The Fourth Time is Murder pc-15 Read online

  Silence hung heavily between them for the count of ten. “That’s when it went off?” Estelle asked, incredulous. She didn’t add, That’s not possible, because she knew perfectly well that with the right combination of bizarre circumstances, nearly anything was possible.

  “Not when I dropped it. It bounced off the side of the truck. You can see the mark right here.” He turned and pointed at a tiny ding in the white paint just below the name badge on the fender. “I made a grab for it. You know…like anybody would. I caught it, and that’s when it went off.”

  “Just once?”

  “Just once. Christ, that’s enough.”

  “Yes, it is. Where did the bullet go?”

  “Bernie says that it ricocheted through the grill of his Cavalier, over behind the store.”

  Estelle twisted and looked back to the spot where Collins had to have been standing when he fumbled the gun, on the street side of his vehicle, close to the door. A straight line between there and the Cavalier, which Estelle couldn’t even see from where she stood, would pass through the Expedition’s fender, its engine block, and the opposite fender, then through the corner of the store itself. Not possible.

  Before she could ask Ricochet off what? Sheriff Torrez caught her eye and beckoned. At the same time across the parking lot, Black pulled one of the youngsters to his feet, spun him around, and cuffed him. The bottle thrower had fessed up, she guessed.…Either that or in a moment of misplaced bravado the kid had said the wrong thing.

  “Hang tight a minute,” she said to Collins. “Stay right here.” The sheriff met her halfway across the lot, and storm clouds touched his dark, handsome features. “Is everyone all right over there?” Estelle asked. She saw the woman pat her temple again with a folded handkerchief.

  “She just cracked her head on the trunk lid,” Torrez said. “That ain’t the problem. Dufus over there,” and he nodded grimly toward the deputy, “dropped his goddamn gun. The bullet hit the base of the gas pump and then ricocheted into Bernie’s car.…At least Bernie says it did. I ain’t looked at it yet. You can see a little dent and smear of lead on the lower skirt of the pump.”

  “Did you call Linda?”

  “No.”

  “We need her over here ASAP,” Estelle said. She knew that the sheriff understood the situation as well as anyone-that a discharged weapon, even an accidental discharge where the bullet struck no one and caused no serious property damage, was cause for serious concern. In this case, the repercussions could go far beyond the department having to pay for some broken plastic and a punctured radiator. The woman had apparently injured herself, perhaps when the gunshot startled her. This was not a situation where an oops, sorry, folks was adequate.

  Estelle also knew-as did Bob Torrez-that if they interviewed each of the dozen people currently in the parking lot, and some of the curious spectators now gathered on the sidewalk across the street, there would be as many versions of the incident as there were people. There were unlikely to be many versions that favored Dennis Collins.

  Finally, beginning with these very first moments, when everyone was trying to sort out what happened and why, Estelle was determined that wheels would be set in motion to reduce the likelihood that something like this would ever happen again.

  “You want to talk to her?” Torrez asked, turning to glance at the woman by the Volvo. “She’s a little hot under the collar.”

  “As well she should be,” Estelle said. “And yes, I want to talk to her.”

  “I’ll see what Black’s got goin’,” Torrez said, and stalked off. He didn’t look Collins’ way, didn’t say a word to the deputy. That in itself told Estelle that they were going to face another interesting challenge in the hours ahead.

  As she approached the Volvo, she recognized the woman, who looked up at Estelle and shook her head in disbelief. The undersheriff recognized Marge Chavez, wife of the service manager at the Chevrolet-Oldsmobile dealership.

  “Are you all right?” Estelle asked. She reached out and touched Marge on the cheek to turn her head slightly so that the glare of the parking lot vapor light caught her full on. A tiny nick marked her temple at the end of her right eyebrow.

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” Marge said. She was a pleasant-faced woman, wearing a housecoat over what appeared to be flannel pajamas and loose slippers. “But my God, this whole thing just about did me in.”

