Gastner hitched his bulk toward the door another millimeter. “Nice rig, eh?” he said, and patted the dash, leaving fingerprints in the ancient greasy dust.
“Spectacular,” Estelle replied. “But Kenderman is thinking police cruisers right about now. This might give us an edge.”
“A new low in undercover,” Gastner chuckled. Torrez remained studiously silent. They rolled through the stop sign at Twelfth and Bustos, pausing just long enough to allow an eastbound livestock tractor trailer to pass through.
“Can you follow him?” Estelle asked, pointing at the semi.
“Sure,” Torrez said, and the pickup accelerated with respectable speed, a minor vibration from the drive train, and the smell of hot oil.
Estelle looked out over the broad, weather-beaten hood at the towering rear end of the stock trailer ahead of them. In another couple of seconds, they would reach Pershing Park, the historical marker that graced the two-block “downtown” area. Just north of the park a handful of blocks nestled the little cinder-block house owned by Barbara Parker.
She tried to imagine what route Perry Kenderman would take through the neighborhoods that lay between her own home and the Parkers’ as he jogged along, his mind fuzzed with overcharges of emotion and alcohol. The village of Posadas was no metropolis, but if he was on foot, Kenderman had a dozen blocks to cover, skirting dogs, fences, and ducking out of sight when the odd car cruised by. He might have sprinted up the alleyway behind the Guzmans’, coming out on Bustos near the Don Juan restaurant. Once into the neighborhoods north and east of the Twelfth Street-Bustos Avenue intersection, he could meander his way to Third Street, keeping to the shadows.
“You’re sure he’s on foot?” Gastner asked.
“No. I’m guessing that he is…he might have borrowed a car from a friend, but we impounded his brother’s little pickup, so that’s out.”
“Does he know we’ve got his truck nailed down?” Torrez asked. “He might be headed back that way.”
“And if he does, Pasquale’s right there,” Estelle said.
“We’ll cut through the back,” Torrez said. He turned the truck onto Second Street, immediately behind Salazar and Sons Funeral Home, and a few minutes later eased to a stop along the curb. Estelle leaned forward and looked past him. She could see the two enormous elms on the other side of the block, their thin crowns illuminated by the streetlight.
“What do you want me to do?” Gastner asked.
“We can cut through right here,” Estelle replied. “If he’s on foot, we should be way ahead of him. If not…” Torrez opened the door of the truck. “We’ll go around front. If you’d cover the back…”
“Let’s do it,” Gastner said. “Roberto, how do I get out of this thing?”
“Just buck it with your shoulder,” Torrez said. “It’s kinda bent.” Estelle saw that he had the small handheld radio in hand. “PD, three oh eight.” The volume was turned so low Estelle had difficulty hearing the reply.
“Turn anything?” Torrez asked.
“Negative.” Chief Mitchell managed to sound disappointed.
“We’re at the Third Street address. We’ll be checkin’ there.”
“We’ll head on up that way.”
“Hang south of Bustos for a while,” Torrez said. “If he’s headed up here, I don’t want him spooked.”
“Ten four.”
“Three oh six, you copy that?”
“Three oh six copies. I’m at the school right now. No sign of him.”
Torrez slid the radio back in the pocket of his jacket. “Let’s go see.”
As they crept through the darkness, Estelle waited for the neighbor’s dog to sense their presence, but either he was inside or didn’t care. The Parkers’ house loomed dark against the halo of the streetlight. The backyard was small and unfenced. Torrez led, keeping close to a hedge of runty, water-starved lilac bushes. Gastner touched Estelle’s arm and pointed off to the right, toward the back door. She nodded and he drifted that way, walking so slowly that she knew he was searching for level footing, hoping to feel the hidden tricycle or sandbox before he tripped over it.
Estelle could see no lights on in the back of the house, none from the bedroom where Ryan hopefully snuggled, wrapped around Franklin the cat. They had reached the high, frosted window of the bathroom when Estelle heard the voices. Torrez stopped instantly, listening. “Damn television,” he whispered.
“No, I don’t think so.” She held her breath and moved closer to the bathroom window. This time, she heard footsteps. She closed her eyes, recreating the floor plan of the small house in her mind.
“I just don’t think this is a good idea, Perry,” Barbara Parker said, and the words were so clear she must have been standing near the bathroom door. “The children are both asleep now. Maybe we should…”
“Shit,” Torrez muttered, not waiting to hear the rest of the conversation. He sprinted toward the front of the house, moving with surprising speed for a man so large. Ducking around the left front fender of Barbara Parker’s little sedan, he reached the front door, breathing hard. He held up a hand as he sensed Estelle beside him. With the other, he reached out and gently turned the knob.
The door swung open noiselessly. In the living room, the television was on, its volume muted. Barbara Parker stood in the hallway, her hands clasped together as if she were praying. Estelle saw her turn, perhaps feeling the change in air pressure or the soft night sounds floating in through the open door. She saw the two officers, and one hand went to her mouth in surprise.
“Perry,” she said, and shrank back as Torrez bore down on her. The sheriff stopped in the bedroom doorway. Looking past his shoulder, Estelle could see Perry Kenderman on the far side of the little single bed, Ryan Parker gathered in his arms. She pushed past Torrez, snapping on the bedroom light as she did so. With his free hand, Kenderman was trying to wrap a small blanket around the boy. Ryan’s face crumpled into a loud wail.
“Put him down,” Estelle barked. Kenderman clutched the boy to him, backing up until his back was against the wall. His left arm slid up until his forearm was across the boy’s upper chest, under the chin. Estelle interpreted his movement as protective of the boy, rather than threatening.
“You have to tell ’em it wasn’t my fault,” Kenderman said helplessly.
“Put the boy down,” Estelle repeated, and when she felt Torrez shift behind her, she turned and pushed a hand against his chest, advancing on Kenderman at the same time. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, but saw no weapons. Still, he could snap Ryan’s neck like a toothpick. She stopped at the foot of the bed. “Perry, what’s this going to accomplish?”
He frowned, and it looked as if he was chewing on his tongue, trying to put words together.
“Perry, listen to me,” Estelle said. “The children are safe here. I talked to your brother this afternoon. He’s not taking them to Las Cruces. Barbara has custody until this is all straightened out. They’re safe with their grandmother, Perry.”
Kenderman shifted his hold on Ryan, turning him so that the little boy’s face was cradled against his shoulder.
“You know the law as well as I do, Perry,” she said. “You can’t just take the children away from their guardian. We won’t let you do that.” For the first time, Perry Kenderman’s eyes seemed to focus on Robert Torrez, who stood easy, blocking the doorway, hands at his sides.
“Let him go, Perry,” Estelle whispered. Kenderman closed his eyes and his arms relaxed, letting Ryan slide down to the bed. Estelle held out a hand and Ryan crabbed across the bedding, his hands hot and sweaty in Estelle’s as she drew the little boy to her. Torrez moved around her quickly, but Kenderman had already sagged down the wall, ending up on his rump, arms across his knees.
The sheriff grabbed Kenderman’s arms and hoisted him to his feet, as if he weighed no more than Ryan, and spun him around face first against the wall. The metallic ratchet of handcuffs was loud in the room, and Torrez wasted no time. He whisked Perry Kenderman out of the house without comment or glance at Barbara Parker.