Connie nodded. “Would you believe it?”
“It’s a beautiful spot.”
Connie laughed. “You’re such a diplomat,” she said. “I’m going back there, you know. I’m serious. By the time those Mexican doctors are through with me, I’m going to look like that again.” Her nod was slow and determined. “And then we’ll see.”
Estelle handed her the picture.
“Mrs. Enriquez, during the next few days you may remember something about your husband’s activities. I need to know who he was associating with, basically what he was doing up until the time of his death. Anything you can remember would be a help.” She withdrew the business card again, made sure that Connie Enriquez saw it, and placed it on the corner of the desk.
“George was well insured, you know,” Connie said.
Estelle raised an eyebrow in question but said nothing.
“If they think it was suicide-and it wasn’t, believe me-the insurance is void. No question about that. If someone murdered my husband, odds are that the insurance company will force me to sue somebody to hell and gone to collect a penny. If it was an accident, insurance will pay. I know that sounds cold-blooded, but that’s the way it is.” With her hands still on the desk for support, she moved closer to Estelle and lowered her voice. “Obviously, that’s not a topic of conversation for out in the kitchen. But you and I know how things go. You’ll do what you have to do.”
“May I have permission to look through George’s papers here?” Estelle asked. “I’ll get a court order if you prefer.”
Connie Enriquez pushed herself upright. “You go right ahead and look to your heart’s content, Estelle Guzman. I’d be surprised if you found anything of any value. But we never know, do we? And before you ask…I don’t know if George had any safe deposit boxes. But I’m sure you’ll find out.” The woman waddled toward the double doors. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need me again for anything, just holler. I’ll be out there dealing with cat dander.” She smiled this time, showing a set of perfectly even, fine white teeth.
The door closed behind her, leaving Estelle alone in George Enriquez’s study. She sat down in the large, padded swivel chair and gazed around the room, letting her eyes drift from object to object, taking her time. The trophy clock on the desk said that in ten minutes, Francis might be free for lunch. She found herself yearning to see his face, to feel the brush of his beard, to hear the sound of his voice.
Chapter Fourteen
Constance Enriquez had never sat in her husband’s swivel chair behind the big walnut desk. For one thing, her hips wouldn’t have wedged into the space between the chair’s padded arms. That problem aside, had she spent time foraging in her husband’s desk…had she cared enough about his activities to do so…her curiosities might have been stirred.
Estelle snapped on a thin pair of latex gloves. She started with the wide center drawer and found the usual potpourri of junk that cluttered most desks. Lying amid the paper clips and roller-ball pens in the forward tray was a rubber stamp bearing the legend of the Posadas Old Timers’ Club, FOR DEPOSIT ONLY, and the service club’s bank account number. Estelle flipped her own small notebook to a blank page and pressed the stamp gently. The ink was fresh enough to leave a clear imprint.
She put the stamp back and ran her hand far into the drawer, feeling along the sides, into the corners, and under the desk’s polished top. In the far back right-hand corner, so far that she had to scoot the chair back against the trophy case to gain clearance, she felt a small, hard object that rolled away at her touch. Her fingers chased it, already recognizing the shape.
Holding the cartridge by the rim between the fingernails of her thumb and index finger, Estelle frowned at the head stamp as she snapped on the desk light to read the small print: R-P across the top arc, 41 MAGNUM across the bottom. The bright brass casing would present fingerprints beautifully.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “Just one of you?” Holding the cartridge over the desk, she rummaged a small plastic evidence bag out of her briefcase and dropped the shell inside. For a moment, she sat quietly, regarding the drawer and its contents. Then, grasping the drawer with both hands, she eased it out further, ducking her head to see into the shadows before pushing it back into place.
The top drawer on the right-hand side of the desk yielded stationery, both for Enriquez’s insurance agency and the Old Timers’ service club, a half ream of expensive onion-skin paper, envelopes, and an unopened package of correction ribbons for an electric typewriter.
Estelle slid that drawer shut and heaved the large bottom file drawer open, raising an eyebrow at the neat rows of manila folders, each labeled across the top. She sat back in the chair. State insurance investigators hadn’t found paperwork in Enriquez’s office for any of the out-of-pocket deals he’d worked with customers like Deputy Thomas Pasquale or Eleanor Pope, each one eager to save a little cash.
The case against Enriquez had been built almost entirely through the testimony of those people who thought they had legitimate policies…their embarrassed testimony, for the most part, and their cancelled checks as proof of payment. Pursuing Enriquez hadn’t been a monumental priority for the district attorney’s office-not enough to bother with a search warrant for the man’s home.
That search wouldn’t have turned up much in this collection of files, Estelle saw. She pulled out the first folder, marked ’95 HEATING AND COOLING. Stubs of bills, with the corresponding cancelled checks, were ranked neatly, from January through December. Similar folders for seven more years marched back through the drawer, followed by records for telephone, automotive, health care, and more.
If he had kept files on his private insurance dealings, he hadn’t cluttered his private life with them, or he’d gotten rid of them at the first whiff of interest from the D.A. and the insurance board…unless he’d used one of those little black books favored by Hollywood gangsters, so filled with convenient answers.
Estelle worked her way toward the back of the drawer, fingering each folder in turn. Then, leaning forward, she frowned with curiosity. With the drawer pulled out to the stops, she was just able to slide a walnut box up past the folders, feeling its weight and elegant, smooth finish. She sat back in the chair, the box on her lap. “Well,” she said aloud and ran her fingers over the embossed logo on the lid.
She released the simple catch and opened the box. The blue velvet lining of the box was formed to fit around a large revolver, the fabric crushed smooth in places from the weight of the gun. After a moment, Estelle realized that she was holding her breath, and exhaled in a long, audible sigh.
A yellow sales ticket was tucked into the lid, and Estelle unfolded it carefully. George Enriquez was listed as the buyer, paying the Posadas Sportsmen’s Emporium $359.95 plus tax for a.41-magnum Smith amp; Wesson Model 657. Estelle recognized old George Payton’s meticulous handwriting on the invoice, including the parenthetical notation, nonoriginal case included. Dated September 26, 1998, the sale had been made two years before Payton had sold the Emporium.
Estelle leaned back, the open box on her lap. Just six months before, she had investigated Payton’s death. The old gun dealer had had troubles of his own. What had the two Georges talked about on that September day four years before? Had the insurance salesman just fallen in love with the heft and balance of the weapon, with no intention of ever using it? Had he wanted something to carry in his car when he traveled?
She looked down at the single cartridge in its plastic bag. One orphan stayed home, perhaps forgotten as it rolled toward the back of the drawer. Estelle closed the wooden case and transferred it to another, large evidence bag. Laying the case on the desk’s blotter pad, she searched the left-hand drawers, finding nothing of particular interest.