  The two girls, one whom Estelle knew to be fourteen or so, the other a bit younger, had slipped back into the car’s backseat, where they sat silent and wide-eyed.

  “I’d like to hear what happened, Marge.”

  “Oh my,” the woman said. “Look, I don’t want to get Denny in trouble, but my gosh.”

  “I understand that, and appreciate it, but I need to hear what happened.”

  “It happened so fast. Just unbelievable.”

  “That’s how these things go. Tell me what you remember.”

  “I had picked the kids up after a little party that one of their friends was throwing after the basketball game. I told them I’d come and get them at midnight. It wasn’t a stay-over or anything like that. But then Barbie called and asked for another hour or so. They were watching a movie, and wanted to see the end. And I said all right. Just this once. So I did that, and on the way home, I saw that I had forgotten to get gas.…I’m always doing that, sheriff. Always. My husband has given up on me. He bought me a cell phone to keep in the car just for that reason. So when I run out, I can call for help.” She smiled gamely and dabbed at her eyebrow again.

  “Anyway, here I was. The two kids wanted to go into the store to get something, and I said no. For one thing, they don’t need to eat any more junk this time of night, and for another, I was a little apprehensive about those kids across the lot. I knew they weren’t local, and it didn’t take rocket science to know that they were drinking.”

  “Where was Mr. Pollis during all of this?”

  “Bernie was standing in the doorway of the store. I could see one of the other kids who clerk there behind him, standing behind the counter, I suppose. But Bernie-he was standing there in the doorway, watching the group of kids. He had a phone in his hand. So I assumed there had been some kind of trouble. That’s just about all I saw, until Denny arrived. I had just finished gassing up the car and was around back when he pulls in real fast from the south, there, and boom! I heard a loud pop and a tinkle, like breaking glass hitting the pavement.”

  “You were standing near the trunk of your car?”

  “Yes, I was. I was rummaging to see if I had any windshield washer fluid. That’s another thing I’m always running out of.”

  Why do people do these things at one o’clock in the morning? Estelle thought. Then again, Bill Gastner would be heading for his next beloved green chile burrito, an incomprehensible habit by most other people’s standards. Compared to that, a little gasoline and windshield washer fluid wasn’t so bad. “Did you actually watch the deputy pull into the parking lot?”

  “Well, no. I didn’t. My back would have been to him.”

  “But then you heard something?”

  “Well, I turned when I heard the bottle-that’s what it sounded like. A loud pop, and then glass spraying on the pavement. He stopped right in the driveway, there, and got out of the car. He had his gun in one hand, and my first reaction was to get back in the car and get the girls out of there. Then I heard another car coming really fast, and saw it was the state cop. That’s when Denny fired a shot. My lord, it was loud. Something hit the pump island here and shrieked off that way.” She first pointed at the pump island, and then waved a hand toward Bernie’s aging compact car that slumped beside the building. “And my first thought was, My God! He’s shooting at us! I jerked around, lost my balance, and cracked my head against the corner of the trunk lid.…It was still open.”

  She frowned and squinted against the harsh light. “And look now. They’re arresting that boy.”

  Estelle glanced across the parking lot. Sure enough,
Rick Black was escorting his charge toward the state patrol car, the teenager’s hands cuffed behind his back. Three of the others still sat on the sidewalk, and a fourth was face-to-face with the sheriff, who towered over him by a full head. With good reason, the boy cowered. Torrez stood with feet planted and both hands on his hips. Don’t hit him, Estelle thought. We have enough problems.

  “Mrs. Chavez, you said that you thought you heard something strike the pump island here. Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m very sure,” the woman said. The car door started to open and she spun around. “You stay in the car, now,” she said, and Barb, the oldest daughter, did as she was told. “I don’t know exactly where it hit, but I’m sure it did. I mean, my gosh, sheriff, look at this. That’s only a couple feet from where I was standing, or from hitting the back window where the girls were sitting in the car.”

