fighter, if he’s scared to death, he’s going to run. For one thing, if Perry MacInerny heard the shots, we know it was dark when this all happened.”
“So the poor guy thinks he can get away in the dark.”
Estelle nodded. “But that makes it hard to run.”
“Hard to shoot, too.”
“If the killer drove after him, he had his headlights. Enough for a quick shot or two.”
Francis poured the remains of his soda into the glass, watching the two ice cubes drift in the current. “I suppose. The killer gets close enough for a head shot. John Doe is tired of running, staggering, out of breath. He turns to face him. Boom.”
“I can understand the facial trauma, then,” Estelle said. “The killer is in a rage. The head shot isn’t enough, and he makes sure with a rock. When he’s finished, he’s probably in such a lather that he doesn’t even realize that he doesn’t have the shovel—even if he had the inclination to bury the second victim. He’s confident that identification is going to be next to impossible, on the off chance that someone discovers the body.”
“Interesting scenario,” Francis said. “John Doe would have been the one with the shovel, too.”
Estelle nodded. “Even if Juan dug his own grave, someone had to cover him up. The killer has the gun, John gets the shovel. And somewhere along the line, he sees his chance.”
Francis looked over the top of his glass at his wife. “And if we’re wrong?”
Estelle smiled. “Then we’re no further away from an answer than we are right now.”
“If you’re right, you’re looking for a man with head trauma. That shovel would have made a nasty cut.” Draining the last of the soda into the glass, Francis squeezed the empty can neatly in half, set it on the table, and nudged it to rocking. “And now?” He watched his wife’s face. Two sips of tea and a few quiet moments hadn’t erased the dark circles under her eyes.
Estelle cradled her head again, gently shaking it back and forth. “I don’t know.” She lowered her voice even more. “I wonder about Eurelio.”
“Who’s that?”
“The young guy who was riding with Marvin Hudson today, from the electric company. He’s Paulita Saenz’s son.”
“From the bar across the street, you mean?”
Estelle nodded.
“I saw you talking to the one who was driving. The fat one? That was Marvin? What did his partner do to attract your attention?”
“He didn’t do anything.” Estelle pushed the tea to one side, rested her chin on her hand again and gazed out the dirty window. “He didn’t even get out of the truck.”
“Why should he?”
“Tom Pasquale walked around the truck and talked to Eurelio. He said that the boy was nervous.”
Francis chuckled. “Tom Pasquale has never impressed me as the most keenly observant type,
querida
. ”
“Exactly. If the boy’s behavior caught Tom’s attention…” She shrugged. “Loose ends, is all,” she added.
“Things to keep you awake at night.”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Did you run all this by Jackie? To see what she thinks?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Well, you should,” he said. “
Padrino
’s right when he calls you inscrutable, you know. The deputies can’t read your mind. And Jackie’s pretty savvy.”
“Yes, she is. But she has other things to think about just now,” Estelle said. She pushed her chair back and sighed. “Sometimes, until I know the direction I want to go, it’s easier if I don’t muddy the water. I’d hate to send somebody off on a wild-goose chase.” She smiled at Francis. “Anyway, I did tell someone. I told
you, mi corazón
. ” She pushed herself to her feet. “You ready?”
“Sure.”
Lucy Madrid hovered near the aging cash register, and Francis handed her a five dollar bill and waved away the change. “What do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a physician,” Francis replied.
“Well, that’s good,” Lucy said. She nodded at the old man who still sat quietly,
“So the poor guy thinks he can get away in the dark.”
Estelle nodded. “But that makes it hard to run.”
“Hard to shoot, too.”
“If the killer drove after him, he had his headlights. Enough for a quick shot or two.”
Francis poured the remains of his soda into the glass, watching the two ice cubes drift in the current. “I suppose. The killer gets close enough for a head shot. John Doe is tired of running, staggering, out of breath. He turns to face him. Boom.”
“I can understand the facial trauma, then,” Estelle said. “The killer is in a rage. The head shot isn’t enough, and he makes sure with a rock. When he’s finished, he’s probably in such a lather that he doesn’t even realize that he doesn’t have the shovel—even if he had the inclination to bury the second victim. He’s confident that identification is going to be next to impossible, on the off chance that someone discovers the body.”
“Interesting scenario,” Francis said. “John Doe would have been the one with the shovel, too.”
Estelle nodded. “Even if Juan dug his own grave, someone had to cover him up. The killer has the gun, John gets the shovel. And somewhere along the line, he sees his chance.”
Francis looked over the top of his glass at his wife. “And if we’re wrong?”
Estelle smiled. “Then we’re no further away from an answer than we are right now.”
“If you’re right, you’re looking for a man with head trauma. That shovel would have made a nasty cut.” Draining the last of the soda into the glass, Francis squeezed the empty can neatly in half, set it on the table, and nudged it to rocking. “And now?” He watched his wife’s face. Two sips of tea and a few quiet moments hadn’t erased the dark circles under her eyes.
Estelle cradled her head again, gently shaking it back and forth. “I don’t know.” She lowered her voice even more. “I wonder about Eurelio.”
“Who’s that?”
“The young guy who was riding with Marvin Hudson today, from the electric company. He’s Paulita Saenz’s son.”
“From the bar across the street, you mean?”
Estelle nodded.
“I saw you talking to the one who was driving. The fat one? That was Marvin? What did his partner do to attract your attention?”
“He didn’t do anything.” Estelle pushed the tea to one side, rested her chin on her hand again and gazed out the dirty window. “He didn’t even get out of the truck.”
“Why should he?”
“Tom Pasquale walked around the truck and talked to Eurelio. He said that the boy was nervous.”
Francis chuckled. “Tom Pasquale has never impressed me as the most keenly observant type,
querida
. ”
“Exactly. If the boy’s behavior caught Tom’s attention…” She shrugged. “Loose ends, is all,” she added.
“Things to keep you awake at night.”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Did you run all this by Jackie? To see what she thinks?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Well, you should,” he said. “
Padrino
’s right when he calls you inscrutable, you know. The deputies can’t read your mind. And Jackie’s pretty savvy.”
“Yes, she is. But she has other things to think about just now,” Estelle said. She pushed her chair back and sighed. “Sometimes, until I know the direction I want to go, it’s easier if I don’t muddy the water. I’d hate to send somebody off on a wild-goose chase.” She smiled at Francis. “Anyway, I did tell someone. I told
you, mi corazón
. ” She pushed herself to her feet. “You ready?”
“Sure.”
Lucy Madrid hovered near the aging cash register, and Francis handed her a five dollar bill and waved away the change. “What do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a physician,” Francis replied.
“Well, that’s good,” Lucy said. She nodded at the old man who still sat quietly,
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