“Barry Vasquez told me that the bus Frieberg was driving pulled into that dirt lane beside the school and that the other remained out front. The same thing that Archer told us.”
She pressed the remote, and the tape paused, a group of smiling youngsters frozen with their arms laden. Behind them, the doors of the van gaped open. George Enriquez stood beside the back door, one hand on the corner of it as if holding it against the wind. “Lori took just enough film outside to show that they unloaded,” Estelle said. “Then she got out of the wind.” She fast-forwarded and just as abruptly stopped. “I want you to look at this picture in particular.”
Torrez leaned forward, expression puzzled.
Using the eraser of her pencil, Estelle marked a circle around a portion of the scene, including George Enriquez putting two bags into the waiting arms of a stout middle-schooler. The kid’s face was scrunched with determination, as if enough concentration would keep the sand out of his eyes.
“When he steps back, I want you to look right there. Right under the backseat.” She looked back at the sheriff, pencil eraser still touching the screen.
“Okay,” he said.
She stepped to one side and pressed Play. The kid hefted the two bags, George Enriquez said something that the camera microphone couldn’t pick up over the growling of the wind, and then the youngster turned away, disappearing out of view. Enriquez beamed at the camera, tossed a salute for the fans, and turned to slam the two doors.
Estelle stopped the tape, with Enriquez frozen in mid-stride, one arm trailing back toward the van.
“What did I see?” Torrez said.
“That’s right.”
“An empty van.”
“Let me play it once more, and this time look at the space directly under the backseat.” She played the tape backward, and they saw Enriquez waddle back, pull the salute out of the air, and smile. The youngster arrived with the bags and gave them back.
“Ready?”
“Sure.”
The scene played once more. “All right,” Torrez said when she halted the tape, Enriquez frozen again in mid-stride. “There’s nothing under the seat.”
“Exactly right.”
“Shit,” Torrez muttered.
“Sir?”
He waved a hand in disgust. “It’s just that I know exactly where this is going,” he said. “This is going to be the biggest damn nightmare we’ve had around here in a long time.” He flicked a go-ahead gesture.
Estelle ran the tape on Fast Forward for what seemed like a long time. They watched kids scuttling at high speed this way and that, long lines of kids in some kind of exotic dance, uncollected crowds of kids doing who knows what, some in-tight and personal shots of enormous smiles, flashing teeth, and the Mexican school principal making a speech that lasted altogether too long.
Finally, the youngsters all flowed to one end of the gym, the grown-ups gesticulating wildly.
“What are they doing?” Torrez murmured.
“You want me to slow it down?”
“No, please,” he said instantly. “Just tell me.”
“They’re sweeping for trash,” Estelle said. And sure enough, the line moved across the gymnasium, backs bending and heads bobbing.
“They don’t have floor mops?” Torrez asked.
“That’s not the point of the exercise,” Estelle said. “Now they’re going outside, and they’ll do the same sweep all around the school grounds.”
“Absolutely fascinating.”
“Just be patient, Roberto.”
“The kid who shot all this must have a permanent black ring around her camera eye,” Linda laughed. “She’s really good.” She glanced at Torrez. “We should hire her, sir.”
“Oh sure. We can’t even afford to pay you.”
“Now,” Estelle said, switching the VCR to the Play mode. Instantly, the humans on-screen slowed to a sane pace. At least a dozen black trash bags, bulging fat, were lugged across the camera, the kids taking the opportunity to wave at the lens.
A smiling George Enriquez, this time with Owen Frieberg standing on the other side of the van’s side door, accepted one bag at a time, stuffing the van full of trash. When the seats were apparently full, they moved to the back doors.
“Watch closely,” Estelle said. The remaining four kids, waddling with their loads, lined up. Enriquez stood on the driver’s side of the door, Frieberg on the other. Enriquez took the first bag from the youngster. As the boy turned away, Enriquez turned and swung the bag up and into the van.
“There,” Estelle said. The scene froze. She moved close and tapped the screen with the pencil. “Right there.”
“Yup,” Torrez grunted.
“It’s there for just an instant, and then the rest of the bags cover them up. I can see two distinct white cardboard boxes under the seat. Maybe a third.” She held her hands up, eight inches apart. “About like so.”
“Christmas gifts for his wife,” Linda said.
“Bullshit,” Torrez said instantly. “If those were gifts, or something legit, he’d have them up on the front seat, not piled under an avalanche of trash.”
“The other problem is, we can’t see under the other seats. The one right by the door,” and she rewound, the figures dancing backward and unloading the van, “right here? The seat’s got a skirt of some kind on the side, so we can’t see.”
Estelle stopped the tape, the blank blue screen staring out at them.
“What do you think?” Torrez said. “What’s the simple explanation?”
“I don’t know. Like you said, if it was something small and simple, why bury it under the seat?”
“Did this camera girl film the group crossing back into the States?”
“No. According to Barry Vasquez, they were waved right on through.”
“So Georgie didn’t have anything to declare.”
“Right. What bothers me the most is that they had an opportunity to make a pickup, if that’s what they did. They forgot ice for the party, and Enriquez told them they’d get it at little mercantile right there in Acambaro. He and Frieberg went and got it. Both trips. Certainly in December, anyway. In May, they didn’t have the van, so maybe it came to them while everyone was busy inside.”
“That doesn’t give us much,” Torrez said.
“No. Except it points to opportunity.”
“It’s not booze,” Torrez said. “The boxes are too small. I don’t think he’s going to try to carry something like grass or coke that way. Hell, the first drug dog that sniffed the van would hit. I don’t care how many tons of garbage were dropped on top of it.”
“The simple fact is that when they loaded the van at the middle school, there was nothing under those seats,” Estelle said. “When they left Acambaro with a load of rubbish, there was.” She turned off the monitor. “That’s all. First there wasn’t anything, and then there was.” She shrugged and watched Torrez’s cheek muscles flex. “There may be a simple, innocent explanation, Bobby. Maybe it was nothing. I just need to know.”
Torrez leaned forward, his chin cupped in his hand. “Our problem is that we think — #8212;well, that’s wrong-we know Enriquez was murdered. But before somebody whacked him, he mentioned your name, or your husband’s, to the D.A. And then he turns up dead.” The sheriff fell silent, as if the three sentences had exceeded his allowed maximum for one outburst.
“Frieberg is eager for us to know that he handled the revolver,” Estelle said. “I can understand that. But we have two connections between Enriquez and Frieberg: this trip to Mexico and the elk hunt thing.”
Torrez shrugged and pointed an accusatory finger at the dark screen. “That’s a little problem right there, and it involves George and Frieberg…again.” He shrugged. “You’re right, Estelle. I want to know what was in the boxes, too. I’m willing to bet that you’ve got some ideas.”
“I wish I didn’t,” she said, and let it go at that.