through the phone line, her exhalation sounded ragged. “Thank you for that. And for calling. Oh. Have you talked to Lenora’s sister yet?”
“Sorry. I meant to say that first. They’re in Walla Walla. Asparagus harvest. No phone—I had to send an officer around. But they’re on their way. What is it—a three-, four-hour drive? They should be at the hospital by dawn.”
“Thank goodness. When Lenora wakes up…”
An optimist. He’d guessed she would be. He was well aware that he’d be wasting his breath to suggest she go home and go to bed. She felt responsible, justly or not, and wouldn’t let herself off the hook. Lenora wouldn’t know Karin was holding vigil, but Karin did, and would think less of herself if she didn’t.
There wasn’t much more he could do tonight. He’d sent officers out to canvass near neighbors to Julia and Mateo Lopez shortly after the body was found. None had heard a thing. Evidence techs had taken over the house and were still working. He wouldn’t get results from the crime lab on exactly whose blood was on the tire iron until tomorrow at best. He knew damn well what the results would be, given that no weapon had been located in or near the Lopez home.
There was a limit to how much he could do before morning to find Escobar’s rat hole, either. He’d put out the description of the vehicle and the license number, but not until tomorrow would he be able to access bank records or speak to co-workers and—if any existed—friends. Mateo was so distraught he’d had to be sedated. Bruce hadn’t gotten much out of him, not once he’d been told about his wife.
Resisting the temptation to drive to Harborview and keep Karin Jorgensen company in the waiting room, Bruce went home. Tomorrow would be a long day. He’d done what he could tonight to set a manhunt in motion. Now he needed a few hours of downtime.
Funny thing, how he fell asleep picturing Karin Jorgensen. Not with her face distraught, but from earlier in the evening, when she’d still been able to smile.
CHAPTER THREE
BRUCE SLEPT for four hours and awoke Tuesday morning feeling like crap. He grunted at the sight of his face in the mirror and concentrated after that on the path of the electric razor, not on the overall picture. Coffee helped enough that he realized the ring of the telephone had awakened him. He checked voice mail, and found a message from Molly.
“Houston, we have a launch. Baby Elizabeth Molly—yes, named for me—was born at 5:25 this morning. While you were no doubt sleeping, ah, like a baby.”
Ha! He grinned.
“Since I didn’t have an indolent eight hours of beauty sleep,” she continued, “I’m taking Fiona and baby home and crashing—Elizabeth Molly permitting—in Fiona’s guest room.” As an obvious afterthought, she added, “Hope the self-defense workshop went well.” Beep.
Oh, if only you knew.
He skipped breakfast, figuring to get something out of the vending machine at the hospital.
Karin had gone home, he found, and was surprised at his disappointment. Instead, the waiting room was filled with Lenora Escobar’s extended family. The sister and husband and their brood of five children, and one of the Lopez’s four grown children with his wife. Lenora, he was told, was still unresponsive in ICU.
He asked to speak privately with Lenora’s sister and her husband, and took them to a smaller room likely saved by hospital officials for the grave business of telling family a loved one hadn’t made it. Tending to claustrophobia, Bruce left the door open.
Yolanda spoke English well, her husband less so. They switched to Spanish, in which Bruce had become fluent on the job. He’d started with Seattle PD on a beat in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood, building on his high-school Spanish.
Both told him that they had always thought Roberto was scum. “Pah!” Alvaro Muñoz declared. “You could see the bruises, how frightened she was of him. But she lied to make us believe everything was fine. Only recently…” A lean, mustachioed man, he hesitated, glancing at his wife.
“She told me she was going to leave him. She said so on the phone. She lowered her voice, so I think maybe he was home. She said she’d call when she got to the safe house.” She bit her lip in distress. “Did he hear when she told me?”
Bruce shook his head. “Your aunt Julia went to the shelter to pick the kids up. I suspect Roberto was following her.”
Yolanda Muñoz was petite like her sister, but pleasantly rounded. Her husband’s skin was leathery from the sun, but hers was a soft café au lait. She must stay at home with the children, whatever home might be, given what Bruce gathered was their migrant lifestyle. Grief made her voice tremulous, kept her eyes moist. “You’ll find Anna and Enrico?” she demanded. “When Lenora wakes up, how can I tell her he has them?”
He offered his automatic response. “We’re doing our best. What I’m hoping you can do is tell me everything you know about Roberto. We’ll be talking to his co-workers, but what about friends? Hobbies?” Seeing perplexity on their faces, he realized the concept of hobbies was foreign to them, as hard as they worked and as careful as they likely were with every penny they earned. “Ah…did he go fishing? Work on cars?”
Both heads shook in unison. “He didn’t like to leave Lenora alone,” Yolanda explained. “Even when family was there, so was he. All women in the kitchen, and Roberto. As if he thought we’d talk about him.”
Or as if he couldn’t let his wife have anything that was hers alone, even the easy relationship with her family.
Bruce continued to ask questions, but they knew frustratingly little. Roberto Escobar worked. Yes, he was a hard worker, they agreed, the praise grudging but fairly given, and he did help keep their place nice. He talked about his mother coming to live with them again. He was angry when she went to live with his brother, instead. Lenora said he called the mother sometimes, but mostly he yelled, so they didn’t know if he would take the children to her. Yolanda thought maybe his mother liked Lenora better than her own son. And who could blame her?
Yolanda and her husband rejoined their children and cousins, and Bruce drove to the lumberyard where Escobar had worked. There, he learned little. Co-workers thought Roberto Escobar was surly and humorless, but his supervisor insisted that he was a good worker, and reliable until he’d failed to show up yesterday morning.
“So what if he ignores the other guys here, eats the lunch his wife sends instead of going out with them?” The balding, stringy man shrugged. After a moment, he added, “Maybe you can’t tell me why you’re looking for him, but…Will he be back to work?”
“I doubt it.”
“So I’d better be replacing him.” He was resigned, regretting the loss of a good worker but not the man.
Bruce’s only glimmer of hope came from the last interview, when the middle-aged cashier said suddenly, “He did used to be friends with that other Mexican who worked here. Guy didn’t speak much English. Uh…Pedro or José or one of those common names.” She leaned back in her chair and opened the office door a crack. “Pete,” she called, “you remember that Mexican used to work here? The one with the fake papers?”
“Yeah, yeah. Garcia.”
