Free Convenient Disposal by Steven F. Havill Page B

that?”
    “Will you at least wait until I’m there before using that search warrant?”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Page. That’s not going to work.”
    She heard what might have been a sigh of frustration over the line. “Look, it just seems to me that if Kevin saw something next door, if he was a witness to something, he would have let you know,” Page said.
    “That’s what I would have thought, sir.”
    “There’s more to this than what you’re telling me.”
    “We don’t know yet what happened, Mr. Page. As far as the county manager is concerned, it may turn out to be nothing at all. If I need to reach you in the next couple of hours, will you have a phone in your car?”
    “Of course.” He gave her the number. “I’ll be there by seven,” he said.
    “Be careful on the highway, sir.” She switched off the phone and remained sitting on the small stoop, lost in thought. Finally, she dialed the county office again.
    “Penny, any word from his nibs?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
    Penny Barnes didn’t buy it. “Not a thing, Estelle.
What
is going on? You know, this isn’t like him. Not like him at all. Did you find his friend?”
    “No, it’s not like him,” Estelle said. “And yes, I talked with Mr. Page. Did you happen to think of anyone else to check with?”
    “No. But I’ve called everyone, everywhere. He hasn’t been at the county barns, he’s not out at the landfill—I even called Jim Bergin out at the airport. Nothing. He isn’t answering his cell, or the radio. I’ve got everyone looking and calling. Like I said, he’s playing hooky somewhere.”
    I hope so
, Estelle thought. A still-warm truck with the keys in the ignition, parked next door to an attempted murder, wasn’t her definition of hooky.

Chapter Eight
    The house key was where William Page had said it was, tucked in a slot in the belly of the small tin lizard on the windowsill. Not allowing her latex gloves to touch the brass doorknob, Estelle turned the key and nudged the door with her left elbow. She could hear Bob Torrez’s breathing behind her. Pausing at one side of the doorway, she inhaled deeply, scanning what she could see of the living room at the same time. Nothing appeared out of place, and the air carried the faint, clean aroma of a well-tended home.
    “He ain’t here,” Torrez murmured.
    “I don’t think so.” Estelle moved fully into the living room, and Torrez followed, shutting the front door and leaving Deputy Thomas Pasquale standing outside on the steps.
    Loath to probe deeper into Kevin Zeigler’s home, Estelle waited. Apparently the sheriff felt the same awkwardness, because he made no move to press by her.
    “What do you think?” he asked.
    Estelle shook her head, jolted by the intrusion of Torrez’s voice. Her senses told her nothing except that the house was most likely as it had been when the county manager left for work that morning. She turned in place, inventorying the living room. Zeigler was a movie fan, and the room was arranged so that all seats, including the large, plush sofa, faced the enormous entertainment center on the east wall, with speakers surrounding the room.
    On a small shelf to one side of the VCR, the tape-rewinding machine yawned open, a videotape visible inside.
    The curtain was pulled securely over the west-facing window, and much of the remainder of that wall was taken up with a twelve-foot span of bookshelves. An old-fashioned wooden coat-rack stood between the window and the corner nearest the door, the hooks empty except for a single dark brown sweater. Estelle stepped to the window and examined the curtain. The pleats hung straight and true, the center seam overlapping precisely.
    She slipped a finger between the two curtain halves and pushed one far enough out of place to see outside. The view was directly toward the Acostas’ kitchen door.
    “There’s always the possibility that Freddy is a lying sack of shit,” Torrez said matter-of-factly. “He