“You’re very thorough,” Page said after a moment.
“I will do everything I can to establish what happened to Kevin Zeigler, Mr. Page. I will do everything I can to find the person who assaulted Carmen Acosta. I believe it’s obvious that the two events are linked. I do not believe that Kevin assaulted the girl.” She hesitated for a minute, trying to assess Page’s churning emotions. “I also do not believe that we will find Kevin Zeigler alive, Mr. Page.”
“Christ, stop calling me that,” he snapped. “You make me feel like I’m sitting on a steel chair, under a bright lamp shining into my eyes.” He heaved a great, shuddering breath. “It’s only been a day.”
“Twenty-eight hours.”
“Christ, you can’t just give up hope that easily.”
“It isn’t easy, William. I liked Kevin. In just two years, he’s reorganized this county, moved us out of the dark ages, done all kinds of wonderful things. As far as I can tell, he relished his personal life with you as well, and I’m happy for you both. I sympathize for your loss. But that will not prevent us from exploring every avenue.”
“I understand that.” He glanced at Estelle cautiously. “I guess.”
“Then you can understand why our curiosity is piqued when we look through the collection of photos on Kevin’s Rolodex and find something like that provocative photograph of Mauro Acosta-taken with a telephoto lens, through the window of Kevin’s bedroom.”
“It’s just…” Page waved a hand in frustration.
“It’s just what?”
“It’s no different than if a photographer saw a beautiful young girl posed in the park, or at the beach. She’s beautiful to look at, so he snaps her picture. There’s nothing wrong with that…and it doesn’t matter if the subject of the portrait is a six-year-old, or twelve, or seventeen, or thirty-five…or eighty. It’s not illegal.”
“Is that what happened? Did you take the photo?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None, I suppose. It would just be helpful to know.”
“Kevin took it. He’s the photographer. Yes, I saw it, and yes, I thought it was a wonderful study. Mauro isn’t much of a deep thinker, Sheriff. But in that photo, he’s…well, he looks like he’s trying to understand the whole world.”
“That’s interesting,” Estelle said. They both fell silent as she drove along the fence of the landfill.
“Mur de Dump,” Page murmured as they nosed up the last hill before the two-track joined with the main, graded county access road to the landfill. “Kevin said this eyesore’s days are numbered.”
“Maybe so,” Estelle said. “He’s trying to talk the County Commission into going with a private management firm-a private company to run the village and county’s solid-waste operations.”
“He was trying to,” Page said glumly.
The county car kicked gravel as they pulled up onto the county road. “From here out to Forty-three, and then up to the top of the mesa?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“This is the route you took that day with Tony?”
He nodded. “With much bitching and moaning,” he said. “That kid needs to ride about a hundred miles a day to get into shape.” He rested his right arm along the windowsill and drummed his fingers on the vinyl. “So why are you here?”
“Here where?” Estelle asked.
He turned as far sideways in the seat as the shoulder harness would allow, regarding Estelle. “Why is someone like you working in a backwater like Posadas? Why aren’t you in Hollywood, or something like that?”
She glanced at him, amused at his frank, open stare. “Hollywood?”
He pursed his lips judiciously. “You can’t be unaware of how attractive you are, Sheriff.”
“Undersheriff. And thank you.”
“So why is Posadas so lucky?”
“Just the luck of the draw, Mr. Page.”
“You’re from Mexico, originally?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you when you came to the United States?”
Estelle sighed patiently. “I was fourteen, Mr. Page.”
Page chuckled dryly at her reserve. “Your background isn’t the subject of discussion today, right?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Page.”
“‘Mr. Page, Mr. Page,’” he muttered. “Your husband is Kevin’s physician. He thinks highly of Dr. Guzman.”
“So do I,” Estelle said.
Page shook his head in amusement and turned back straight in the seat. In another hundred yards, they reached County Road 43, the paved two-lane road that switchbacked up the mesa past the mine, on into the national forest. “We usually ride up here, past the quarry, and on along the rim. There’s that road that parallels the mesa lip that’s really spectacular.”
Estelle pulled to a halt at the stop sign, and waited as another county vehicle approached from the direction of town. In a moment she saw that it was Bob Torrez, and he swung the big SUV into the landfill road, stopping door to door with Estelle’s sedan.
“Anything?” he asked. He dipped his head a little so he could see across the car, looking at Estelle’s passenger.
Estelle shook her head. “No. Mr. Page says that he and Kevin used to ride up here regularly. We’re following their usual route. Tom says that he checked Hocking’s place earlier. No one’s been there.”
“I heard,” Torrez said. “I talked with Brunell at the Border Patrol. I don’t know what he can do, but they’re lookin’. I think we ought to give Naranjo a jingle, too.”
“That’s a good idea. Do you want me to do that?”
“Your Spanish is better than mine,” Torrez said. “Yeah, give him a call. You never know what his federales might stumble on to. Did you talk with Dayan?”
“I wrote a release and left it with Gayle. She was going to call him and tell him it was ready.”
“Okay. I’m headed into the outback for a little bit. I gotta get away from the telephone.” He nodded at Estelle and his eyes flicked to Page once more. “You be careful,” he said. With two fingers lifting off the steering wheel in salute, he backed the Expedition out onto the paved road and accelerated up the hill.
“Interesting fellow,” Page said.
“Sheriff Torrez is one of the good guys,” Estelle said.
“I hope so. I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. But I’m not sure that if he’d been the one to suggest a ride that I would have gone along quite so cheerfully.”
Estelle’s cellular phone chirped just as she pulled out onto the highway. She answered, and almost immediately stepped hard on the brakes, swinging wide.
“I’m on my way,” she said and tossed the phone onto the seat beside her. “Make sure you’re buckled in,” she said, U-turning so hard the tires shrieked in protest. She accelerated hard back in the direction of Posadas. Taking a fraction of a second to check her rearview mirror, she was not surprised to see Sheriff Torrez’s big white SUV charging down the hill behind her.
Chapter Twenty-four
A county car with lights flashing blocked the narrow County B-1, the access road that led directly from County Road 43 west to the maintenance yard off Third and Hutton Streets. Deputy Dennis Collins stood at the front fender of the unit, and Estelle slowed enough to avoid skidding broadside into his car. She heard the squeal of brakes behind her. Collins pointed down the road toward the maintenance yard and Estelle nodded, accelerating. The young deputy didn’t look pleased.
“Three oh seven, three ten.”
“Three oh seven.” Sergeant Mears’ voice sounded as if he was on the fringes of radio reception, somewhere north beyond the hump of Cat Mesa.
“Tom, we’re probably going to need you down here, too. County yard at Hutton and Third.”
“Ten-four.”