Read Online A Discount for Death by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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Sutherland repeated the number, Estelle idled the car ahead a few feet so that she could see the license on the little import. “The second is New Mexico One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike.”
“Ten four. It’ll be just a minute.”
She settled back in the seat, phone resting lightly on her shoulder. The pickup lacked a tailgate, the left taillight assembly, and the back bumper. What looked like an aluminum ramp lay in the back, the sort of thing a bike owner would use to load a motorcycle up into the truck’s sagging bed. The little truck’s right rear tire was soft, adding to the derelict tilt of the aging suspension.
In less than a minute, Sutherland’s smooth, efficient voice was back on the phone. “Ma’am, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln should appear on a blue nineteen seventy-seven Ford Courier pickup truck registered to a Richard Charles Kenderman, two four four De La Mar, Las Cruces. Negative twenty-nine.”
Estelle frowned.
Richard Charles
, she thought. “Do you know him?”
“Sure don’t,” Brent said. “But he’s got to be related to Perry. Not that many Kendermans around these parts.”
“See what you can track down, will you? What’s the other tag?”
“One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike should appear on a white nineteen ninety-four Nissan registered to a Barbara Cole Parker, seven oh nine Third Street, Posadas. No wants or warrants.”
“Thanks. I’ll be out of the car for a while at that address, Brent.”
“Okay. And before you go, I have a note here from the sheriff to remind you of your appointment at zero nine hundred.”
Estelle glanced at the dash clock. In two hours and three minutes, the Posadas County Grand Jury would convene to decide the fate of insurance agent George Enriquez—on the first day of the rest of
his
life.
“I’ll be there. Thanks, Brent.” Across the street, a truck started up with a plume of blue smoke, then backed out of a driveway and headed south. From the first house north of the Parkers’, a small, ratty dog trotted out to stand in the street, watching the truck depart. After a moment, the animal turned, glanced at Estelle’s car, and sauntered back onto the brick path that connected house to sidewalk.
When the undersheriff got out of her car, the dog stopped and regarded her, tail a motionless flag at half-mast. Then the ears dropped, the tail flicked, and the dog approached, nose close to the ground.
Estelle stopped on the sidewalk and let the little animal sniff the cuffs of her slacks.
“You know exactly what happened last night, don’t you,” Estelle said. The little dog jumped sideways at the sound of her voice, ears pricked and tail wagging. With no head-scratch forthcoming, the animal turned to pursue interests elsewhere.
Estelle walked up beside the pickup. It was unlocked, the keys in the ignition. The ashtray yawned open, full to overflowing with cigarette butts. A light film of dust coated the dashboard, the perfect canvas for a welter of finger- and handprints and smudges. A hole gaped in the narrow dashboard where the radio had been.
The driver’s door was only partially closed, and Estelle lifted the latch. The rich, cloying fragrance of burned hemp wafted out. “Party time,” Estelle murmured and nudged the door shut. She walked forward past the truck and glanced at the sedan. Other than a cardboard carton that had once held canning jars and now might be home to any number of things, the inside of the Nissan was clean.
As she stepped to the front door of the house, Estelle paused to survey the neighborhood. Little boxy houses nested in small yards with occasional chain-link fences and shaggy, unkempt elms as yet untouched by breezes. At 6:57 that morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Inside the Parker house, she heard a child’s voice, then an adult’s, low-pitched and gentle.
Barbara Parker might have drifted off to sleep after the brutal evening the day before,
“Ten four. It’ll be just a minute.”
She settled back in the seat, phone resting lightly on her shoulder. The pickup lacked a tailgate, the left taillight assembly, and the back bumper. What looked like an aluminum ramp lay in the back, the sort of thing a bike owner would use to load a motorcycle up into the truck’s sagging bed. The little truck’s right rear tire was soft, adding to the derelict tilt of the aging suspension.
In less than a minute, Sutherland’s smooth, efficient voice was back on the phone. “Ma’am, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln should appear on a blue nineteen seventy-seven Ford Courier pickup truck registered to a Richard Charles Kenderman, two four four De La Mar, Las Cruces. Negative twenty-nine.”
Estelle frowned.
Richard Charles
, she thought. “Do you know him?”
“Sure don’t,” Brent said. “But he’s got to be related to Perry. Not that many Kendermans around these parts.”
“See what you can track down, will you? What’s the other tag?”
“One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike should appear on a white nineteen ninety-four Nissan registered to a Barbara Cole Parker, seven oh nine Third Street, Posadas. No wants or warrants.”
“Thanks. I’ll be out of the car for a while at that address, Brent.”
“Okay. And before you go, I have a note here from the sheriff to remind you of your appointment at zero nine hundred.”
Estelle glanced at the dash clock. In two hours and three minutes, the Posadas County Grand Jury would convene to decide the fate of insurance agent George Enriquez—on the first day of the rest of
his
life.
“I’ll be there. Thanks, Brent.” Across the street, a truck started up with a plume of blue smoke, then backed out of a driveway and headed south. From the first house north of the Parkers’, a small, ratty dog trotted out to stand in the street, watching the truck depart. After a moment, the animal turned, glanced at Estelle’s car, and sauntered back onto the brick path that connected house to sidewalk.
When the undersheriff got out of her car, the dog stopped and regarded her, tail a motionless flag at half-mast. Then the ears dropped, the tail flicked, and the dog approached, nose close to the ground.
Estelle stopped on the sidewalk and let the little animal sniff the cuffs of her slacks.
“You know exactly what happened last night, don’t you,” Estelle said. The little dog jumped sideways at the sound of her voice, ears pricked and tail wagging. With no head-scratch forthcoming, the animal turned to pursue interests elsewhere.
Estelle walked up beside the pickup. It was unlocked, the keys in the ignition. The ashtray yawned open, full to overflowing with cigarette butts. A light film of dust coated the dashboard, the perfect canvas for a welter of finger- and handprints and smudges. A hole gaped in the narrow dashboard where the radio had been.
The driver’s door was only partially closed, and Estelle lifted the latch. The rich, cloying fragrance of burned hemp wafted out. “Party time,” Estelle murmured and nudged the door shut. She walked forward past the truck and glanced at the sedan. Other than a cardboard carton that had once held canning jars and now might be home to any number of things, the inside of the Nissan was clean.
As she stepped to the front door of the house, Estelle paused to survey the neighborhood. Little boxy houses nested in small yards with occasional chain-link fences and shaggy, unkempt elms as yet untouched by breezes. At 6:57 that morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Inside the Parker house, she heard a child’s voice, then an adult’s, low-pitched and gentle.
Barbara Parker might have drifted off to sleep after the brutal evening the day before,
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