“Who killed George Enriquez, Mr. Frieberg?”
“I…I can’t.”
“That’s an interesting brand of loyalty,” Bill Gastner said casually. “You’re going to take the fall for the whole thing?” The former sheriff had been such a silent presence that his voice sounded unexpectedly loud in the foyer.
“I don’t care what you think. But I just can’t…” Frieberg’s voice trailed off. “We’ve known each other too long.”
“If you’re afraid for your safety, Mr. Frieberg, we’ll help you all we can,” Estelle said. He shook his head, lips pressed tight. Estelle nodded at Tony Abeyta, and an instant later Owen Frieberg found himself face first against the wall, hands cuffed behind his back. The deputy frisked him quickly and then turned him around, a hand on his right elbow. The mortician faced Estelle again, and the impersonal, cold steel of the handcuffs had worked their magic. She could see it in his eyes.
“Mr. Frieberg,” Estelle said, “we are placing you under arrest. At this time, the charges include illegal possession of prescription drugs, illegal transportation of prescription drugs across international borders, conspiracy to commit prescription fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to an attorney.”
She watched his face settle as she recited the litany of Miranda. When she was finished, he nodded, the picture of dejection. “The pharmaceuticals that I removed from Herrera’s are downstairs in one of the freezers,” he said. “There’s nothing else that would interest you or your investigation. I would appreciate it if you’d extend Mr. Salazar the courtesy of not turning his establishment inside out.”
“Mr. Salazar will just have to deal with the inconvenience,” Estelle said.
“May I have my jacket, please?” Frieberg nodded toward the small coatrack by the door. Abeyta reached for the windbreaker, checked the pockets, and then draped it over the undertaker’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he said.
“There’s no reason for you to take the blame for everything,” Estelle said.
Frieberg grimaced and shifted against the vise of the handcuffs. “We should never have sold the drugs to Herrera in the first place,” he said. “I told Guy that at the time.”
“You told Guy Trombley that?” And now that the name was out, spoken by a voice other than the echoes of her own nagging suspicions, Estelle felt her pulse slow as the finished puzzle fell into place.
“Yes. He just laughed and called it insurance.” He managed a weak smile. “About as effective as some of the insurance George Enriquez sold. But Guy didn’t like Herrera much. Professional grudge, I suppose.”
“Did Trombley kill George Enriquez, Mr. Frieberg?”
For a long time, Owen Frieberg studied the floor. “You just ask yourself who had the most to gain from all this,” he said softly. “That’s all you need to know.”
“I’ve already asked that question,” Estelle said.
“Then you know what I’m talking about,” the mortician said. Estelle nodded at Deputy Abeyta and watched as he escorted Owen Frieberg outside.
Estelle puffed out her cheeks in a long, slow exhalation of relief as the door closed.
Gastner tipped his head back a bit so that he could focus on her face through the lower part of his glasses. “And now the fun really begins. Where do you go from here?”
“Trombley’s pretty smooth,” she said.
“Appears so.”
“All the time he was talking to me the other day, he knew exactly what I was putting together. And he made sure I knew…” Estelle paused and looked at Gastner. “He made sure I knew that he didn’t think much of Louis Herrera. And he made sure I knew that Enriquez had been despondent. That’s when I got to thinking.”
Gastner grinned. “Thinking is a good habit, sweetheart.”
“With Enriquez out of the picture and no drugs in the store when we come snooping, they’re home clean,” Estelle said. “Or so they imagine.” She reached out and squeezed Gastner’s arm. “Just what old friends are for. It’s not rocket science to figure out who gains from all this.”
“Sure. If George was supplying Trombley as well as Herrera, why not? Maybe the whole gig was Trombley’s idea in the first place.” Gastner frowned. “Trombley goes to Mexico all the time. I think he’s got relatives down there, somehow. He’s no stranger to south of the border.”
“He told me that,” Estelle nodded.
“Enriquez was smart enough to figure out what he thought was a sure thing: promise the district attorney that he could deliver Guzman, meaning Herrera’s pharmacy and the hanky-panky therein, and say nothing about Trombley. Old Guy’s a big name in town. Been in business since God invented rocks, damn near.”
“I don’t think that Louis Herrera knew that Trombley was involved, sir. If Enriquez had handed over Herrera to the D.A., there’s a likelihood that that’s where it would have ended. Louis is a newcomer, working at the new clinic owned and built by the rich kids.” She sighed. “Just like you said. I can see Enriquez thinking that way. I can see the gossip mongers jumping on that bandwagon in a heartbeat. ‘Well, no wonder their prices are so low at that new place.’ ”
“So why kill Enriquez, then? Why would Trombley do that?”
“Because he knew that when George Enriquez sat down and was confronted by the district attorney, the odds of him spilling the beans were certain. George hadn’t thought the thing through…all the way to what he’d say when he was under the lights. And Trombley could figure that out, knowing George. He’d say anything to save his skin. He’d give Schroeder every name, including Trombley.”
“You have a warrant to go through Trombley’s store?”
“No.”
“That’s the next step, isn’t it?”
“If Judge Hobart will give me a warrant. All I’ve got on Trombley is Frieberg’s implication. That’s not enough.”
“Put him in the vise, and he’ll talk.”
“Frieberg? He’s going to sing like a canary. But while he’s singing, I don’t want to go to the D.A. with just one man’s word. Not yet. I need something else. Other than that, I have nothing…or at least almost nothing. If Trombley fired the shot that killed Enriquez, it’s been too long to pick up any residue off his hands.”
“Assuming he was too dumb to wash,” Gastner said.
“And we found nothing else at the scene. Nothing that points to Trombley. Those offices are the next thing to a public place, with people in and out all the time. There’s a gallery of fingerprints that would take the Bureau’s computers a month to wade through and wouldn’t prove anything anyway. We can’t prove that he actually pulled the trigger.”
“You said almost nothing,” Gastner added.
“You’re going to groan,” Estelle said. “I’ve got Leona Spears.”
Gastner didn’t groan, but he looked skeptical. “Better you than me, kid,” he said. “What’s psycho lady have to do with anything?”
“She cornered me at the hardware store earlier in the week, and she wanted to know about everything that was going on-about the Kenderman case, especially.”
“Of course. Wonderful, bonehead Leona. And like I said, better you than me.”
“In the course of our conversation, she said a few complimentary things about the new clinic and the pharmacy…and about how nice it was that some of the drug prices had come down. She said that since the new drugstore opened, Guy Trombley had been forced to lower his prices, too. I’ve been thinking a lot about that.”
“Huh. And now we know how he did that goddamn little trick. But lowered prices aren’t proof that he’s in cahoots with your buddy there.”
“It’s a place to start.”
“So how does Leona Spears fit into all of this?”
“I’ve got something I want to try. She can help me with it.”
Gastner looked dubious. “You be careful about opening Pandora’s box with that woman, sweetheart. She’s nuts. And we both know it. Hell, the whole goddamn town knows it.”
“That’s what I’m counting on, sir. Want to ride along?”