“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No, sir. But the house was a complete loss. And his two dogs.”
“How’d the fire happen?”
“We don’t know, sir. But we’ve sealed the place off. The sheriff’s out there. And the investigators from the fire department are still out there.”
“Are they going to need an assist?” Sheriff Holman had lived in the village of Posadas and the volunteer fire department was eager and generally efficient. But the two men who called themselves investigators were good-intentioned amateurs.
“They haven’t said,” Torrez answered.
“Call the state office and get somebody over from Cruces,” I suggested. “And you’re sure everyone’s all right?”
“Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman sent the family to Deming to stay with relatives. And he’s staying at the Essex Motel.”
I groaned. “Christ, nobody wants to live in a motel, Bob. Holman knows where the key to my house is. Tell him to use it.”
“I’ll pass the message along, sir. He wanted to know when you were planning to head home.”
“It’s going to be a day or two. We’ve got a little action up here, and I’m giving Estelle the benefit of my vast wisdom.”
Torrez took that seriously as he did most things. “Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman wanted to know if you were coming back tomorrow.”
“I’ll see. It’s unlikely though. Just tell him to use my house and call the state fire marshal’s office, if he hasn’t already.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me talk with Gayle now.”
“Yes, sir.”
When the dispatcher came on the phone, I said, “Gayle, is there anything the Holmans need that you know of?”
“I don’t think so, sir. But I’ll ask. They sure lost everything, though.”
“Well, tell him to use my house instead of camping out at the damn motel.”
“I’ll do that. How’s Estelle doing?”
“Fine. You want to talk with her?” She said yes, and I held the phone out to Estelle. They talked for ten minutes. Maybe Holman would have enough on his mind that he wouldn’t rant about the phone bill.
Estelle finally hung up and for the first time since I’d set foot in San Estevan, the three of us had dinner together.
I damn near drooled a puddle as I watched the enchiladas sink in a sea of fresh green chili. Francis handed me what I hoped would be the first of several cold beers. He poured a glass of red wine for Estelle. Estelle must have read something on my face, because she said, “Vitamin W. It goes with Mexican food better than that stuff you guys drink.”
The fire of her chili was undiminished…it made even the cafe’s burrito grande seem like a bland milk shake. I wiped my forehead, blew my nose, and panted. “God, this is good. Destructive, but good.”
“Destructive, hell,” Francis said. “Did you know it’s been proven in the lab that green chili kills bacteria?”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Does the kid start kicking when you eat this stuff?”
Estelle laughed. “Not at two months, sir.”
“What are you going to name him?”
“Or her,” Francis said and handed me another beer.
“Ask me again in seven months,” Estelle replied.
“Is your mother going to come up here?”
“For the grand event, you mean?” Estelle shook her head. “We’re going to Tres Santos.”
“You’re kidding.”
“They’ve got a pretty good clinic there,” Francis said.
I frowned and said, “Huh,” for want of anything better.
“My mother is too frail to travel up here,” Estelle said. “This probably will be the only grandchild she lives to meet. There are worse things than being born in that big adobe house in Mexico.”
“Huh,” I said again. I shrugged. “What do the Guzmans think of that idea?”
“They’re going to be there, too.”
Estelle offered seconds and like a fool I accepted. “El Padrino should be present, too,” she said.
“I’m flattered. But I’ve had so many days off that Holman’s not going to let me take another one for five years.”
“Are you going back tomorrow?”
“Probably I should.” I glanced at my watch. It was night shift time again. “You’ll wrap this up this evening, after we talk with Parris.…I’m interested in what he has to say about his prints being on the truck.”
“Do you think that Cecil Lucero shot his brother?”
“Don’t you?”
She toyed with the remains of the enchilada on her plate. “I don’t know. Usually, when I’m sure of how something happened, I can picture it in my mind.”
“The two of them got out of the Scout and walked a ways up along the arroyo,” Francis said. “Kenneth went down into the arroyo. Cecil shot him from up above.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s where Paul found the seven shell casings this afternoon, Estelle,” I said.
“The M.E. will tell you for sure about the angle of the bullets,” Francis said. “After the shooting, Cecil walks back toward the Scout. He’s nervous. So like most of us would, he turns around to look back up the arroyo. He can’t see his brother’s body, so he steps closer to the edge to try another view.” He shrugged.
“What’s the problem with that?” I asked.
“I’d feel better if we’d found the last casing,” Estelle said. “I’d feel better if I had that.”
“There are any number of ways it could have happened that make sense,” I said. Estelle nodded, but I knew she wasn’t convinced. I pushed my plate away and stood up. I said what she really wanted to hear. “Let’s go see Parris.”
Chapter 19
Father Nolan Parris greeted us at the door, and it seemed as if he had expected us-and more than that…he was somehow relieved we’d returned.
“I think you know Deputy Reyes-Guzman?” I said as Parris showed us into the front room.
“Our paths have crossed once or twice,” Parris said. He and Estelle shook hands. “Would you folks like some coffee or tea or something?”
We declined, and Parris closed the door. His limp hadn’t improved. He gestured to chairs and we sat. Estelle pulled out her notebook and pen and said, “Father Parris, I want to talk with you about Friday night.”
Parris nodded and folded his hands, waiting.
Estelle leafed through the notebook, stopping to read here and there. “Father, as you may have heard, we’re investigating the deaths of two young men. Their truck somehow went over the edge of Quebrada Mesa, probably sometime early yesterday evening.”
Parris again nodded. “A tragic thing,” he said quietly.
“Father, we have reason to believe that the truck in question was also involved somehow in the death of Cecilia Burgess on Friday night.”
Parris sat back in the chair. His right hand drifted up to touch his pectoral cross. He watched Estelle. It may have been my imagination, but I sensed an inner calm that hadn’t been there the day before.
Estelle looked up from her notes and cocked her head, giving Parris an opportunity. The priest held up his left hand, palm up, as if he were going to beckon for more information. His right hand remained on the cross. “And you feel that I have information about that night?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Parris looked at me. “Since we talked yesterday, I’ve had time for considerable counsel.” I didn’t ask if it was counsel with someone else or with his own soul. It didn’t matter as long as he had the right answers.
Nolan Parris took a deep breath, held it, and then released it the way a smoker might jet out a long, thin plume of smoke.
“On Friday evening I was out in the garden. Perhaps you’ve seen it, beyond the driveway. It’s not far from the highway. I’m not a gardener but it’s a quiet spot for reflection. There’s an old wooden bench under one of the apricot trees that’s a favorite of mine. I like to sit there and watch the stars.
“Anyway, shortly after ten…in fact, I was just about to go inside…I glanced up as several cars passed. In the light of their headlights I noticed Cecilia Burgess. She was walking along the highway.”
“Northbound?” I asked.
“Yes. But on the other side of the highway, facing traffic.” He hesitated. “I saw the moment as an opportunity, I suppose. I called to her. Now you must understand that we haven’t been on the best of terms…at least from her point of view. I thought that she was going to ignore me and so I called again. She crossed the highway. I wanted to talk with her about Daisy…about where the child might go to preschool in the fall, where the two of them were planning to stay. I was uneasy that she might not have made plans.”