Dead Man's Rules (20 page)

Rafe wasn’t certain that was a good idea, though he welcomed her company. As they arrived at the Jeep, he pulled the phone from his belt holder. “Don’t wander too far.”

“You think he could still be up there watching us?”

“Maybe.” He found himself smiling suddenly, though he didn’t feel particularly humorous. “Maybe you ought to go back inside the building. Perhaps your ghost will protect you.”

The look she gave him sent his stomach roiling.

“Don’t laugh,” she said. “I thought I heard someone warn me to duck just before that first shot.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Rafe tried not to think about Cere’s strange comment as he punched in the numbers to call BJ. He doubted she had heard anything. The breeze in the trees could do strange things. Fearing the gunman could still be around they both sat inside the Jeep while he made his call.

“I’m at the Palladium and have a new development in the Sanchez case.”

“This is a city case, Rafe.” BJ didn’t sound pleased to hear from him.

“Not anymore. I found Naldo’s money box in a room out here.”

BJ sounded like he was sputtering. “You found it? Just like the gun? You think you’re gonna solve this thing first or something?”

Rafe stifled his annoyance. When would BJ realize their jobs should complement each other, not provide competition? “Could be.”

“Listen to me, Tafoya—”

“No, you listen. This is my jurisdiction, and I’m calling the state boys back and I want to be copied on everything they find from the in-town investigation. Not only that, but I’m going to have them look into why someone took a potshot at me and Cere Medina today. Now, if you want to get a look at this box before they take it, come on out. I’m calling them as soon as I’m off the phone. Until they get here, I’m posting a deputy to keep everyone out.”

He followed through, calling a friend at the state criminology lab in Santa Fe. It would take a few hours for technicians to show up, but he would feel more comfortable with them conducting the investigation. He knew he could handle it himself, but this would give him an excuse to ask for reports on Naldo’s killing. He knew better than to expect BJ to share them.

“Who do you suppose killed that Naldo guy?” Cere asked as he slid his phone back into its holster.

“I wish I knew.”

She pulled at her lower lip, deep in thought. “Why hide the money out here?”

“No one normally comes out this way. I believe Naldo was killed for the money and he couldn’t afford to be caught with that box. Maybe he’s been watching the place and saw you come inside.”

Her pretty face was set, but again it was not troubled or frightened. “Why lock me in the room where the money was?”

“Maybe he didn’t know what you were doing and wanted to scare you off. Or perhaps he had accomplices and went back for them because he feared you might take the money. He wanted to keep you locked up until he could get help. Hell, who knows?”

“How much do you think is in that box?” she asked, looking toward the sagging structure, again pulling at her lip.

Rafe followed the direction of her gaze. He leaned a boot back against the Jeep, folding his arms. “Hard to tell. Naldo never had a bank account. He’d cash any checks he got for his odd jobs. He did everything in cash and lived off the money in that box. He had no pension so he expected that money to take care of him for the rest of his life.”

“No bank account?” she said incredulously.

Rafe shrugged. “Lots of people who grew up out here didn’t trust banks after the Depression. Hell, he was his own banker when he ran the pawn shop. Always kept cash on hand.”

“People in town knew this?”

“Of course.”

“So it was someone from around here,” she concluded. “I mean, the townspeople are pretty guarded. They don’t talk to strangers, right?”

Since he’d come back to Rio Rojo, he’d met everyone in town. He couldn’t imagine anyone shooting the old man—even for the money.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean the killer’s local. If I have one complaint about this town, it’s that people talk too much, too loudly. You should hear that group at the Matador. They used to tease Naldo all the time. Maybe he told someone himself. He loved to gossip. Maybe he told Diaz. He said he knew the guy.”

She nodded. “That was the impression I got when I told him the old man was dead. But for some reason I thought he was upset—like he didn’t know.”

“If he knew him, if he even cared, why not go to the scene and get the details? Unless he already knew the details.” He turned to her, his hand on the seat. “Listen, do you want to take the Jeep and go back to town? I hate to strand you out here until a deputy can come out.”

