“Doctor Guzman,” he said.
Estelle took a moment and sat down, carefully moving the briefcase so it wouldn’t tip over. Her mind spun, refusing to focus on the obvious, the chaos in her mind fueled by the single, terrible possibility that George Enriquez somehow had been trying to save his own skin at the expense of her husband’s new clinic.
“Look,” Torrez said, leaning forward with his beefy forearms resting on the desk. “If George is willing to work his little insurance scam…”
“Not so little, either,” Mitchell observed.
“Right. But if he’s willing to work that, what’s to keep him from dabbling in something else? He’ll do one thing, he’ll do another.”
“A crook’s a crook,” Mitchell said. “What’s he got going then, some kind of health insurance deal?”
“I don’t know.” Torrez relaxed back as if the conversation was over, with the others left to make their own connections.
“You’re saying Enriquez was into something else,” Mitchell said when Estelle made no response. “Well, of course he was. Why else would somebody shoot him? For fake insurance? I don’t think so.” He grinned. “Of course, if old Denton Pope hadn’t blown himself up and managed to kill his mother in that fire the way he intended, he sure as hell would have been torqued to find out his home-owner’s insurance was fake. But it wouldn’t do much good to shoot Georgie.”
“Look at the timing,” Estelle said, feeling as if her words were spoken through wads of cotton. “The grand jury that would investigate George Enriquez convened on Tuesday morning. Who’s the leadoff witness?”
“Undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” Mitchell said.
“Exactly. George’s object might have been to prevent me from testifying. It had nothing to do with my husband. So he tries to frame me for something, whether he had anything concrete or not.”
“A couple of minutes ago, I brought up the possibility that Enriquez meant your husband, not you,” the sheriff said. “We still don’t know about that.”
“And that doesn’t make any sense,” Estelle said. “I was the main grand jury witness. If Enriquez could throw a hammer into my testimony, he’d gain a little time.”
“So you think he was just talking.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s a simple fact remaining in all this,” Mitchell said. “Someone obviously wanted George Enriquez dead. Now, it may be coincidence that it happened the day before the grand jury convened. And maybe not. It may be coincidence that the revolver that killed him was in someone else’s possession for a few days prior to his death. And maybe not.”
“Somebody didn’t want George’s story to go public,” Torrez said.
“That’s right. Lots of dirty laundry comes out after a grand jury indictment. And maybe his wife just got sick and tired of the whole circus,” Mitchell said. “Maybe she waddled down there and popped him a good one.”
Torrez rapped the desk gently. “The other possibility is that George really did have something to tell the district attorney. Something to trade. Something big enough, valuable enough, that even Schroeder would sit up and take notice…that he’d be willing to deal.”
“I don’t like coincidences,” Estelle said, her voice almost a whisper. Both men looked at her, waiting. “I want to know more about the revolver. I told Frieberg that I’d stop by this afternoon. Now I’m thinking that it might be better if I left him hanging for a little bit. He already told you about the revolver, Bobby. I don’t understand why he feels the need to tell me, too.”
“Maybe he wants to talk about something else,” Torrez said.
She reached for the briefcase. “Maybe. In the meantime, let me tell you about George Enriquez and Mexico.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The receptionist looked up to see the sheriff and undersheriff of Posadas County step through the inner door. The central office of Posadas Municipal Schools was the hushed silence of carpet and paperwork. The woman turned her pencil just so and laid it down on the blotter as if afraid the thud of its landing would be offensively loud.
“Well, good afternoon,” she said, favoring them both with a broad smile.
“How you doin’, Minnie,” Torrez said.
“Just fine.” The smile faded a watt. “You two look awfully official today.”
“We need to talk to Glen,” Torrez said.
Minnie’s hand reached for the telephone. “Let me see if he’s in.” She pushed the appropriate button and waited, then actually smiled at the telephone as she said, “Nancy, Sheriff Torrez is here to see the superintendent. Has he come back yet from the middle school?” She nodded. “Uh huh. Sure.” The smile widened. “Sure. Okay. Thanks, Nancy.” She hung up the phone, and her face took on that professional I’m-so — sorry expression. “He’s still over at the middle school, Sheriff. Do you want me to tell him to give you a call? Is there something I can help you with?”
Torrez rapped the counter once with his knuckle. “No, that’s all right. We’ll go on over and find him.”
“Well, I think he’s speaking at an assembly,” she said, and the hint of worry in her tone amused Estelle. Perhaps the woman had visions of Sheriff Torrez striding into the assembly and tapping the superintendent on the shoulder just as Archer was about to introduce the Football Mom of the Year.
“That’ll be interesting to hear,” Torrez muttered. “Thanks, Minnie.” Outside in the sun, he stopped halfway up the sidewalk. It appeared that he was examining one of the lawn sprinkler heads as it jetted pulses out across the putting green approach to the school superintendent’s office. “Glen Archer and Owen Frieberg drove the buses to Mexico,” he said, still watching the water. “George Enriquez and Joe Tones went along. Somebody from the school as well.”
“Barry Vasquez, the student-council sponsor,” Estelle said.
“Vasquez,” Torrez repeated. “I know him. He’s one of the varsity’s offensive coordinators.”
“That could be.”
“Tones didn’t mention any other teachers?”
“No. The five adults and a couple dozen kids.”
Torrez nodded. “Okay.” He turned and Estelle watched the muscle twitch on his cheek as he squinted at the grill of the county’s Expedition.
“That’s what I mean about coincidence,” Estelle said. “As far as I can determine, the only three unusual things in George Enriquez’s life recently have been this school deal in Mexico, the hunting trip that he was planning, and the grand jury staring him in the face.”
“Un huh.”
“And two of the three have the same players.”
“Okay,” Torrez said. He turned abruptly and strode to the truck. They drove across the broad macadam parking lot the hundred yards to the front door of the middle school. The moment Estelle got out, she heard the volley of screams from the gymnasium, off behind the flat-roofed classroom wing.
“Mayhem,” she said. “Brings back memories.”
“All of them bad,” Torrez replied. “This place hasn’t changed much.” Estelle tried without success to imagine Robert Torrez as an eighth-grader in the middle of a public speaking unit. They entered through the door whose sign admonished all visitors to check in with the principal’s office-Glen Archer’s domain at one time before he’d taken on first the high school and then the superintendency.
A grandmotherly-looking woman with a telephone glued to her ear beckoned at the same time as she quickly concluded her conversation on the phone. She arose, frowning. “Is that Bobby Torrez?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the sheriff replied.
“I don’t think I’ve had a chance to talk to you since the wedding,” she said, referring to Torrez’s marriage to Gayle Sedillos. “How’s my favorite gal?”
“She’s doing fine.” Torrez glanced at a dour-faced youngster who walked by, bulging knapsack pulling one shoulder low, then turned back to the principal’s secretary. “This is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” he said. “Iona Urioste.”