“When your dad lived over on Sixth Street in Posadas, in that little yellow house? Were you with him then?”
“No. He bought that place after the divorce. He was going to fix it up, but then he just left. He wasn’t there all that long. No goodbye, no nothing. Just up and left. Janet told me that he put stuff in storage and then left.”
“Stuff?”
“Well, you know. His furniture and stuff like that. Maybe he was going to come back for it later. I don’t think he had much over there. I know that Janet visited him a few times, but I never did. Mom wouldn’t let me.”
“So you never saw the inside of that place.”
“No.”
“Did you ever know Mike’s parents?”
“Mike? Oh, the cop, you mean? Janet’s boyfriend? No, I didn’t know them. I didn’t even know him, let alone them. What was their name?”
“Sisneros.”
“That’s right. No…I didn’t know them. I don’t know them.”
“Did you know Hank Sisneros? That would be Mike’s father.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t have any reason to know him. Look, are you guys going to find the person who killed my sister?”
“I certainly hope so, Mrs. Baylor. And we appreciate your help. When you come to Posadas, you need to stop by the sheriff’s office. There will be some civil paperwork for you to deal with. As the nearest relative.”
“The cop can’t do that? This Mike guy?”
“No, he can’t.” Even if we knew where “the cop” was. “Sergeant Bishop is our civil affairs officer. Ask for him. He’ll take you through it one step at a time,” Estelle added. “I’d like to talk with you again at that time.”
“I suppose.”
Estelle left her name and number, and when she hung up, Bill Gastner shifted restlessly in the chair. “That sounded productive.”
“Ay,” she said. “How dare Janet interrupt their busy life by dying.”
Gastner heaved himself to his feet. “You can’t always tell by a phone voice,” he said. “Lots of barriers go up.” He looked at the clock. “If you’re finished with me, I need to go home,” he said. “I have a few things to do. Then I need to get cleaned up for an evening soiree.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Someone once taught me that once things get rolling, there’s no letup. I don’t think anybody’s going to be relaxing much until we find Mike-and his father.”
“You don’t need my help for that.” Estelle heard the fatigue in his voice. “It’s five fifteen now. What time do you want me to show up? Or do you want a raincheck?” He frowned at her. “You going to take some time to eat?”
“Los hijos are expecting, you, Padrino.”
“Ah,” Gastner said. “They just want a music critic.”
“No doubt, sir. How about six thirty?”
“I’ll pencil it in on my busy calendar. You’re sure there’s nothing you need me to do?”
“I don’t think so. Right now, it’s hide and seek.”
“It’s a small county. You’ll find ’em.”
“I hope so, Padrino.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
“See you in a little bit,” Bill Gastner said. He paused, car door open and one boot out on the gravel of his driveway as he sifted through his keys for the one that fit the front door of his house. “Take a breather now. Give it a rest for a few minutes. Collect your thoughts. You’ve got every cop in the state on pins and needles now. Let them earn their pay.” He grinned. “God, I’m good at giving advice.”
He turned and looked at Estelle, and the grin broadened. “You’re wired, sweetheart.”
“Wired?”
“Wound up. Poised for the chase. Ready to go. This doesn’t bode well for a relaxed dinner with family.” He glanced at his watch. “Six thirty. You got an hour to stew.”
“Yes, sir. You, too.”
He pointed at the front door. “I am home. No stewing for me. I gave that up a long time ago.” A grin twitched the corners of his mouth and he reached out and patted Estelle’s forearm. “This is going to work out.”
“One way or another,” Estelle said. “It’s harder when it’s family.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Gastner’s hand tapped the doorsill as if he had something else to say, but then thought better of it. “Mike has a good heart,” he said. “Trust him a little bit.”
She nodded.
“Be careful, sweetheart.”
“You bet.” He got out and shut the door, lifting his hand to the brim of his baseball cap in salute. Estelle watched him trudge toward the front door. The headlights weren’t much use in the late afternoon dusk, and she swiveled the spotlight this way and that, peering into dark corners of the courtyard. He keyed the massive, carved front door, and then turned to nod at her again. When the door closed behind him, she backed the car away and headed out on Guadalupe.
At the intersection with Escondido, she turned right out of habit, letting the car drift east on Guadalupe through the winter twilight toward her husband’s medical clinic and pharmacy. The swing-by had become habit after two attempted break-ins during the past year. Situated in the quiet, dimly lit south end of town, on the back side of a five-acre lot that Bill Gastner had given to the Guzmans, the clinic and pharmacy could be an attractive target-at least until intruders ran into the heavily barred, small windows and comprehensive alarm system.
One of the attempts had been made by a forty-seven-year-old vagrant who had been passing by on the interstate, huge knapsack laden with all his worldly possessions. He had paused at the Posadas exit to work his stranded, will work for food, god bless sign for a couple of hours, and later told the deputy who’d arrested him that he’d seen the clinic’s sign through a thin copse of elms. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he had told the deputy as he was handcuffed and loaded into the back of the Expedition, his knapsack and sign crammed in behind the seat.
Estelle pulled into the spacious macadam parking lot and swung around, her lights flashing on two vehicles. One was the new Subaru Outback that she knew belonged to Lonnie Duarte, the pharmacist whom her husband and Dr. Perrone had hired a month or two before. That Lonnie would be working at the drug store an hour after closing time on a Sunday afternoon wasn’t surprising.
Parked beside Lonnie’s Subaru was a contractor’s late-model pickup, with heavy side boxes and a headache rack that supported two ladders and a selection of PVC pipe sections. Estelle stopped, her first thought being that the clinic had managed to operate only a month between visits from a plumber before something went wrong again with its copper and plastic innards. The new building had proven about as healthy as an overweight sixty-year-old on nine different medications.
Swinging into the next space, she pushed the car’s gear lever into Park and activated her cell phone. “Ernie,” she said, when Wheeler answered at the sheriff’s department, “I’ll be at the clinic for a few minutes with Lonnie.” She was pleased to hear the sound of his voice. Maybe Gayle had been able to talk her husband into going home for a while.
“Ten four,” the dispatcher said. “You coming back in here tonight?”
“Probably-after dinner sometime. Why?”
“Just wondered, is all.”
She was about to break the connection when she hesitated, her tired brain finally interpreting what she was seeing. Posadas had at least two reputable plumbing contractors, and Drs. Guzman and Perrone had always made a point of hiring them. Why would they then call-or ask Lonnie to call-a contractor from Deming, especially for a nighttime emergency?
“Ay,” Estelle whispered. Deming. She gazed at the truck for a long moment. What was the nature of coincidence? Deming, less than forty miles east, was the nearest city of any consequence.
She glanced at the dashboard clock. At 5:36 p.m., the pharmacy had been closed for more than an hour…. If a contractor passing through had stopped for a refilled prescription, or a bottle of aspirin, he would have been long since on his way. That someone had found a plumber who would respond to a call on Sunday afternoon was in itself remarkable.