If Chester Hansen had paid to solve his problem with Donnie and then reneged on a portion of that payment to Tapia, as the killer himself had suggested, then the balance sheet was closed. The Hansens were dead, Tapia was dead. The three Salvadorans were dead, too, the link to their killers eliminated. If there was a connection between Hansen and the Salvadoran money, the attorney general might be interested in an examination of bank accounts.
But Estelle found that her thoughts kept circling back to the boy. There was nothing she could do to keep Hector Ocate within the jurisdiction of Posadas County. When federal authorities had exhausted their bag of tricks, Mexican officials would want their due, and there was nothing that the undersheriff of Posadas County could do about it.
All of his talent, all of his potential meant nothing now. Estelle tried a deep breath, drawing in to the point where the first stab threatened. If the boy had chosen to create a pastel of a leaping horse, or a portrait of his mother, or a thousand other subjects, he might never have been caught. But one soaring airplane had attracted admiring attention. He had wanted so badly to impress his father-and had managed to do it.
The door opened and her husband slipped into the room. For the first time, Estelle noticed the dark circles under his eyes. “We’re going to have to start charging admission,” he said, taking care to close the door securely.
“¿Los dos?”
“They’re with Padrino. He said he’d keep ’em busy for a little while longer.” Francis Guzman crossed to the bed, taking a moment to straighten Teresa’s afghan. “You look cozy,” he whispered to the old woman. He turned to Estelle.
“How’s the pain?”
“None at the moment, oso,” she replied. “You do good work.”
“I wish I could take credit for every stitch,” Francis said, and took her hand. “Two big events today, querida. They’re going to see how you do on your feet for a few minutes, and a little later we’re going to see how food tastes to you.”
“Oh, joy. I already know how hospital food tastes.” She squeezed his hand as hard as she could. “Can I see the boys before this hiking business?”
“You bet. And there’s a couple of cops outside who keep pestering to talk with you.”
“Bobby?”
“He said he was going to call you later. Maybe tomorrow. No, this is a couple of suit types. Feds. They’re getting impatient.”
“Ah. Let’s get rid of them now, then,” Estelle said. “First the suits, then the boys…and then the hike.” She squeezed his hand again. “When does home fit into all of this?”
“We’re lookin’ at maybe Wednesday for a transfer.”
“Just a maybe?” She noted his use of the word transfer, rather than release, but even a view of Posadas County through the hospital window on Bustos Avenue would be a relief.
“Yep.” He turned at the shrill sound of a child’s voice out in the hall. Estelle recognized Carlos’ cackle, and her husband squeezed her hand again. “You sure you want to talk with the suits first?”
Estelle nodded. “Oh, sí. Let’s get that over with,” she said. “Once hijos take over the room, I won’t have time for cops.”