  “Mrs. Chavez, we’re going to need photographs, and I’ll need to talk with you again. I’d like to take photos of this area right now, before you move the car. We need to take a measurement or two, then you’re free to take the kids home. It’ll be half an hour or so. If you want to call your husband to come and pick them up, that’s fine, too.”

  “He’s in Fort Worth for some kind of regional meeting,” the woman said. “I’m not looking forward to telling him about this.” She looked at Estelle expectantly, as if awaiting instructions.

  “Is there anyone else at home?” Estelle asked.

  “No.”

  “I was going to suggest that an officer take the girls home, but we don’t want to do that if no one is there. Mrs. Chavez, I’ll be as prompt as I can. I appreciate your patience.”

  Another Sheriff’s Department vehicle approached from the south and nosed in behind Estelle’s sedan. Deputy Tom Pasquale got out of his SUV, lifted a hand in greeting to Collins, and then sauntered across toward Torrez and the group of kids.

  Estelle retrieved her camera and took several dozen photos of the Volvo and the pump island from every conceivable angle. She photographed the automobile’s trunk lid, with close-ups of the offending corner. Marge Chavez wasn’t happy about having her face photographed but grudgingly agreed.…The little nick would be difficult to see in the best of prints, and Estelle wished that Linda Real, with her amazing photographic talents, was driving the camera.

  “Go ahead and take the kids home,” Estelle said. “Someone will be in touch tomorrow for a written statement. You might want to stop by the emergency room and have that cut looked at.”

  “Oh, heavens no. It’s nothing. My own clumsiness.” Marge folded herself back into the Volvo and in a moment pulled away from the pumps.

  The gouge and smear of lead on the pump island’s lower concrete skirt showed that the fat.45 slug from the deputy’s gun had hit a glancing blow just inches off the ground where the concrete began to curve around the corner. Estelle walked over to where Bernie Pollis’ car was parked next to the building. Sure enough, centered neatly just under the Chevrolet logo on the old compact car’s grill was shattered plastic, and an irregular hole the size of a quarter in the mesh of the radiator.

  “You want me to open the hood?” a voice said, and Estelle turned at Pollis’ approach.

  “Yes, sir.” She watched him fumble with first the cable release and then the safety latch. The engine compartment was dark and smelly, and Estelle played the beam of her flashlight down into the depths between engine block and radiator. The slug had punched through the radiator, nicked a fan blade, and then smacked into the water pump housing before dropping straight down. A large fragment of it lay on the asphalt under the car, in a puddle of antifreeze.

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t touch anything yet,” she said.

  “I ain’t touching a thing. Who’s gonna pay for this?”

  “I’m sure it will be taken care of,” Estelle said. “Right now, it’s important that nothing’s disturbed.”

  “I ain’t touchin’ it.”

  Estelle heaved a sigh of relief. No one had been hurt, and she knew where the bullet had gone. Now it was just a matter of filling in the little details.

  “Tell me what happened, Bernie,” she said.

  “Look,” he said quickly. “I did not sell alcohol to those kids. I don’t know where they bought it, but it wasn’t here. They wanted to buy more, I can tell you that. That’s what started the argument. Stuart didn’t know what to do, and I’m glad that I was workin’, because I stepped in and told ’em that it wasn’t going to happen.”

  “Who was doing the buying?”

  “The one in handcuffs, there,” Bernie said, nodding at the state car, now with a backseat occupant. “Him and the one that the sheriff is talkin’ with. The others were just buyin’ snack stuff.”

  “You asked them to leave the store?”

  “You betcha. They camped out there by their car, bein’ obnoxious. I guess it was just to get my goat. Well, they did that, all right. So I called you guys. I wasn’t going to go out and confront all five of ’em by myself.”

  “That was the wise thing to do, sir.”

  “Well, maybe. Maybe not, you know. I called your office twice, ’cause at one point I saw the kid who got himself arrested there throw something at a passing car. So I’m all, This is just going to get worse, you know what I mean? That’s what I thought to myself. So I called again. Brent said he was sending Denny over.”

  “Did you see what happened then?”

