“Some shift.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
The writer ruminated on that for a few minutes, and then said, “The sheriff.”
Estelle flashed a quick look her way.
Madelyn held up a hand as if to say, I know, I know. “The sheriff impresses me as being much more on top of things than he would like us to believe.”
That prompted a laugh from Estelle. “That’s an observation, not a question.”
“Exactly. Is it an accurate one?”
“That’s a judgment you’ll have to make, Madelyn. Stick around for a while and then decide. I’d hate to bias you one way or another.”
The reporter shook her head in amusement. “Probably the figure is something like 99.99999 percent,” she said, more to herself than Estelle.
“What figure is that?”
“The percentage of people who will cheerfully talk about someone behind their back when the occasion presents itself.”
“Ah.”
“I have to try, you understand.”
“I do.”
The miles melted behind them, and before long they swept up the north side of the San Cristóbals toward the pass, and then over the top. Minutes later, they eased into Sanchez Lane. Madelyn reached over and patted the top of the computer.
“Tell me something,” she said. “I’m puzzled. How do you decide that the girl…Irene? How do you decide that she doesn’t have anything to do with any of this? Or her sexy grease- and oil-soaked boyfriend, for that matter. How do you know that they’re not working together? That she won’t call CJ.…”
“The same way you do,” Estelle said. She slowed the car to an amble as they passed the Contreras adobe. “For one thing, there is no evidence that they are involved-nada, zip. Nothing. But you saw them. Neither of them has a thing to hide. Their actions and their faces are open books, Madelyn. It takes practice to be a devious liar, and most of the time, lack of practice shows.”
“So, your intuition…”
“Call it that. People with things to hide tend to be either way too clever, or they’re evasive.”
“I’ll buy that. Irene certainly didn’t strike me as evasive. Smitten and madly in love, maybe.”
“See? That’s why I’m sure. We’re in the same business, Madelyn. We’re people watchers. It’s just the outcome that’s different.”
A late model pickup truck was pulled into Serafina Roybal’s driveway, beside the old Wagoneer. The pickup’s tailgate was flopped down, with a toolbox open and in disarray. Estelle pulled in close behind it, and saw Danny Rivera working on the back wheel. The truck was jacked up, and he was spraying some potion on the lug nuts. Irene Salas came out of the house, carrying two bottles of Mexican beer, the distinctive label apparent at a quick glance. She smiled and waved, and detoured first to Danny, giving him one of the bottles.
“You want something to drink?” she said, as Estelle got out of the car. “We got iced tea or Coke. I’m not going to offer you one of these.”
“No, thanks, Irene.”
Danny Rivera didn’t get up but nodded at Estelle.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“One…just one…of the damn lug nuts is frozen,” he said. “Always something.”
“You said you had another picture for me?” Irene prompted.
“I do,” Estelle replied. “I need you to identify this person, if you can.” She handed the photocopy of the driver’s license photo to Irene. She saw the young woman’s face brighten with recognition.
“Sure. That’s CJ. It oughta be a crime to be that pretty. I don’t think she knows it, though.”
Oh, yes, she does, Estelle thought. “Did she ever talk about where she was from?”
“I think Chicago? She doesn’t seem like the Chicago type, whatever that is. But I remember her saying that’s where her family lived now. I know that she was planning to visit back there at Christmas.” Irene looked quizzically at Estelle, and that expression changed to one of slow dawning. “She wasn’t riding with Chris the other night, was she? Oh, God, that would be awful.”
“Chris Marsh was alone in the truck, Irene,” Estelle said. “No one else was involved in the accident.”
“Thank God for that,” she said firmly. “You’re going to let CJ know? Is that it?”
“Yes. We’ll let her know. But let me ask you something. During the time that you knew Chris Marsh, when he would come to the lab to meet with CJ, did you know what he did for a living?”
“I just thought he was another student,” Irene replied. “You know…all of us there are, so I just assumed that he was, too.” She turned and nodded toward the house. “My grandmamá says that he was working for one of the courier companies. He was the one who actually delivered the two little prize checks that she got.” She grinned. “And the biiiiiiig ones that Joe and Lucinda Baca won. Wow.”
Estelle silently watched Danny Rivera for a moment as he slid an enormous cheater bar on the lug wrench and gently bounced his weight on it. The lug nut stubbornly refused to move. “I wouldn’t turn down a prize or two like that,” he said. “I don’t see how they make any money doing that.”
He sat back on his haunches, regarding the lug nut. “Stubby said that he actually crashed Wednesday night. That he wasn’t found until Friday.”
“My God, is that true?” Irene gasped.
“We think so,” Estelle said.
“How double awful, to think he was lying down in those rocks, just waiting for help. And it never came.”
Not the kind of help he would have asked for, Estelle thought. “Guys, thanks a lot. We need to run.” She slipped a business card from her pocket and handed it to Irene. “If you should happen to think of anything else,” she said.
As she slid back into the car, Madelyn lowered her voice. “A hit?”
“A hit.”
The reporter looked at her watch. “This is going to be a very long day, isn’t it.”
Chapter Thirty-five
“The Mustang is parked in the driveway, along with a hot-rodded ’55 Chevy pickup truck,” Deputy Abeyta said. “No sign of her yet, but a guy came out of the house a few minutes ago. He’s been rootin’ around in the trunk of the Mustang.”
“What’s he look like?” Estelle asked. She kept the county car in the left-hand lane of the interstate, grill wiggle-waggles turned on to herd traffic out of the way.
“White male, maybe twenty-five, six-two, a hundred and eighty pounds. Buzz cut, blue jeans, running shoes, and an NMSU polo shirt. He’s fit. Looks like a Marine or something.”
“The sheriff should be just ten or fifteen minutes out,” Estelle said. “Has he contacted you yet?”
“That’s affirmative. We’re hangin’ tight. It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood. I’m parked down at the end of the block next to an elementary school playground. Nilson is stationed down at the other end of the street at a convenience store. There’s what looks like an irrigation ditch behind their place, so they aren’t slippin’ out the back.”
“Okay. We’re just passing Deming. Gayle gave me directions.”
“Ten-four. The sheriff said Mears turned some prints?”
“A couple sets. Most important is a clear set from the beer can.”
“Hit?”
“Not yet. Nothing has shown up on the computer. There’s a significant scar on what he thinks is the left index finger, so a field match might be possible. Stay in touch.”
She closed the phone and took a deep breath. “She has a new boyfriend already,” Estelle said to Madelyn Bolles.
“That’s not surprising.”
“Three-ten, three-oh-eight, three-oh-two.”
Less than fifteen seconds had elapsed since Abeyta had been on the phone, and now he was asking for both Torrez and herself on the radio.
“Three-oh-two, go ahead,” the sheriff’s soft voice said.