“I beg your pardon, sir?”
I waved a hand wearily. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
Chapter 15
When we started to pull out of the clinic’s parking lot, Estelle radioed the county dispatcher to let the office know she was bound for the Catholic retreat north of the village. The radio cracked the burst of static that was characteristic of the signal hitting a repeater tower somewhere, and almost immediately the dispatcher was back on the air.
“Four-o-two, ten-nineteen San Estevan.”
“Tate’s waiting for you at the office,” I said. “He’s going to want to be briefed on what you’ve got.”
“I was going to stop,” Estelle said. “Either there or the restaurant, whichever.”
I laughed. “Sure you were.”
“I was.” She glanced at me, mock hurt. Only a state police cruiser was parked in front of Bobby’s Cafe, so Tate wasn’t lingering over breakfast. The party was at the highway department building. I counted six vehicles that belonged either to Castillo County or the Forest Service.
Inside Estelle’s closet-sized office, the air was thick with smoke. She propped the door open. I lit a cigarette in self-defense.
Pat Tate was looking at a wall map with two of the deputies, tree warden Les Cook, and another serious-looking young man in pine-tree green. Deputy Paul Garcia was sitting at the single desk, frowning over paperwork.
“We wondered where you went,” Tate said when he turned around and saw us. “You missed breakfast.”
“No, I didn’t. I had a wonderful cookie while she matched prints. The clinic has a good viewer.”
“What did you find out?” he asked Estelle.
She put her briefcase on the desk where Garcia worked. “First of all, it is the truck that was involved with Cecila Burgess’s death. We lifted a perfect print of hers from the truck bed.”
“She might have touched it some other time,” Tate said.
Estelle grimaced. “No. I think she was picked up, probably here in town. Maybe she was hitching up to the springs. It’s the truck. I know it is.”
Tate held up a hand to slow her down. “All right. What else?”
“Second, one thumbprint from the truck bed belongs to Nolan Parris.”
“The priest?”
Estelle nodded. “It was on the outside, consistent with gripping the truck side while standing on the ground. We have no evidence that shows he was actually up in the truck bed.”
“I’ll be damned,” Tate muttered. “What would he have to do with all this?”
“He’s the father of Cecila Burgess’s daughter.”
Tate ducked his head with surprise. “You shitting me?”
“No.”
Tate looked at me. “Is this the kid you told me about last night? The one who’s staying with the hippies at the hot springs?”
“Yes.”
“And the priest is the father? You didn’t tell me that part.”
I was about to say something like there were lots of things I didn’t tell lots of people, but Estelle saved me from my tired temper. “That was an angle we were just starting to work on when Paul found the truck.”
Tate crushed out one cigarette and lit another that he bummed from Al Martinez. “So what’s the connection?”
When he said that, every pair of eyes in the room was locked on Estelle. They were expecting a grand pronouncement, I guess.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Tate held up his hands, prompting. “Is Parris a suspect? In your mind? Did he kill the girl?”
Estelle shook her head immediately. “No. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Did he kill the two young men up on the mesa? Revenge, maybe?”
“We thought about that,” Estelle said and looked at me. “I’m not sure he’s capable of it. And you, sir?”
“Stranger things have happened.” I was no longer so eager to make assumptions.
“You’re going to talk with him today?” Tate asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The sheriff took a deep breath and looked around for a chair. “We’re going to have to get you some furniture.” He settled for sucking in his gut and sliding his hands down behind his belt, like he had gas. If he ate at Bobby’s too many more times, he would. “I need to go back to the city, or I’d go with you. Bill, are you staying with us for a while?”
I shrugged. “I’m kinda curious now. Besides, I need about thirty-six hours of sleep before I tackle an eight-hour drive home.”
“All right. Estelle, I’m leaving both Paul Garcia and Al Martinez here. Whatever you need, holler.”
Estelle nodded. “If we keep this kind of quiet for a while, it might be easier,” she said. “If the killer is still in the county, I’d rather not spook him.”
“In that you’re lucky,” Tate said. “If this was the city, you’d have thirty-five media types crawling down your neck. Hell, nobody outside of San Estevan knows we’re here unless we tell ’em.”
He stood up. “Go talk to the priest who’s strayed into fatherhood and let me know.” He grinned at his own dumb joke, then turned to the two deputies. “Paul and Al, are you all set? Anything you need?”
Both shook their heads, and Tate prompted Martinez by adding, “Give your wife a call, Al. Tell her you’ll probably be home tomorrow. Maybe Tuesday.”
He picked up his baseball cap and snugged it down on his head. “It’s my granddaughter’s birthday today, and I’ll be at my son’s house most of the afternoon if you need me. The dispatcher will know. Bill, you take care. Don’t push so hard. You look like hell.”
Tate thrust out his jaw like a master sergeant who’s just given his troops their marching orders and was now going to retire back to the comfort of his quarters.
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s going to be my epitaph.”
***
Estelle sent Deputy Martinez north to orbit Quebrada Mesa. Paul Garcia pulled a sleeping bag out of his Suburban and spread it out on the office floor. “Wonderful,” he said and was asleep in ten seconds at most.
I envied that kind of metabolism. But what the hell. I’d had insomnia for so long I had developed the skill of falling asleep with my eyes open, in the middle of a conversation. If I actually were to lie down to rest, I’d end up staring at the ceiling.
Estelle ran on her own private, inexhaustible power pack. Her ancient mother would have had biting words to say about her daughter’s apparent disregard for her own condicion, but I knew better than to say anything. I knew damn well that the hours were going to catch up with both of us, sooner rather than later.
As we drove out of the highway department yard, Estelle glanced at her watch. “It’s almost ten. Do you think we’ll catch Parris between services?”
“Maybe. Or you might wait until later this afternoon. Catch yourself a few hours rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
I stretched and groaned. “I bet.” I could see the determination set into the muscles of her face. “Estelle, trust me. Parris isn’t going anywhere. And if he makes a break, a radio’s faster.”
“That’s not what worries me.”
“Yeah, I know it isn’t. Daisy’s been up there with H. T. Finn for a couple of days. She’s enjoying the hell out of life in the woods. Her father knows she’s there. It’s a beautiful day. It isn’t going to rain and give anyone pneumonia.” I looked over at her. “Your mothering instinct is in overdrive.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“To Posadas? No. I want you to get some rest so you don’t make a mistake that you’ll regret. And yes, I want some rest. If we go and see Parris, the next thing you’ll want to do is walk up to the hot springs again.” I shook my head. “The old snowball effect is going to get you.”
Estelle looked like she wanted to say something, to argue. But old habits are hard to break. She knew I didn’t lean on her unless there was a reason.
“Look at it this way,” I said. “Al Martinez seems bright enough. He’s got his eyes open. And every road up there is covered, either by the Forest Service or some of the sheriff’s department reservists that Tate called in.”