the slur of alcohol in his speech.
“Back away, Perry.”
“You gotta tell ’em that what happened to Colette wasn’t my fault.”
It was your fault, she almost said. “There’ll be plenty of time for everyone to tell their versions, Perry,” she said. A car drove by on the street, and she turned. It went by without slowing. “Come on, Thomas,” she breathed.
“You gotta tell ’em you were mistaken about hearin’ me chasin’ Colette.”
“I can’t do that, Perry. Now back away.”
A fist rattled the back door, and Estelle flinched backward. Her grip on the Beretta tightened.
“You’re the only one,” he said, and she could hear the tension in his voice. “They’ll do what you say.”
“This is just going to make things worse for you, Perry. Use your head.”
“You gotta listen to me.” His voice sounded closer, as if he’d thrust his face close to the crack between door and jamb. “If you go tellin’ ’em that I was chasin’ her, they’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”
Which might not be a bad thing. “Back away from the door, Perry.”
For a moment, she heard nothing outside. “How long have you been out there, Perry?”
He said something unintelligible and struck the door again, the blow sounding like the flat of his hand, then silence. Almost simultaneously, two vehicles pulled up in front of the house from opposite directions.
“Perry, are you there?” She heard no response. In slow motion, she pushed the window curtain to one side with the body of the flashlight, pressed the lens against the glass to cut reflection, and turned it on. The beam lanced out across the yard. Perry Kenderman was gone. She swung the flashlight beam to each side.
At the front door, a familiar set of knuckles rapped a quick drum roll that she’d heard a thousand times. She crossed quickly to the door but hesitated.
“Padrino?” she said.
“You okay?” Bill Gastner’s voice was gruff, muffled by the heavy front door. She pulled it open. He frowned when he saw the Beretta. “He still out there?”
“No, he’s gone.”
“Well, give ’em a minute.” He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “And put that away. You make me nervous.”
“I am nervous, sir.”
He grinned and spoke into a small handheld radio. “Chief, she says he’s gone. Give it a good look.” The radio barked twice by way of reply. “Tom’s going around on one side, Eddie’s on the other. If Kenderman’s still there, they should all meet in the middle.” He reached out and tapped the flashlight. “You got lights in this place?”
“I’m not in any hurry,” Estelle said.
“Just as well, I suppose. Wait until they give the all clear.”
“He sounded like he’s half looped,” Estelle said. She breathed a deep, shuddering sigh and glanced down at the automatic. “I can’t believe he came to my house.”
“Makes sense to me,” Gastner said. “You hold the keys to his cell, sweetheart. The chief and I were trying out some of Ernie’s coffee when you called. Scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I rode over here with him. Old Parnelli Pasquale was all the way south on Grande, just past the Interstate. He damn near beat us here.”
The radio crackled. “Estelle, you want to open the back door?”
Once again she drew the curtain, and this time saw the chief’s blocky figure on the back stoop. Another flashlight cut this way and that toward the back of the yard. She twisted the dead bolt and opened the door.
“Where was he?” Mitchell asked.
“Right where you’re standing. He sounded like he’d been drinking.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” the chief said. He thumped the solid door with the heel of his hand and nodded. He saw the automatic in Estelle’s hand. “Good thing he didn’t press the point.”
“Hey,” Pasquale said from across the yard. “Did you guys have a beer party?”
“Not likely,” Gastner replied before Estelle had a chance. He and Estelle stepped outside just as Francis Guzman’s tall, broad figure appeared in the kitchen.
“Stay here just a bit, Doc,” Mitchell said to him.
Toward the back of the lawn, just to one side of the old-fashioned swing set, were two wooden Adirondack chairs. On the gravel beside one were five beer cans, each one crumpled into a small ball.
“Jesus,” Mitchell said. He reached out and laid his hand on the chair’s slats. “He sat here a while,” he added. “Sat here and watched the house.”
“The guy’s gone fruitcake on us,” Pasquale said.
“He can’t get far,” Mitchell said, and turned to Estelle. “Best guess?”
“He must have walked over here from the school,” Pasquale said. “He left his truck there, thinking maybe it was a clever place to hide it. My bet is that’s where he’s headed. He’s got to have wheels.”
“What is that, nine blocks?”
“I’ll go around Bustos and down Pershing,” Pasquale said. “Cut around to the south, and we’ll have him in the middle.” Mitchell nodded. “You okay?”
“Sure,” Estelle said.
“You got any lights in this place?” Gastner had walked back to the kitchen door and stood with it half open.
She smiled. “Dark’s safer,” she said.
“Bill, you want to come with me, or…” Mitchell asked.
“I’m fine,” Gastner said. “They might have some decent coffee here.” The kitchen light came on behind them.
“One last check,” Pasquale said and headed for the fence. “I’ll pick up the cans on the way back.” He scissor-jumped it effortlessly and disappeared into the shadows beside the house.
Eddie Mitchell followed them into the kitchen and shook hands with Francis. “Sorry for the disturbance,” the chief said.
“It just sounded like he wanted to talk,” the physician said.
Mitchell shook his head slowly. “When a guy sits in a lawn chair in somebody’s backyard and watches ’em all evening…there’s a screw loose somewhere, Doc.” He turned to Estelle. “I’ll keep you posted.” He walked through the house, and as he opened the front door, an aging pickup truck pulled onto Twelfth Street. “Here’s the sheriff.” He flashed a grin at Estelle. “Old Perry’s getting the attention he wanted.”
“Maybe so,” Estelle said. She followed the chief down the front sidewalk as Sheriff Torrez swung the truck in a U-turn and pulled to a stop, tires scrubbing the curb.
“You guys all okay?”
“Fine…I guess.”
“You guess?”
Estelle took a deep breath. “He came to the back door, Bobby. He asked me not to testify against him.”
“Not testify? That’s likely.”
“He hit the door a couple of times. I don’t think he was trying to get in. Just an anger thing. The scary part is that earlier, while I was taking a nap, it looks like he was sitting out in one of our lawn chairs, just watching the house.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. That’s not the Perry Kenderman I know.”
“Evening, sir,” Torrez said, and Estelle turned to see Gastner’s rotund figure ambling down the sidewalk toward them from the house. The sheriff turned back to Estelle. “And he’s never been in a mess like this one, either.”
“Tom’s bagging the cans,” Gastner said.
“What cans are those?” Torrez asked.
“Perry’s party,” Gastner said. Torrez frowned, puzzled, and the older man shrugged. “What can I say.”
“Bobby, can we use your truck?” Estelle asked, and the question took the sheriff by surprise.
“Sure. For what?”
“I think I know where Perry’s going to go.”
Chapter Nineteen
The cab of Robert Torrez’s Chevy pickup was a tight squeeze. Estelle sat in the middle, scrunched sideways toward Bill Gastner so Torrez had room to shift. The truck smelled its twenty-eight years, a potpourri of motor oil, chewing tobacco, and dog. The cab was more than a convenient spot for the driver to sit. It was a vast depository for things both needed and forgotten.