“You got to be kidding,” Torrez said. He slipped past Estelle, stepped to the center of the room, and looked at the array of sporting gear with wonder. Near the end of the bunk beds, an aluminum stand held half a dozen kayak paddles. Just beyond, a wall rack engineered to balance itself on two slender legs held a pair of mountain bikes.
Most of the rest of the room was crowded with two exercising machines, one a popular, much-advertised model with integral bench. The exerciser’s various arms arched like a giant spider. Toward the door, another gadget rested on the floor, and Torrez eyed it critically.
“For the bikes,” Estelle said. “Snap a bike in, and you can pedal indoors when the weather’s bad.” Her husband had experimented with the idea during their brief stay in Minnesota, but hadn’t gotten beyond trying one out in a bike shop.
“Huh,” the sheriff replied. “Not this kid.” He frowned and turned his attention to what had once been a closet with sliding doors. The doors and door molding had been removed. The space formed an alcove that was home to two more bikes, sleek, razor-tired racing machines that bore the United States Postal Service racing team decal.
“I knew he rode a bike sometimes,” Torrez said. He knelt and examined the neatly paired cycling shoes. “This is him and somebody else,” he added. “Size nine and size ten and a half.”
Without rising, he reached out and spun one of the small skeleton pedals of the nearest bike. “Pasquale keeps sayin’ we should use something like this in the village,” he said.
“Good idea,” Estelle said, and she grinned at the thought of Torrez’s six-foot-four-inch frame in black spandex.
They moved quickly to the other side of the hall and the larger master bedroom suite. A king-sized bed filled that room, with just enough space for a small television stand and VCR, a single dresser, and a tiny desk that looked as if it would fit a fourth grader.
Estelle stood in the doorway of the large bathroom. Zeigler hadn’t been content with the standard tub/shower combination that would have been so upscale in the ‘50s when the house was built. A huge, custom-tiled shower, nearly five feet square, filled one side of the bath. A smaller jet tub had been installed on the wall near the commode.
She stepped across and snapped on the light of the walk-in closet. Kevin Zeigler’s clothes marched in neat rows. She recognized shirts that the county manager favored, some still in the plastic bags from Keiley’s Kleaners.
“I don’t think he’s been here all day.”
“Huh,” Torrez mused. He was standing at the foot of the huge bed. “You said this Page guy stays here when he visits?”
“No. I didn’t say that.”
Torrez shot her a quick glance, and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Those bunk beds in the other room aren’t for no adults, unless they’re midgets,” he said. “Is this Page guy a midget? If he stays here, he ain’t going to be sleeping in one of those, unless he is.”
“He may stay at one of the motels,” Estelle said.
“Oh, sure.”
“Or, he might stay here. Maybe he sleeps on the sofa. I’m not concerned with that right now. And he’ll be here in a couple of hours if we have questions.”
“Yeah. I got questions,” Torrez said. “This place gives me the creeps.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’m going to check out behind the kitchen.” His radio crackled, and as he pulled it off his belt, he added, “Make sure someone hasn’t stuffed old Kevin in the freezer or something.” He palmed the handheld. “Torrez.”
“Sheriff, there’s something kind of interesting out here. You got a minute?” Sergeant Mears asked.
“I’ll be right there,” Torrez said, and he was already striding down the hall. Estelle followed, and he waved toward the kitchen as he passed it. She detoured and checked the back storeroom, the screened porch, even the small closet that contained the hot-water heater. The freezer was too small to hold anything but a thoroughly processed corpse, but she pulled open the double doors anyway. The county manager was omnivorous, and liked a well-stocked larder.
Satisfied that the house was empty, she left by way of the front door, being careful to lock it behind her. She slipped the key back in the lizard’s belly.
As she turned away, she saw that Torrez was standing a pace back from the driver’s door of Zeigler’s county pickup. Sgt. Tom Mears was crouching low, peering underneath. On her side of the truck, Deputy Thomas Pasquale was head to head with Linda Real, the department photographer. Both were on their hands and knees.
Torrez beckoned to Estelle. “Wanna make bets?” he said as she stepped around the front of the truck. He knelt and pointed.
Estelle dropped to her hands and knees as Tom Mears moved a bit to one side. “A lug wrench,” she said. The wrench, one of the generic designs with one end pointed to remove hubcaps and the other with the socket angled off at forty-five degrees, lay in the gravel directly under the small truck’s transmission. It appeared new.
“I can reach it,” Pasquale said, and Estelle shook her head.
“No. Leave it for now.” She glanced at Linda, the photographer’s round face flushed from the awkward position.
“Just pictures for now,” Estelle said. “When we’ve documented the truck, we’ll roll it back a little bit. That way you can do some close-ups.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Good eyes,” she said to Mears. “Does it belong to the truck, do you think?”
Mears frowned at Bob Torrez. “I don’t remember if the Ranger has one of those kind, or one of the foldy-up things. But it won’t take long to find out.”
“It’s behind the seat, I think,” Torrez said. “On the passenger side.”
Pasquale opened the passenger door with a single, gloved finger, and stepped back to hold it out of Mears’ way. The sergeant knelt and examined the passenger seat. He was about to push the small lever that would slide the seat forward when he stopped abruptly.
“Whup,” he said. “The jack’s right here, on the floor. It kinda slid under the seat a little.” He looked up at Estelle. “No handle.”
“What’s behind the seat?” she asked.
He pulled the second release, leaning the seat back forward. “A spot where the jack and the handle clip into place. Nothing there.”
Torrez had walked behind the truck, and he rested one hand on the back bumper as he bent down. “Spare’s gone,” he said. He straightened up abruptly and continued around the rear of the truck. “It’s mounted on the left rear.”
Estelle felt a queasy lurch in the pit of her stomach. Torrez stepped around Linda Real and stood regarding the jack in front of the passenger seat. “He has a flat tire, and tosses the wrench and jack on the floor when he’s done. They’re a pain in the ass to put back just right, and he’s in a hurry.”
“Where’s the flat tire?” Pasquale asked. The bed of the county truck was empty.
“Beats the shit out of me,” Torrez said. “Figure out how the wrench ended up on the driveway under the truck while you’re at it.” He turned to Estelle. “I was thinkin’ about that tore-up Sheetrock in the dining room. Swing a lug wrench hard enough, and that gash wouldn’t be hard to do.”
“This is Kevin Zeigler’s truck, isn’t it?” Pasquale asked.
“Yeah,” Torrez said. “It’s Zeigler’s truck.” He glanced back at the county manager’s house. “It’s his wrench, too.”
Estelle opened the driver’s door. Turning sideways so that she could rest her feet on the driveway, she settled into the seat. Even with both doors open, she could smell Kevin Zeigler…the same cologne that marked the sweater in the house had left its imprint on the little truck’s fabric seats, the headliner, even the vinyl of the doors and dashboard.