“Right.”
“So it was taken recently, then. If it was taken at all.”
“I think so.”
“By who, then?”
“I don’t know. Mike says he doesn’t, either.”
“Janet wouldn’t have, I don’t think. But she lives with him, so there you are.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the point?” He scratched his head tentatively. “I like things that go from A to B to C to D,” he said. “Nice relationships. I’ve been lying here thinking, and my brain’s about as responsive as tapioca pudding.” He held up an index finger. “Eduardo has a heart attack, exacerbated by a couple of pennyante thugs who decide his new Buick would be a nice thing to have. Bobby doesn’t pay attention to his doctors, and damn near ends up on the slab, through no one’s fault but his own. Then, some cold son-of-a-bitch shoots Janet Tripp in the head so he can take her cash, and dumps her body in the arroyo as if she’s some bag of household trash. God, that makes me mad.” His eyes narrowed as he glared at the ceiling tile.
“And it’s in the air,” he continued. “Here I am, minding my own business, trying to let myself into the house, and somebody bends a piece of my own rebar across my own skull.”
“They didn’t take anything, sir. Nobody went inside your house.”
“I figured that out for myself, sweetheart. If it had been a burglar, he could have just waited, and left when I surprised him.” He lifted his hand up and regarded his fingers. “Nah. Someone had a grudge of some kind.” He let his arm relax on the sheets and looked steadily at Estelle. “I suppose I’ve made my share of enemies over the years. None recently, as far as I know.”
“That’s what I wondered.”
He waved his hand again in dismissal. “I don’t think so. But, hell, I don’t know for sure. All kinds of fruitcakes in this world. We just happened to hit the season right this time. Maybe whoever tried to dent my hard head will hear that he didn’t do the job right, and come back for a second try.” He nodded at the clipboard fastened to the base frame of the bed. “I’ll have him sign in when he does.”
“That’s not funny, sir.”
“Well, then go home and bring me back my.45. I’ll keep it under my pillow, here.”
“Nurse Tabitha would like that-you waving that cannon around, especially without your glasses.”
“She’s something, isn’t she? Damn near uglier’n me.” Gastner folded his hands on his belly. “Pretty sad deal,” he said finally. “Janet, I mean. You know, I didn’t really know her all that well. Hell,” and he shrugged, “I guess I didn’t know her at all. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, too. Mike’s a hell of a good kid, and what, the couple of times I’ve met her? Janet seemed like a pretty steady sort.”
Estelle smiled at the use of the word kid. His thirtieth birthday was past history for Mike, and Janet hadn’t been far behind. Bill Gastner had four decades on both of them. She regarded Gastner fondly, amazed once again at his seemingly inexhaustible reserves.
“You have to wonder why that son-of-a-bitch picked on her,” Gastner said. “Other than just the roll of the dice.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what it was,” Estelle said.
“And then again…” Gastner added, then stopped, thinking. “The whole arroyo thing doesn’t square with me,” he said. “Not for an ATM robbery. Why not do what the other guy did to me? Once up behind the head, grab the money, and run. What’s so hard about that?”
“But, you see,” Estelle said, “whoever hit you didn’t grab the money and run. He wanted to kill you, sir. That’s all there is to it. He didn’t go into the house. He didn’t take your wallet. He didn’t take your.45. He didn’t go into the garage and steal your Blazer.”
Gastner shifted in the bed so he could look more squarely at her. “That’s interesting.”
“What is, sir?”
“Janet’s assailant didn’t have to kill her to take the 350 bucks. He could have wrestled it away from her, or threatened her, or bashed her head against the door. Any of that would have been enough. But he executes her, for God’s sakes. That’s what he did. He goddamn well executed her, didn’t he. And then he took the money and whatnot, and her body. Why the hell do that? And my guy…he wraps a steel bar around my skull, one good shot that would drop an elephant, and then just leaves.” He fell silent, lips pursed.
“Here’s what you need to do, sweetheart,” he said after a moment. “You know that filing cabinet in my study?”
“Sure.”
“The top drawer, first section, includes all the current stuff I’m working on. It isn’t much, and I don’t think you’ll find a damn thing. But maybe it’ll give you a name or two. I haven’t gotten crosswise with anyone in a long, long time. Anyway, do that. And it wouldn’t hurt to put Janet Tripp’s background under glass, either. As many years as she lived in town, you’d think I’d be able to come up with something in the old memory. But it’s blank. I don’t know her, I don’t know her folks.” He waved a hand in disgust. “The minute Bobby gets home, drop this whole thing in his lap. Give him something to do. The more good minds we have working on this, the better. In the meantime,” and he folded his hands again, composing himself corpse-like, “I’m going to lie here and think great thoughts. If I come up with something, I’ll give you a call.”
“That would be good.”
“Don’t be a stranger.” He hadn’t bothered to open his eyes, and his speech had taken on something of a slur. She sat quietly and watched him. After a few moments, she saw his lower lip sag just a little as sleep finally came. She patted the back of his hand, rose, and collected her vest. As her hand touched the door, his voice caught up with her. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“You too, sir.”
“Put that on. It doesn’t do any good draped over your arm.”
“Yes, sir.” As she shut the door, she almost collided with Tabitha Escudero. The nurse held a small tray of tiny paper cups filled with medications.
“Is he going to need something to help him sleep?” she asked.
Estelle shook her head. “I don’t think so, Tabitha. I wore him out.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Estelle awoke to bright light bouncing off the tile floor as sun streamed in through the bedroom window. As if at a great distance, she heard the incredibly soft, gentle piano music, and for a moment she lay without breathing, listening.
By moving her head a fraction, she could see the clock on the night stand. She had finally given up at 3:00 a.m. that Sunday morning, stumbling into bed and falling asleep so quickly that her husband had never stirred. Perhaps she had only dreamed of his rising at six, perhaps she had actually drifted close to consciousness when he brushed her cheek with his lips.
For five blissful hours, the phone hadn’t rung-or if it had, she hadn’t heard it. She watched the clock flick its little digital window over to 8:04 a.m.-five hours more security for Janet Tripp’s killer and for the would-be killer who’d dented Bill Gastner’s head. If they had left town, those five hours would have put another 375 miles between their back bumpers and Posadas, New Mexico.
Combine those minutes and miles with the hours immediately after the crime, until the time Estelle had finally gone to bed exhausted with frustration, and they could be crossing the Mississippi or dabbling their toes in the Pacific…or be speaking Spanish somewhere south of the border.
She knew perfectly well that the county was patrolled as well as it could be-State Police, her own deputies (including at least two who were working double shifts), the Border Patrol, even the New Mexico Department of Game and Fish. Every badge and agency within five states, and beyond by computer entry, knew that Posadas County was looking for a killer…or two.
Estelle groaned with a mixture of fatigue and irritation that she’d slept away too many hours.
From the front of the house, she heard Sofía say something to Francisco, the older woman’s voice little more than a whisper. In response, the little boy spent ten seconds trilling two notes, a soft tinkling sound, some small adjustment in this magical world he had discovered. And clearly, Sofía Tournál knew exactly which entry keys were the ones to help the little boy continue opening one door after another.