“He did this on more than one occasion?”
“Twice that I know of. He thought I didn’t notice. But believe me, sheriff, you can’t hide the smell. And the kids can’t hide the guilty look.”
“You confronted Larry about that?”
“Not in front of the kids. But when we got home, I tried to talk with him.” The pained smile returned. “It’s hard to compete with fifty-two inch projection TV and the interminable sports channels, sheriff.”
“But you have a clear understanding of the risks that your husband was taking.” Park police would have had a ball with the Zipoli clan-operation of a watercraft while under the influence, contribution to delinquency, endangering the welfare of a child, even the catchall of child abuse when prosecutors ran out of other ideas. And one thing was certain-with all that and the attendant publicity, Tony Pino might bury his head in the sand, but Marilyn Zipoli’s boss at Posadas State Bank sure as hell wouldn’t. Life as they knew it would grind to a painful halt.
“Of course, Sheriff. Of course I did. ‘Look, my record’s clean,’ he’d say, meaning no formal DWI charges from the cops.” She nodded at the envelope. “I don’t call that clean.”
A single rifle bullet had put an end to that whole messy scenario. It put an end to the agony of divorce proceedings, of dividing up house and chattel, even the nuisance of new addresses, new checks, new phone numbers. Marilyn Zipoli was vulnerable to all kinds of charges, and knew it.
That seemed to be a good time to let her stew for a while, and she let us go without ever satisfying her curiosity about her husband’s personnel records. My guess was that she was beyond caring. I left a business card with her, in case something bubbled to the surface that we needed to know.
“I feel sorry for her,” Estelle Reyes said as we settled into the car. The comment, a rare, unprompted observation, earned a perfunctory grunt from me.
“She could have stepped into the middle of this mess at any time,” I said. “She didn’t need to let the snowball roll for years.” With the door wide open and the air conditioning turned up high, I finished with my log entry and keyed the mike. “PCS, three ten is ten-eight, Hutton and Sixth.”
Dispatch acknowledged and I turned to look at Estelle. “What else strikes you?”
“You just sort of cruised through the interview, sir. I enjoyed listening to that.”
“Cruise. Well, that’s better than stumble or plod, I suppose.”
“Earlier, when you said that you were going to talk with her again, I made up a list of questions,” Estelle said, and turned her notebook so I could imagine seeing the tiny writing that filled the pages. “I would have started with the first one and gone from each to each.”
“A dim recollection reminds me that the police science textbooks say something about ‘controlling the interview.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they’re absolutely correct.” I pulled the car into gear. “And one of the most important considerations is what we want the target’s attitude to be the next time we have to talk with her. If we want cooperation, if we want information, then the bludgeon has never been my favorite tool. That’s where the “control” comes in.”
“It really doesn’t matter how long it takes, does it.”
I looked at the young lady with surprise. “No, it doesn’t. If the target thinks that we’ve got all day to talk with her, that’s a good thing. For a couple of reasons, but mainly because she knows she can’t just wait us out.” I reached across and tapped the edge of her notebook. “So, you listened to us yakking away. What did you learn?”
“Marilyn Zipoli is a most unhappy woman. I mean even before her husband’s death.”
“Indeed she is. With good reason. And that ain’t rocket science, sweetheart. I want to hear astounding revelations and observations…things that crack the case before our very eyes.”
“No matter what I imagine-even something as farfetched as Marilyn Zipoli’s secret lover killing her husband-none of it squares with what Deputy Torrez has worked out about the murder weapon, or what we saw out at the crime scene.”
“Her ‘secret lover’?”
“Everyone has secrets, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-one
I might not have been able to wear out my passenger, but I’d done a fair number on myself. I’d talked with nervous, apprehensive folks long enough that if I kept it up, I’d be next. What I really wanted was a dark hidey-hole where the phone wouldn’t ring, where I could growl and prowl and ruminate, sheltered from the blistering, late afternoon sunshine. I could never guarantee the phone unless I unplugged the damn thing, but I could hope. A good green chile burrito grande at the Don Juan de Oñate would provide fuel for the rumination, gas for the prowling and growling.
Dispatch accepted my out-of-service announcement without comment. I noticed no particular eagerness on Estelle Reyes’ part to finish her day, but I figured that she had her own thinking to do, including instructions to return in the morning for the dayshift with dispatcher T.C. Barnes. She’d had a hell of an introduction to Posadas County affairs, and dispatch would be a good change-up. Barnes was steady, happily married to Ethel, a young lady whose old-fashioned name had always tickled me. She was the only Ethel I knew. The two Barnes youngsters, Kit and Paul, enjoyed school to the point where I actually had an autographed Paul Barnes fingerpainting on my office wall, created nearly a decade ago. I’m sure the little kid had confused me for someone else-Santa Claus, maybe, but what the hell. The painting was a splash of color in an otherwise monotonous institutional scheme.
T.C. could be counted on to give the new hire a thorough orientation during his shift. He might not be entirely immune to having someone who looked like a damn movie star sitting at his elbow all day, but it would be a good test of his concentration.
By the time I finished my dinner and headed home, comfortably overfed and feeling sleepy, the village had settled into the evening.
Cruising under the street lights, I let the car barely idle along, ten, fifteen miles an hour on a four lane street that headed east, then took the intersection south on Grande. A handful of youngsters, all ready to face their first day of school, lounged in the parking lot of Portillo’s Handi-Way. If they were bored before the first day, it was destined to be a long year. One of them glanced my way-Luis Fernandez, whose father Benny owned the Burger Heaven on Bustos-but the kid was far too cool to raise a hand in greeting or even recognition. Somewhere in that group of five teenagers there might be an interesting crumb of information, but at that moment I was too tired to pursue the opportunity.
I wasn’t a fan of night lights. They played hell with my bifocals. With some relief, I headed south away from the commercial glitz of what passed for a downtown in Posadas, crossed under the interstate and a block or two south turned left onto Escondido Lane, then an immediate right after the Ranchero Mobile Home Park to Guadalupe Terrace. My own old adobe huddled secluded on five acres, nestled under a spread of old cottonwoods that blanketed out moon and starlight. The nearest streetlight was a single unit a hundred yards away over the trailer park’s driveway.
Before getting out of 310, I found the house key so I wouldn’t have to fumble in the dark. Closing the car door gently so as not to awaken all the spirits, I stood for a moment with one hand on the front fender and listened to the night. Traffic on the interstate was never light, but in this secluded spot it was far enough away that the noise blended into meaningless background that my tinnitus had no trouble covering.
At the trailer court, someone was being needlessly loud, and the voice drifted across, thankfully incomprehensible. I navigated the stone walkway around the garage by feel. The front door loomed in front of me, and I snapped on the tiny key-ring flashlight just long enough to find the keyhole.