“That’s not the issue,” Schroeder said. “He was in pursuit. That’s an established fact. And with no lights, no siren-hell, it was just a drag race. You heard the whole sorry episode.”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“I can’t think of a better definition of reckless endangerment,” Schroeder said.
Estelle’s gaze drifted off to the car dealer’s parking lot next door. The bright sea of metal and plastic and the gaggle of curious faces didn’t register. Instead, she saw Colette Parker’s small, delicate face framed by the scarred motorcycle helmet. “Charges of reckless endangerment and vehicular homicide would be appropriate,” she said finally.
Schroeder nodded with satisfaction. “In a way, I feel sorry for the guy,” he said. “I don’t know what he thought he’d accomplish, but whatever it was, it sure went to shit.”
“I feel a little uneasy about his state of mind right now,” Estelle said.
“That’s interesting.” Schroeder’s eyes narrowed. “Because he’s not in custody yet, is he.”
“No, sir.”
“You have plenty to hold him on, you know,” Schroeder said. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
“I understand that, sir. We’re a little bit tied up just now. He’s not going anywhere.” She glanced again toward the car dealer’s lot. Each of those faces represented a pending interview in the search to find someone who had heard or seen something related to Enriquez’s death.
“I can understand you giving him the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. But there’s not much doubt anymore, is there.”
“No, sir.”
“You said you felt ‘uneasy’ about him. You saw him this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s got to know that charges are pending. He’s no rocket scientist, but the formula here is pretty simple. Don’t let it go too long before you guys move on it.”
“I’m sure he knows. He’s a cop, after all.”
Schroeder coughed. “Was a cop.”
“He’s worried about the two kids. Colette’s two.”
“Now, he’s worried. That’s nice. Would that that concern had surfaced before he decided to run their mother off the road.” Estelle remained silent, and Schroeder sighed and shook his head. “How old are they?”
“The little girl is two. The boy is four. I think Perry may be the boy’s father.”
“Ah,” Schroeder said. “The kids’ father.”
“Just Ryan’s. The boy.”
“Really?” The district attorney’s eyebrows arched. “She got around some, then. Who’s father of the girl? She’s the youngest, right?”
Estelle nodded. “I think the little girl’s father is Perry’s younger brother, Rick.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, sir. He lives down in Las Cruces.”
“What a mess,” Schroeder said, and this time, some sympathy crept into his tone.
“Yes, sir. The grandmother is taking care of the two kids for a while.”
“No marriage licenses in all this, though?”
“No, sir.”
“Our lives should be so simple,” Schroeder said.
“I can’t argue that, sir,” Estelle said. “You’re filing this morning?”
“Unless you can convince me otherwise.” He looked hard at Estelle. “I wanted to give you folks some time to clean up this mess first. But don’t wait too long. Perry doesn’t need to have a long leash.”
Estelle smiled wryly. Evidently Bobby Torrez hadn’t shared his concerns about Enriquez’s death with the district attorney. “Thanks, sir.”
“I’ll ask Judge Hobart to schedule a preliminary hearing for this afternoon. You’ll certainly have Perry in custody by then, right? I don’t see any point in dragging our feet.”
“No, sir. We’re keeping an eye on him,” Estelle said. “I don’t know what’s going on between him and his brother. All we know is that Rick isn’t in town.”
“Then let’s hope it stays that way,” Schroeder said.
Chapter Thirteen
Estelle glanced at her watch, then hesitated before pulling the county car into gear. Bob Torrez was right…George Enriquez’s death included too many inconsistencies to be written off as a suicide. There might be a simple explanation for the heavy revolver’s position under the chair, a simple explanation for the absence of checkering marks that should have been left by the revolver’s grips against Enriquez’s palms. But those simple explanations were eluding them.
Dan Schroeder hadn’t voiced his thoughts, but Estelle knew what they had to be. The coincidence of George Enriquez’s promised “I can give you Guzman” followed by his convenient death before he could make an explanation was enough to make anyone curious.
Alan Perrone would perform the preliminary NAA test on Enriquez’s corpse to determine if the insurance agent had fired the revolver…or at least had had it in hand when it was fired. But the odds were good that none of the lab tests, or the preliminary autopsy, would be completed before late afternoon.
Estelle had tried unsuccessfully to conjure up some recollection of Constance Enriquez, to remember a face to go with the name. Mrs. Enriquez hadn’t attended the preliminary hearing months ago when Judge Lester Hobart had released her husband on his own recognizance pending grand jury action. Estelle could see George’s round, pleasant face with the quick, flashing smile of the professional salesman. In court, George had seemed more confident and cheerful than his attorney had been, as if he were appearing to settle a simple traffic ticket.
But Connie? How had she survived through all this mess that her husband had heaped upon them?
Mimbres Drive was a short cul-de-sac, gracefully curved not because of the natural terrain but simply because that’s the way the developer had chosen to steer the bulldozer twenty years before when he turned the old Gallegos ranch into a subdivision. The dozen houses in the development were brick with wood trim.
The residence at 419 Mimbres was no surprise, showing those touches that the profits from a successful career could buy. A semicircular concrete driveway arced across the front yard, passing through decorative beds of tamed desert plants. A large self-contained camper was parked in the driveway, flanked by a late-model Cadillac. Behind the camper sat a new van, the temporary tag still taped in the tinted back window.
Estelle got out of the car and glanced at the other vehicles parked on both sides of Mimbres Drive. Several bore Texas plates. She paused behind the van long enough to read the temporary tag. The new owner, Owen Frieberg, was a partner at Salazar and Sons Funeral Home. He either was a friend of the family’s or wasn’t wasting any time drumming up business. Mr. Frieberg hadn’t shopped locally for his new van, despite the oft-published pleas of his own chamber of commerce. The expensive unit had been purchased two weeks before, in Albuquerque.
A rotund woman poured into a pair of blue jeans with a western-style blouse answered Estelle’s ring. Her eyes flicked the undersheriff from top to bottom, and she almost immediately began to shut the door.
“We’re really not interested,” she said. “There’s been a death in the family, but thanks for stopping by.” Her voice carried the nasal twang of west Texas.
“Ma’am,” Estelle said and held her badge case up briefly. “I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman. I need to speak with Mrs. Enriquez.”
“Oh,” the woman said. Her penciled eyebrows went up and stayed there. “Just a minute, then.” She closed the door. Estelle could hear voices inside the house, and after a moment the door opened again. Estelle smiled at the odd face that peered out at her.
“Is that who I think it is?” Father Bertrand Anselmo chortled. His bottle-bottom glasses couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eyes. Anselmo was bald except for a gray fringe around his head at ear level that looked as if a house cat had draped itself around his skull. He beamed at Estelle, showing a collection of fillings, crowns, and gaps all generated by the low-bidding dentist of the moment.