“Gayle, I want an address for Henry Sisneros,” Estelle said when the sheriff’s wife answered the phone at the sheriff’s office. “Call Deming PD and have them find out where he lives and what kind of vehicle he’s driving. We think he’s in town.”
“Ay,” Gayle said, and that was the extent of the time she wasted with surprise. “I’ll get back to you.”
“As soon as you have a vehicle or tag number, we need a BOLO. Make sure that everyone is on their toes.”
“Do you want me to wake up some faces?”
Estelle thought for a moment. “Yes. Every single body you can find. If it’s a false alarm, I’ll be ecstatic.”
Other than the single glass holding traces of whiskey, the apartment yielded no answers. Mike Sisneros’s uniform hung neatly in a bedroom closet, as did the heavy Sam Brown belt and its plethora of equipment. Although uneasy about its absence, Estelle was not surprised that the deputy’s department-issue.45 automatic was missing from the holster.
“I hope Mike’s the one holding that,” she said. He had been wearing the weapon under his T-shirt when she met him for breakfast.
The.22 pistol case in the dresser drawer was still there, and still empty. If Janet Tripp had owned boxes of memorabilia, she’d stored them somewhere other than Mike’s apartment. A single photo album rested on a coffee table in the living room, only three of its pages filled with recent photos.
Estelle sat down on the well-worn sofa and leafed through the photos. In one, Janet and Mike sat together on a stone wall in front of an imposing church ruin that Estelle recognized as Gran Quivira National Monument, far to the north near the village of Mountainair. The shadow of the willing tourist who had snapped the picture for them marked the lower corner of the photo.
In all, there were twenty photos of the two young people, including one Janet had evidently taken of Mike, the deputy posed proudly with one hand on the fender of his patrol unit. His smile was broad and sincere, and Estelle felt a pang. Happier days.
She surveyed the pages again. The album began with photos not more than a year old. No parents allowed. No past history. No military photos. No first boy- or girlfriends.
“I want to talk to her sister,” Estelle said suddenly.
“The one in Kansas?”
“Yes.” She walked back to the kitchen. “Mike doesn’t have a phone in this apartment?”
“Makes do with the cell,” Mitchell said.
“I want a land line,” Estelle said. “I don’t want to be halfway through a long-distance conversation and lose it.” She turned in place once more. “I don’t think this is going to tell us anything.”
“Nope. We need to hit the road and find this kid,” Mitchell said. “And if his nutzo father is in town, we need to find him, too.”
“Yes, we do,” she said emphatically, and glanced at her watch. “In about ten minutes, Gayle will have every person we have out looking for both Mike and Hank. I’ll go back to the office and make the call to Janet’s sister. That’ll only take a few minutes, and I’ll make sure Bill gets home. I want Mears to process this glass, too.” She held up the clear plastic evidence bag and examined the whiskey glass again. “Be interesting to know,” she said.
There were others who wanted to know as well. When Estelle walked back into the sheriff’s office, she saw a bright Post-it note stuck to the front of her mail slot with Gayle’s elegant writing. “Dayan wants you to call him,” the note said, and Estelle saw Bill Gastner grin.
“I’m sure he does,” Estelle said. “Maybe someday.” She crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket. “No interrupts for a while, Gayle,” she said.
In her office, she settled back in her chair, the slip of paper with Monica Tripp’s phone number smoothed out on the desk calendar. “Bets?” she said to Gastner.
“No bets,” he replied.
She dialed and waited for the circuits to link New Mexico and Kansas. After four rings, the connection popped. A male voice answered, polished and practiced.
“Good afternoon. Baylor residence. This is Max speaking.”
“Mr. Baylor,” Estelle said, jotting down the name quickly. “This is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman calling from the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department in Posadas, New Mexico.”
“Oh,” the man said. “Yes, okay. Just a minute.”
The phone was covered with a hand, and Estelle could hear mumbling. We’re expected, she thought.
“Yes?” The woman’s voice was small, with a quaver of emotion.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Estelle said. “Is this Monica Tripp-Baylor?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Baylor, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman calling from Posadas. I believe Mike Sisneros contacted you earlier today?”
“Yes. He called earlier this morning.”
“He told you about Janet?”
“Yes, he did.”
Estelle waited for elaboration, but when none was forthcoming, she added, “Mrs. Baylor, we’re sorry for your loss, but we’d appreciate any background you can share with us about Janet. Had you heard from her recently?”
“You’re a sheriff? This Mike works for you?”
“He is a sheriff’s deputy, yes.” This Mike?
“I didn’t know him,” Monica said. “I didn’t know anything about him, other than that he was a year ahead of Janet in school.”
“You and your sister didn’t correspond often?”
That brought a sniff that could have been amusement. “We didn’t correspond at all, Sheriff.”
“You’re a couple of years younger than Janet, is that correct?”
“Four years. We weren’t close. Look, I don’t understand how she died, officer.”
“What did Mike tell you?”
“Just that Janet had gone to the bank on Christmas Day, and someone shot her while she was standing at the ATM.” What might have been a choked-off sniffle punctuated the sentence.
“That’s basically what happened, ma’am. Any information you can give us about her background, about anything you might know, will be a help.”
“I haven’t seen her since she was in the army,” Monica said. “We were never close. We never really wrote. She didn’t do e-mail, or anything like that.” She hesitated. “I have my family here. My life’s here.”
“I see. You’re coming over for the funeral, though?”
“I told the deputy that I probably would, but I don’t know for sure. The service is Wednesday, isn’t it? There’s a lot going on. I’m not sure that I can get off work.”
“If you could…Mike said you might be able to come over tomorrow. There are some estate questions that I’m sure will come up. Mike and Janet weren’t married, and you’re the nearest relative for her estate.”
Monica responded with a sigh.
“Are either of your folks still alive?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
Estelle frowned. “You don’t think so? There’s some question?”
“My mother died a few years ago. I don’t know where my father went after he and my mom were divorced. And I’m not sure that I really care a whole lot, officer. He isn’t part of my life now.”
“Do you remember when your folks divorced?”
“Of course I remember. A long time ago,” Monica said. “Look, those things happen. Mom was really, really hurt by the whole thing. She divorced him, and then he just left. Just left. So as far as I’m concerned, that’s that.”
“Hurt by the whole thing,” Estelle repeated gently. “What whole thing would that be?”
“Look, it’s ancient history. That part of my life is over. I just don’t care anymore. And I didn’t talk with Janet much over the years, but I think she felt the same way. Look, officer, some families are just really close, you know? Huggy huggy close. We weren’t. She wasn’t my best friend, or anything like that. That’s as simple as I can say it. Did you need anything else?”
“I need to know what the ‘whole thing’ was, Monica.”
“The whole thing?”
“Why your mom and dad were divorced.”
“I think…I think it would be easiest just to say that they didn’t much like each other any more,” Monica said. “That’s just about the size of it.”