Come Dark by Steven F. Havill

Don Juan de Oñate painted on three walls. A girl who looked so young that she should have been enrolled in middle school greeted the undersheriff with a tentative smile and raised eyebrows, but said not a word.
    â€œIs JanaLynn on shift yet, Bonnie?”
    â€œShe’s off today.”
    â€œAh.” Yet another of Sheriff Bobby Torrez’ endless parade of cousins, JanaLynn knew every regular customer who frequented the Don Juan. Estelle took a step beyond the cash register and surveyed the restaurant. The early lunch crowd was sparse. “Do you know Dana Gabaldon?”
    â€œI even babysit for her sometimes,” Bonnie said brightly.
    â€œHas she been in for lunch today?”
    â€œI ain’t seen her at all.”
    Estelle smiled at the girl. “You have the whole place to yourself, huh?”
    Bonnie brightened. “Just me until right at noon.” She glanced at the clock, still fifteen minutes shy of the lunch rush. “Then Claire comes in.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    But it is a problem, Estelle thought on her way back outside. For a moment she stood in the sun, letting it chase the remains of the Don Juan’s frigid air conditioning, and then slid into her car, opening all four windows wide. The short drive a few blocks east on Bustos to Pershing filled the car with hot Southwest, a blanket of aromas that Estelle found more refreshing, mixed with the icy air pumped by the car’s efficient air conditioning compressor.
    Eddie Gabaldon’s bike of the day was chained to the natural-gas meter on the side of the post office. He wouldn’t have gone out to lunch, being the natural food fanatic that he is. The post office was empty of customers, and Estelle rapped a knuckle on the staff entrance off the end of the lobby.
    â€œEddie? It’s Estelle Guzman.”
    â€œJust a second!” he shouted from somewhere in the back. In a moment the lock to the inner sanctum of the post office rattled and Eddie Gabaldon pushed the door open. “Hey, Mrs. Sheriff.” He grinned widely, showing square, even teeth. Burly in build, Gabaldon hardly fit the image that Estelle conjured of professional bikers, those riders with thunder thighs topped by otherwise rail-thin bodies and hawk noses perfect for splitting the slipstream. Of course, neither did Tom Pasquale. But the deputy won races on the downhill sections, where his fearless lack of common sense ruled the race.
    Eddie beckoned with a rubber-tipped finger, the little red thimble obviating the need to lick fingers for traction. “Come on in.”
    â€œI don’t want to take your time, Eddie. Actually, I needed to talk with Dana for just a little bit, but she wasn’t home.”
    â€œShe took Adrianna down to Cruces to visit the mom.” His heavy face scrunched up in resignation. “When the mom summons, you gotta go. I think she’s going to stay overnight.” He smiled indulgently. “Grandparents got to have their baby time, you know.”
    â€œDid she have company?”
    â€œWho, Dana? Just the little monkey. Adrianna loves to ride in the car. Why? Which company are we talkin’ about? Who are you lookin’ for?”
    â€œActually, I wanted to chat with Stacie Stewart, Eddie. Todd said that she might be having lunch with Dana today.”
    â€œHe be wrong.” Eddie smiled. “Which, for a husband, isn’t all that uncommon, you know. Did you call her?”
    Estelle had tried Stacie Stewart’s cell phone number a dozen times, earning the same brief, cheerful voicemail message each time. If it had chirped from the depths of the woman’s purse, Stacie had proven immune to the “telephone imperative,” that odd behavior that even prompted people to leap from the shower to answer, only to hear an ad warning that the warranty on their car was poised to expire.
    â€œI haven’t been able to reach her,” Estelle said