“I just can’t imagine someone sitting there, watching a girl choke to death, and not doing something about it,” Holman muttered. “I mean, even I know the Heimlich maneuver.”
“People are capable of all kinds of delightful behavior, Martin, as you are well aware. And if you don’t mind me changing the subject in midlist, we don’t know if the hit-and-run incident involving Wesley Crocker was an accident or not. We don’t know what kind of vehicle it was, or who was driving it. We don’t know if it is connected in any way to Maria’s death. Right now, my suspicion is that it is not.”
I folded my hands over my belly, leaned back, swung one foot up on my desk, and smiled at Sheriff Martin Holman.
He frowned and looked down at the worn wooden floor, and I tipped my head back, popping the vertebrae in my neck. Every time one popped, the ringing in my left ear changed pitch. Perhaps orchestral tinnitus could be a new hobby for me.
Holman shoved his hands in his pockets and walked across the room to the window, then turned and walked back to my desk, a habit that told me he was thinking as hard as he could and getting nowhere. “Did you make any progress today at all?”
That was a loaded question, and I knew it. But pretending wasn’t in my nature, so I settled for a simple, “Other than finding Vanessa Davila? No. But the outlook isn’t entirely bleak.”
“It’s not?”
“No, Martin, it’s not. Sometime today or tomorrow or the next day or next week, bureaucrats willing, we may hear something from the state lab. There are blood, tissue, and hair samples that might help us. We’ll know exactly what killed the girl, and when, give or take. And when we’re finished interviewing Vanessa Davila, we’ll have an entire list of details to check out.”
I held up my right index finger and thumb, about a quarter inch apart. “Tiny pieces, Martin. Tiny, patient little pieces.” I swung my feet down and thumped the chair forward. “The trick is to give Estelle Reyes-Guzman time and room to work. She’s the best investigator there is. When she talks with the girl, trust me-if there’s something there, she’ll find it.”
Holman’s hands were still jammed in his pockets. “And if there’s nothing there?”
I shrugged. “That’s the way it is. And by the way, who was the fatal?”
Holman grimaced as that memory replayed itself. “Ryan House.” He saw that I was struggling to place the name and added, “He’s a senior. Co-captain of the basketball team. All-conference last year. Salutatorian of his class.” He waved a hand. “The list goes on. You remember him.”
“Uh,” I said, committing to neither a yes nor a no. “That’s interesting. His younger brother is the kid who was giving Officer Pasquale a hard time the other evening. How about the other one? The driver?”
“Another senior. Kid by the name of Dennis Wilton. His father works for the state highway department.”
“Ah, Wilton,” I said, remembering the name that the school-bus driver, Stub Moore, had given me.
Holman nodded. “Right. He’s a lucky kid. Apparently he suffered just a few bruises, a couple little cuts. That’s about it. The driver’s-side air bag worked just like it was meant to. And he was wearing his belt. Estelle was going to talk with him for a few minutes at the hospital before the sedation puts him out.”
I rubbed a hand over the sandpaper bristles of my short-cropped gray hair. “That’s what I need, a sedative habit.” I closed my eyes for a moment and then blinked at Holman. “But why are they keeping him if it’s just cuts and bruises?”
“A few hours for observation,” Holman said. “Apparently he’s not doing very well,” and he tapped the side of his skull. “It would be rough for anyone, but I’m told that the two boys were close friends.” Holman had been edging toward the door and he looked sideways at me. “Is everything all right?” He didn’t accept my shrug as an answer. “No, really. Are you okay?”
I settled for a simple nod.
He reached for the doorknob and glanced at his watch at the same time. “If Wesley Crocker is released later this morning, are you going to let him stay with you?”
“Why not?” It was easy keeping the enthusiasm out of my voice.
Holman smiled. “I always got the feeling that you prized your isolation and privacy out there in the woods.”
I chuckled and stood up too suddenly for my middle ear’s sake. I had to rest the knuckles of my right hand on the desk until my vision cleared. If Holman noticed, he didn’t say anything. “I’m not sure twenty trees make a woods, Martin. And I do value it,” I said. “But everything else is shot to hell, so that might as well go, too.”
Voices out in the hallway interrupted us, and Holman turned and looked past the doorjamb. “Detective Reyes-Guzman is back,” he said. It may have been the middle of a long night for everyone else, but Estelle Reyes-Guzman looked like she’d had her twelve hours of sleep. She appeared in my doorway, black briefcase in hand.
“Puzzling, sir. Really puzzling,” she said by way of greeting. She set the briefcase down on the straight chair just inside the doorway and ran both hands through her black hair, then froze in position with a hand on each side of her head. For the first time I saw the black circles under her eyes.
“What’s puzzling?” I said. “And sit down for a few minutes.”
She didn’t argue, but crossed the small room and sat in the leather chair by the wall map of Posadas County. Sheriff Holman drifted back into the room and closed the door.
“I had the pickup truck secured in the county shop so I can take another look tomorrow. Maybe you’d take a look, too, sir.”
I sat down, letting the old, familiar swivel chair soothe the tired bones. I’d been standing for two minutes, and that seemed long enough. Estelle was frowning and looking at the fingernail of her right index finger. She picked the cuticle without knowing what she was doing, and at the same time her lower lip pursed out. I’d known her long enough not to interrupt the patient thought process that was going on in that pretty head. Even Martin Holman knew better.
Finally she looked up at me. “Do you remember Ryan House?”
I shook my head. “Marty here told me that House was the one killed. The passenger. But I can’t bring him to mind. Show me a yearbook picture, and it’ll click.”
“It probably doesn’t matter. But that’s right…he wasn’t driving. Dennis Wilton was.”
“So I heard.”
“Ryan House was thrown out on impact. Through the windshield.”
“I saw that,” I said. “But Wilton is all right?”
Estelle nodded. “Physically, I guess. They were close friends. And Wilton is blaming himself.”
“That would be expected,” I said. “So what’s puzzling?”
“Stub Moore, the driver of the lead bus, says that the pickup truck that Wilton was driving passed his bus on a long downgrade. Although the truck was going faster than the speed limit, Boyd said that the speed wasn’t excessive for passing.”
“And then he lost it somehow, and went off the side of the highway,” I said.
“It sounded pretty cut and dried to me,” the sheriff added, but Estelle shook her head.
“Moore said the pickup was half a mile or more ahead of him when he saw the lights just drift off the road to the right.” She swept her hand out in front of her, and then held it suspended in space. “He said it looked like the driver maybe fell asleep.”
“That could happen,” Holman said. “That late at night? Why not.”
“It could, but put yourself in that pickup truck. Sure, it’s late. They’re heading home from an exciting football game. It’s about an hour-and-a-half drive. The boys might have stayed in Sierra Linda for a few minutes after the game to get something to eat. They caught up with the buses somewhere near Baca’s ranch. And a few minutes later, when the bus started into that section of highway that looks like a roller coaster, Wilton decided to pass.”