“Ah,” he said as if that explained everything. He closed his eyes and shook his head, extending both hands in anticipation of that comforting, enveloping hand clasp he had practiced so often.
“Mr. Frieberg, I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman. I think you know Bill Gastner.”
“Oh, yes,” Frieberg said as his eyes reopened and flicked from Estelle to Gastner and then across the parking lot to where Deputy Tony Abeyta was striding across toward them from his patrol unit. No greeting hand had crept into his, and he brought them back to parade rest at his midriff.
“And this is Deputy Abeyta,” Estelle added.
“Heavens, I’ve known Tony for years. And Bill, it’s been too long.” He smiled benignly at Gastner, or perhaps it was an appraisal. “Something tells me that I know why you’re here, Undersheriff,” Frieberg said gently. He flashed an apologetic smile. “I was catching up on some paperwork, but I’m happy for the excuse to stop. Would you like to come inside?”
“Sure.” Lots of paperwork being done tonight, Estelle thought.
Abeyta remained on the steps as Estelle and Gastner followed Frieberg into the foyer, where the man stood for a moment, evidently trying to decide whether or not to close the door. With the toe of an immaculately white running shoe, he nudged a small cast-iron dachshund doorstop into place. “It’s really still very mild, isn’t it,” he said, and nodded at Abeyta as if entrusting the welfare of the door’s stained-glass window to him.
“I should have called you earlier, I know that,” he said. “Then you told me that you were going to try to find time to stop by yesterday afternoon, but I know how these things go. Everyone gets busy, don’t they?” Before Estelle could respond, Frieberg turned to Bill Gastner. “How’s retirement treating you, Sheriff?”
“Just fine.”
“You were saying that you should have called us, Mr. Frieberg?” Estelle prompted. She regarded him with interest, giving him her own head-to-toe examination. He had lost weight since being captured on the videotape taken at Christmas in Acambaro. His clothing hung a bit loosely from his compact frame, not as neatly tailored as Estelle remembered. As he turned and the light caught the planes of his face, Estelle’s gaze lingered on the telltale smudge of foundation makeup in the canyon between nose and cheek, shadowed by the rims of his tortoiseshell glasses.
Frieberg shot them another gentle smile and once more closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He kept his eyes closed as he talked, a habit that fascinated Estelle. Perhaps it allowed him to talk with grieving relatives without having to watch the tears. She found herself wondering if she would be able to silently walk around behind Frieberg as he talked, without his knowing.
“Let me be honest with you,” the undertaker said. “As I told Sheriff Torrez earlier, some time ago I borrowed a revolver from George Enriquez.” He held up a hand for emphasis. “Now, I don’t think that’s illegal, but I’m not sure. That’s one reason I called the sheriff when I did.”
“No, that’s not illegal,” Estelle said. “And when was that, sir?”
“Oh, gosh. Sometime before Christmas, I think. Yes, in fact it was shortly after Thanksgiving. So late November, early December.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “George purchased this wonderful Smith and Wesson from the gun shop some time ago. Actually, a couple of years ago, probably. I don’t think he ever shot it, but he was certainly proud of that gun.”
He opened his eyes to make sure his audience hadn’t drifted away, and leaned toward Estelle conspiratorially. “I don’t know why he wanted it, really. He’s not a shooter. Anyway, I offered to purchase that revolver from George any number of times. I mean, it’s a wonderful sidearm for hunting, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure it is, sir.” Behind her, Bill Gastner hummed something that could have been translated a dozen different ways.
“Well…to make a long story short, he loaned the revolver to me for a while, sort of a ‘borrow with option to buy’ sort of thing.” Frieberg took a deep breath, and his eyelids sank shut. “Some time ago, I decided that the revolver wasn’t something that I really needed.” He shrugged dramatically, impressed with his self-restraint.
“Did you shoot it much?” Gastner asked.
“Some. And then I discovered that I have an arthritic right thumb.” He held up his hand ruefully, spreading the fingers. He rubbed the knob at the base of his thumb. “The recoil just beats that to death.” He sighed. “So I gave the revolver back to George. I’m sorry now that I did.”
“Why is that, sir?”
He looked at Estelle with surprise. “Well, it’s my understanding that George shot himself with that weapon…that’s what happened, I understand.” When Estelle didn’t respond, he added, “I felt badly about that, believe me. If the weapon hadn’t been so near at hand, perhaps…”
“When you borrowed the revolver, why didn’t you take the wooden case with it?”
“Ah,” Frieberg said, and hesitated. “Well, the idea of a display case doesn’t impress me much, I suppose,” he said, and Gastner grinned, perhaps sharing Estelle’s thoughts. The mortician sold “display cases” as part of his services and obviously thought highly of them. “I happen to have a wonderful hand-tooled holster that I’d purchased years ago for another handgun. It’s a perfect fit for the.41. When I returned the revolver…I think it was last week. The middle of last week. Anyway, I took the holster along, wondering if perhaps he’d like to have it to use on the elk hunt. But he didn’t.”
“So when you left his office at that time, George had the revolver in his office, without the presentation case.”
“I think so. Well…I don’t know about the case. At one time, he had it at home, I know that. That’s where it was when I borrowed it. I went to his house.”
“And when you returned the revolver last week, did you take the weapon to his office, or his home?” Estelle asked.
“His office. And in part, that’s why I took the holster along. But he didn’t want it. I don’t think he could actually envision himself wearing the gun, if you know what I mean. It looked better to him in a wooden case.”
“What did he do with the revolver when you gave it back?”
Frieberg frowned. “Ah…it seems to me that he just slipped it into one of the drawers of his desk. I really don’t remember.”
Estelle nodded. “When you heard about George’s death, you suddenly decided that you should share this information with us?”
“I thought it only proper,” Frieberg said eagerly. “Such a terrible, terrible thing. And such a waste. I knew that George had been having more than his share of troubles, of course. I considered him a good friend, but he didn’t talk about himself much. But I guess everyone in town knew what was going on with his insurance dealings.”
“Did you know what was going on, Mr. Frieberg?”
Frieberg’s gaze shot quickly to Estelle, and then the eyelids closed at the same time his mouth opened to speak. He hesitated, as if something had lodged in his throat. “Yes, I did.”
“Did you have dealings with Mr. Enriquez yourself?” Investigators had spent more than nine months building a case against George Enriquez, compiling a history of insurance fraud that would have led to an indictment on multiple counts. Owen Frieberg’s name had not been on the list of those duped.
“I…I did. In fact, the day he died…” Frieberg stopped as if someone had stepped on his foot.
“Sir?”
“I went to see him first thing Monday morning.”
“What prompted that?” She watched as color crept into Frieberg’s cheeks. Instead of closing his eyes this time, he fixed his gaze on the tile in front of his shoes.
“I have a boat,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve seen it, out back?”