  “What, when he fired the shot? No, I couldn’t see. He was behind the cop car, there. I heard this loud bang, and just about the same time a kind of a clang. Jesus Christ, I thought. What the hell is he doing? Not that I wouldn’t have liked to take a baseball bat to that drunk kid myself. But I don’t think I’d shoot him.”

  “Where were you standing when the shot was fired?”

  “Right in the doorway of the store. I saw the state cop guy coming into the lot from Bustos, and that’s when it happened. Damn good thing Denny didn’t shoot the state cop. I can see the newspaper headlines now.” He managed a feeble laugh.

  Given a few hours for frayed nerves to mend, there was a good chance that a lot of people would be laughing, Estelle reflected. Two other cars approached simultaneously from opposite directions on Grande, and Estelle groaned inwardly. One was Linda Real’s little red Honda, but the other was driven by Frank Dayan, publisher of the Posadas Register.

  Chapter Seven

  Satisfied that no person had been in the path of the errant.45 slug, Estelle turned her attention to the most seriously injured-Deputy Dennis Collins. During the various comings and goings of investigators, the young man hadn’t moved more than a step or two from his position by the driver’s door of his county vehicle.

  Estelle was proud of him for that-it was exactly the right moment for silent restraint, to speak when spoken to. She knew this wasn’t an easy moment for the normally gregarious, cheerful deputy whose ego, normally large and fully inflated, must have been withered like a shrunken pea. There was no handy excuse for dropping a loaded gun-Dennis knew that, and kept silent.

  The last thing Collins needed at that moment was an interview, but it appeared that Frank Dayan was zeroing in on him. The newspaper publisher’s step was slower than usual-he appeared weary and worried, and Estelle knew Frank’s concern wasn’t because of a ruckus in a convenience store parking lot. Even though there was no yellow ribbon to stop him, Dayan hesitated as he approached. He knew better than to cross into a crime scene, even with the absence of a yellow tape. Collins, obviously unoccupied, alone, and on the periphery of the action, was a logical target.

  “Excuse me, Frank,” Estelle said as she approached, and Dayan stopped in his tracks.

  “Am I-,” Frank started to say, but Estelle gripped him firmly by the elbow, and together they walked up the sidewalk, well beyond Bob Torrez’s truck. Collins did not follow.

  “You’ve been over at the hospital?” Estelle asked as they walked.

  “Oh, you heard about t
hat?” He stopped. “The most tragic thing, Estelle. Just boom.” He chopped the air with his hand. “Kerri just dropped in a heap. Thank God there were people around who knew what to do.”

  “Is there anything that Pam needs?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, but gosh. Who knows with a thing like this. She’s still over at the hospital, of course. I think they’re going to airlift Kerri to Albuquerque.”

  “A rough time.”

  He groaned a response, then straightened his shoulders and surveyed the parking lot. “What’s going on here?”

  “We have a situation at the moment,” she said as they walked. “We’re going to need your cooperation with this.”

  “Of course,” Dayan said. “I was just on my way home and saw all the traffic. We have a robbery, or what?” The dapper publisher sounded hopeful.

  “I wish it were that simple,” Estelle replied. She weighed how much to tell Dayan, who over the years had proven himself to be discreet when necessary-his newspaper would publish the following Wednesday, and a lot could change in the next five days. Frank viewed any other media-the big metro papers and TV stations in particular-as competition, even though they probably didn’t know his small town paper existed. “It appears that there was an assault on the deputy’s vehicle,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

  “I saw the damage to the windshield. Somebody took a shot at him?”

  “No. Someone threw a loaded beer bottle.”

  Dayan grimaced in disgust, and Estelle wasn’t sure if the newspaperman was disappointed that the story was as insignificant as a chucked bottle, or if it was just his comment on rowdy youth. “That’s it?”

  “Well,” Estelle said carefully, “we’re continuing to investigate exactly what happened after that.” Frank would be irked at her sin of omission when the full story came out. “There may be some public intoxication involved.”