“Well, eager, then.” A telephone was ringing, and Francis looked at her.
“Is that yours or mine?”
“Mine,” Estelle said in resignation. She headed for the exit in the back of the music room, and pushed the heavy door open, letting in a welcome wash of cool air. “Guzman,” she said into the receiver.
“Hey there,” Sheriff Bob Torrez said. “Where are you at?”
“Down at the school. It’s open-house night.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember you talkin’ about that. Listen, guess who opened her eyes.”
“Oh, you’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. Carmen managed about thirty seconds of consciousness, according to the patrolman who’s assigned to her room.”
“Her folks were there?”
“Yep.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“She didn’t say anything, by the way.”
“That’ll come with time. But that’s just great news, Bobby.”
“Yep. Look, the reason I called-and I don’t guess there’s anything about this that we can do tonight, but Tom Mears finished processing Zeigler’s flat tire. Something kind of interesting.”
Estelle stepped out away from the building. “What?”
“Well, there’s a pretty good smear-ah, it’s not really a smear, but anyway-some flat black paint on the back side of the tire. Not a lot, but sort of a little crescent. Might be something, probably not. Linda figured out a way to take some pretty good pictures of it.”
Estelle realized that her pulse was racing, and she reached out a hand to the steel doorjamb for support.
“You still there?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You workin’ tomorrow?”
“Of course I’m working tomorrow, Bobby.”
“I thought you were headed to Cruces or something.”
“That’s Saturday.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, we need to talk,” Estelle said.
“Yep.”
“Are you in the middle of something?”
“Some lasagna that Gayle made. You guys want to come over? We’ve got enough for about eighteen people. Bring the whole mob.”
“Thanks, but how about meeting me at the office in a few minutes?”
“Not too few, now. I’m hungry.”
She backed into the room and looked at her husband. Francis nodded wearily and mimed crashing huge chords on the piano.
“How about an hour?”
“Ten-four. What did you find?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. I’ll be interested to see what you think.”
“Uh-oh. I gotta think?”
“Oh, si,” she said. She switched off and slid the phone back in her pocket.
“I heard that,” Francis said.
“Carmen was awake for a little while, querido.”
“Fantastic. Did she say anything?”
“No. Apparently not. But Tom Mears found something on the spare tire. And I’m pretty sure I know exactly what it is.”
She saw her husband’s eyes narrow a little as he looked at her. With a sigh, he closed the cover of the piano and stood up. “You’ve got that hunter’s look, querida,” he said. “We have an hour though, right? Is that what I heard you tell Bobby?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go back and rescue Sofia.”
The other parents, children, and art in the hallway were a blur to Estelle as they returned to the first-grade classroom.
Chapter Thirty-two
The sheriff relaxed in his favorite thinking posture-boots crossed over the corner of his desk, the old swivel chair leaned back far enough that he could rest his head on the heating duct. He had remained so quiet during the portion of Crowley’s video that she had played for him that at times she thought he had fallen asleep.
“It’s all guesswork, isn’t it?” he said. He reached out and nudged a copy of the Posadas Register toward Estelle as if with that one comment, discussion of the tape was concluded. “You saw that?”
“Not yet.” While Bob Torrez waited, Estelle scanned the front page. It featured a terrible digital photo of Kevin Zeigler on one side of the page and a yearbook photo of Carmen Acosta on the other. Carmen’s picture had been cropped out of a larger group photo and then enlarged. Bannered over the photos was the stark headline:
Girl Assaulted, Manager Missing
Although the article never said so, the implication was easily made that Zeigler’s sudden departure was somehow related to the assault. Details were meager, but Pam Gardiner-or perhaps Frank Dayan himself-had obviously not been content with the release that Estelle had provided.
The article included speculation from several folks, including County Commissioner Barney Tinneman, who made the point that he hadn’t really known Kevin Zeigler all that well…taking the politically safer road of distancing himself immediately when the first sign of trouble arose. The article even featured a wandering, anguished quote from Freddy Acosta, who certainly had no idea “who would do such a thing” to his daughter. Freddy had provided the lurid detail that a hat pin had been used.
“I guess it’s the best we could hope for,” Estelle said. She folded the paper and placed it carefully on Torrez’s desk.
He nodded at the tape. “That’s guesswork, I mean,” he said.
“For now it is,” Estelle persisted. “But there’s a pattern, Bobby. For the first time, we’ve got a motive. Hiring a private company to manage the landfill was Kevin Zeigler’s idea…it’s not something that the commissioners asked him to investigate. If Zeigler could push it through, guess who stands to lose his job.”
“Don Fulkerson, maybe.” Torrez nodded judiciously. “And we don’t know that, either. There’s the chance a private company would hire him.”
“True, that’s a chance. But he has a nice little empire up there on the hill. In fact, it’s a monopoly. Skim the cream off the top, and he can haul a load to the flea market every week. That’s a pretty good deal.”
“He ain’t gettin’ rich,” Torrez said skeptically.
“No, but it’s all his. He says that Zeigler was up there early Tuesday to pick up paperwork of some kind. I believe him. There’s no reason for him to deny that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kevin was trying to make sure he had the most up-to-date paperwork on the tonnage that passes through that place. Kurtz told me that they weigh everything, and charge if the load exceeds five hundred pounds.”
“Depends who you are,” Torrez said. “Do you think Zeigler went back later in the day?”
“I think that could have been one of Zeigler’s noontime errands. What if he didn’t have everything he needed? What if Fulkerson didn’t provide all the data that he wanted? Zeigler was a number cruncher, Bobby-and I don’t think Don Fulkerson spends his days in front of a computer. I think it would be natural to have friction between the two men. I can see Kevin zipping up there at lunch to meet with Fulkerson, to get the correct paperwork before the agenda item comes up. Maybe while he was there, the two of them had an argument, and whether by accident or design, Fulkerson took his chance. I get the impression that there was no love lost between them.”
“In a manner of speaking.” Torrez smirked.
Estelle felt double relief that she hadn’t bothered to pass on Fulkerson’s “Miss Ziggy” comment. “The landfill is closed on Tuesdays,” she said, “so there’s no witnesses. Fulkerson dumps the body, and then he’s left with a problem.”
“No shit, he’d have a problem. For one thing, there’s the truck.”
Estelle nodded. “Don Fulkerson is one of those clever people, Bobby. I think that he has a pretty high opinion of himself. He’s one of those country sages who is quick at contempt for strangers, outsiders, or just plain fancy folks. He doesn’t have a high opinion of Kevin Zeigler. I can easily imagine sparks between those two. And I can see Fulkerson thinking to himself, what would present more of a clever puzzle than us finding Zeigler’s truck right in his own driveway. It would be sure to throw us off.”
“Maybe.” Torrez still sounded dubious, but Estelle could see the mental gears grinding.