Estelle bent down. Janet Tripp’s hair was a rich blond, truly the color of clean, fresh oat straw. She had worn it short and casual, the sort of easy style that fell into place with a shake of the head. Now, the hair around her left ear was caked with blood and particulate.
The coroner glanced at Linda, who was studiously examining the far wall.
“Nothing else of interest, Estelle,” Perrone said. “Nothing under her fingernails except some arroyo sand. She wasn’t assaulted, or struck, or anything else. Her clothing was intact, and only as disarranged as we might expect from being carried and then dumped. The only blood on her clothing was on the left shoulder and upper left back of her blouse, along with a spot or two on the right. I wish I could hand you something on a platter, but I can’t.”
“We’ll see,” Estelle said. “Have you fixed a time of death?”
“I examined her at four forty-five. I would guess that she had been dead less than an hour.”
“Less than an hour?”
“That’s right. Butch Romero doesn’t know what a lucky kid he is. If he hadn’t lingered over another piece of fruitcake before going riding, he might have ridden into something pretty nasty.”
“Ay,” Estelle murmured. “That close.”
“That close.”
“Will you process the film tonight?” she asked Linda.
“Sure.
“And I’ll get started on everything else,” Perrone said. “Toxicology, whatever. I’ll be surprised if anything comes up. I don’t have a whole lot of lab equipment here. There’s a few simple things I can do, but I think we’re going to end up waiting for the state lab to mull things over. And with the holiday, don’t hold your breath.”
Estelle grimaced.
“Is Mike back yet?” Linda asked.
“On the way, I think.” Her cell phone rang, obscenely loud in the tomblike hush of the morgue.
“Guzman.”
“Estelle, it’s Pasquale. We found Tripp’s car.”
Chapter Fourteen
The moment Estelle saw Janet Tripp’s Jeep Liberty, a small piece of the puzzle, a very small piece, leaped into focus. The little blue SUV was parked in one of the diagonal slots at Posadas State Bank, just a few steps from the automatic teller machine, the only operation of the bank that remained open on Christmas Day. The ATM was inside a small glassed-in foyer, available for foot traffic only.
If Janet had been headed for the ATM, she would have pulled in, parked, and walked across the small parking lot to the foyer. The Jeep was parked precisely as one might expect if that had happened.
Estelle’s heart raced at the possibilities. She knew that ATM transactions were routinely videotaped, and if they were lucky, the small camera in the foyer might actually be working.
Deputy Tom Pasquale stood beside his unit, leaning against the front fender, arms crossed over his chest. He watched Estelle drive in and stop, but he didn’t approach, giving her time to look at the scene without interference. Estelle remained in her car for a moment. She pictured the Jeep pulling into the lot, pictured Janet choosing a parking spot that provided easy access to the ATM, and then easy out. She would have reached across to the passenger seat for her purse, or perhaps unzipped a fanny pack to find her ATM card.
If robbery was the motive, the killer-if he had half a brain-would have waited until Janet had visited the ATM, and approached her as she returned to the car with ready cash. Had he-or she-been parked toward the rear of the bank’s lot, waiting for a likely candidate?
Another possibility lay in Pershing Park, just across the street, perhaps a hundred steps from where Janet had parked. It would have taken just seconds to cross the street and the parking lot, stealthily on athletic shoes. Janet might not have heard a thing.
Estelle twisted in her seat and surveyed the park. The old tank, moldering on its concrete pedestal, the wheat-colored grass, the small gazebo, the dozen elms that all depended on village water-the place was far from being a garden spot. But it did provide a choice of cover.
A second question nagged Estelle. An obvious possibility was that Janet had been assaulted for her money. The opposite possibility was that someone had assaulted Janet Tripp because of who she was.
She turned back to the Jeep. Whatever the circumstances, it was easy to imagine the bullet’s path into Janet Tripp’s skull from the left quadrant, and then the projectile’s path slightly upward through her brain. And the attack was as cold-blooded as any underworld execution. The victim may have heard a small click or two and then… nothing.
Estelle pulled her car into gear and backed up, swinging it around to block the entry driveway to the bank’s parking lot. She shut it off and stepped out. As she did so, Pasquale pushed himself away from his backrest. Despite his best efforts, a grin spread across his broad face. During his short career with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, he had suffered plenty of uncomfortable, sometimes embarrassing, stumbles and blunders. Doing something right was always refreshing-for both him and his colleagues.
“I didn’t touch anything,” the young man said as Estelle approached. “I knew it was Janet’s SUV the minute I saw it, but I ran the plate just to be sure.”
“Good work.” She took a few steps toward the SUV and stopped. “What’s the chime?”
Pasquale looked puzzled. “The what?”
“I hear bells, like someone left on their lights, or the key in the ignition, or the door ajar.”
“Oh. I don’t hear it. Maybe they did. You want me to check?”
“No,” she said quickly as he started to turn toward the victim’s car. She approached slowly and stopped a dozen yards from the Liberty’s back bumper, turning to regard the bank. Situated on Pershing Avenue just a stone’s throw from Bustos, the main east-west drag through the village, the bank was anything but secluded. The ATM foyer, no more than ten feet square, was on the east end, nothing more than a porch enclosed with tinted glass, one exterior door, and no interior entrance to the bank proper.
Estelle looked back toward the street. Since she had pulled into the parking lot, not a single car had passed on either Bustos or Pershing. No one was in the park. The village was as quiet as only early Christmas evening could be-people full of too much food, lots of football on television, and plenty of gifts whose newness had yet to wear off. Company wasn’t heading home yet.
Deputy Tom Pasquale waited quietly, in itself something of an accomplishment. “Tomás, Tomás, Tomás,” Estelle said, and smiled at him even as she saw the look of uncertainty cross his face. “You didn’t look inside the car?”
“I did not approach the vehicle,” Pasquale replied formally, as if he were reading from one of his academy texts, shaking his head for emphasis.
She nodded with satisfaction. “I think we need to call Sergeant Mears, Tomás.” She took a step toward the SUV. “And…who do we have left?”
“Ah…”
“Exactly,” Estelle said. She ran down the mental list. The sheriff was flat on his back in Albuquerque. Captain Mitchell was somewhere between Lordsburg and Posadas, hopefully with Mike Sisneros in tow. Jackie Taber was guarding one crime scene, and she and Pasquale were at another. “We need to call Tony back in. And Dennis is supposed to work graveyard tonight, right? Assuming he gets back from Phoenix in time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, he can start work early if he does. We’re going to need all the crew we can scrounge up, Tomás.” She started toward the SUV. “Oh…and Linda. She’s at the morgue right now. But the minute she’s finished up there, we’re going to want her over here.” Pasquale nodded and turned to his unit to make the calls. “And I want this entire parking lot cordoned off. When the others get here, they can park out on the street.”