She glanced toward the Palladium and then turned to him and gave him a radiant smile that made his heart skip. “Why don’t you tell me Marco’s story while we wait? The one Gary Riggins didn’t get right?”

Damn, this woman never quit. And that smile was merely a ploy. She knew its potent effect. Cere Medina, reporter-charmer in action. Rafe turned away, and stroked the scar under his beard thoughtfully. Still, maybe he’d give her a few details—just enough to make her bored.

Cere could tell she might finally be getting through to him. She increased the stakes. “I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something you’re trying to hide. It isn’t fair either. Someone shot at me. Was it because I want to do that story or because of the money?”

Rafe seemed to consider her comment and finally nodded. He gestured toward a piñon tree. “Let’s go sit in the shade. Maybe … a few questions.”

With the Jeep on one side, the tree on the other side and the Palladium sheltering them from the hill, no one could shoot at them except from the wide open space of the road. Cere found a flat rock near where he perched to serve as a seat. He picked at the grass at his feet, eyes averted from her.

“To tell the truth, I don’t know much about the case, but what do you want to know?”

“Riggins made it sound like murder in his story. Do you think he was right?”

“He wrote what he thought would sell. Suicide is too benign to sell.”

Cere recalled the blazing eyes that called out to her in the night, the voice that wouldn’t leave her alone. “I think Marco’s story deserves to be told one way or another. Riggins’ assistant says you started helping him and stopped. Is that true?”

His booted toe kicked at a rock on the ground. “I sensed the story wasn’t going to serve any purpose except stir up trouble. From what I know, it appears there were two Marcos. He was a hell raiser when he was young. Riggins barely touched on that, but Marco was sent to state prison for breaking into a bunch of stores.”

“Riggins said he was arrested for crimes he didn’t commit.”

He grunted and tossed down the piece of grass. “Yeah, well, he claimed Bradley Foster framed him.”

“Mr. Foster? Why would he do that?”

Rafe’s large shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Exactly. What would be the point? He was deputy sheriff. He’d have more to lose if he got caught framing some silly kid.”

Rafe was right. She might not like Bradley, but he didn’t seem the type to take such a chance.

“The thing is,” Rafe continued, “and this is only hearsay I got when I was young and told those ghost stories, when Marco was convicted, he apparently put on a big show in court. Jumped up on a table, waved a fist and promised revenge, that he’d come back and get even with the town.”

Cere gulped. Why had Riggins left that out of his story? It was a wonderful anecdote. “Who might be able to tell me about that?”

“I don’t know. It was one of those urban legend type things. We all said it, but no one knew who started it. Or anyone who heard it.”

Which was probably why Riggins left it out. “And then? He went to jail?”

“Back then some hard-case kids ended up in prison, not juvie hall. He served time with felons and supposedly changed. Educated himself and turned activist. When he came back, he claimed he wanted peace, equality for minorities, but no one trusted him or believed his motives. He tried to shake things up, organizing marches, giving protest concerts. He was a songwriter and wasn’t afraid to openly challenge the status quo with his music and speeches.”

He paused, and she thought of the defiant figure in the newspaper picture, fist upraised. The man looked unafraid.

“It must have been a jolt to this sleepy little place,” she said.

“Exactly. And right after he got back, another round of burglaries started up, similar to those earlier ones. Stores reported break-ins at night with cash registers robbed. Foster was sheriff by then and found no concrete evidence of the culprit, but everyone remembered Marco’s vow of revenge. He got blamed.”

She took a deep breath. “I heard… he might have burned down the old newspaper office. That’s why there aren’t news stories about him.”

His lips pressed together in a straight line and she wondered if he knew where she’d heard that. “Over a period of a couple of months, the violence escalated. Someone threw Molotov cocktails into businesses. Half of Main Street got hit. A hardware store, a couple of restaurants. The theory was that Marco did that in secret while preaching peace during the day.”

“Quite an enigma.”

“He did some good. My dad and uncle were college educated, but they worked as janitors, doing odd jobs, like running the presses at the town paper. Marco urged them to start up their own paper since that one was failing. After it burned, they did just that.”

A sudden realization hit her and she shivered despite the warm morning breeze. “Marco was a hero to your family. I don’t understand why you didn’t want to tell me about that.”

Rafe looked lost in thought, tugging at his beard. He seemed to weigh his words before responding. “People still disagree about his motives.”

“I see why Gary posed his story as one big question.”

“One more thing. Some people say he got hooked on drugs in prison and got depressed because things weren’t changing. They think his comment about love wasn’t about a woman, but was aimed at how he felt about the town. They say he tried to destroy it and then killed himself because it wouldn’t change.”

Cere touched his arm. “Will you do an interview for me? Tell the story about how he helped your family?”

Rafe drew back, startled. His black lashes flew up and down. He lurched to his feet, and wariness invaded his dark eyes. “You never quit, do you, Medina? Hell no!”

The request had come too soon. Another couple of minutes and she might have had him. “I understand, but who might talk? Len and Frank seem pretty adamant. Is there anyone else?”

“Marco didn’t have a mom or dad. He was brought up by an uncle, Frank’s dad. I don’t think he had anyone who would claim him by the end.” He shook his head, as though casting off the taste of something bitter. “Let it go, Cere. Let the ghosts rest in peace and maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

Cere hesitated, not certain how to proceed. Rafe had opened up a new side of himself when he admitted the truth about his wife. She could see now why he had come back to Rio Rojo. The pain as he spoke of her death was palpable. The idea of the uncaring city was not new; she had grown used to its indifference over the years. But to have it brought home in such a graphic manner must have made a big impact on him. She thought of Ginny with her crooked part and well washed T-shirt, and a wave of sympathy surged through her. She wanted to reach out and attempt to share in his anguish.

“Cere?” he prompted, bending down toward her.

She pushed away thoughts of his pain. She needed to forget the personal issues. Her own safety was at issue. “I need to tell you something and this isn’t about a ghost. It’s real. Someone left a message on my voice mail, telling me not to look into Marco’s death. That I could put my mother’s life and mine in danger.” She described the creepy voice.

“You should have told me this immediately.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “I knew you’d use it as an excuse to get me to stop.”

“And now?”

The truth was she was tired of being his adversary. But she didn’t know what else she wanted.

Before he could respond, a plume of dust rose in the distance and the faint sound of an engine came from the road.

Sunlight glinted off the windows. For an instant she feared it was Diego Diaz in his big black SUV.

Chapter Twenty-Two

BJ Foster stepped from his car and hitched up gray pants. He lumbered toward them trying to look official, but with his blue shirt pulling out of his wrinkled pants, the image didn’t fit. He reminded Cere of the stereotypical small town sheriff.

“So tell me about this evidence you found,” he demanded, giving Rafe a skeptical look. His light blue eyes slid over to Cere, and Rafe introduced them.

His gaze lingered on her a bit too long, and Cere shifted uncomfortably as she said hello.

“You want to see the box?” Rafe asked.

BJ’s attention swiveled back to Rafe. “Yeah, the strange thing is, you’re the only one who’s told me about that money box. Most everyone else seemed to think he had it spread out in bundles underground. We’ve been chasing people away from his yard.”

Rafe’s jaw tensed as he shook his head. “Look, I wasn’t the only kid who ever worked for him. I watched him get money out of that box. I’m certain other people saw him do that too. They just haven’t told you.”

“His coins in there too?”

“I didn’t see that little pouch he used to carry around, if that’s what you mean.”

“Uh-huh and you’re the one who knew where the murder weapon was too.” His hard eyes narrowed. “Seems to me you’re my top suspect.”

Rafe shook his head, disbelief visible on his hard face. Cere could imagine the two men battled quite a bit. Or maybe the police chief was just trying to put on a show for her. Rafe’s phone beeped. He checked the number, held up a hand, excused himself and stomped away, a scowl on his dark face.

BJ turned to Cere with a wide smile. Tall and sturdy, tending toward pudginess, he stood over her like a towering oak. “I hear you was locked in a room out here last night?”