Hermit's Peak (17 page)

“A local trucker?”

“Yeah, Lenny Alarid, from Anton Chico, does the hauling.”

“How well did you know Rudy Espinoza?”

The man stopped working and looked directly at Gabe. “What's it to you?”

Technically Gabe had no official powers while on administrative leave, so there was no need to identify himself as a cop. “Rudy's family isn't happy with what happened. I'm looking into it.”

“Wasn't that something? Yeah, I knew Rudy. He worked here for a while until the boss fired him.”

“Joaquin?”

“No, Philip. Rudy had sticky fingers.”

“He was stealing?”

“Yeah, little crap. Hand tools, fence posts, partial rolls of leftover wire—stuff like that.”

“When did he work here?”

“Last summer. I think he got the boot in August.”

“What was his job?”

“Yard worker, just like me.”

“Who did he hang with?”

“Nobody, really. Joaquin, a little bit. You know, the brother-in-law thing.”

“Do you remember the truck he drove?”

“A beat-up Toyota. Piece of shit.”

“Nothing else?”

“That's all I ever saw him in. Is Rudy's family gonna hire a lawyer and sue the shit out of the cops for shooting Rudy?”

“Possibly.”

“Nobody should get wasted for just being a thief.”

“You're not wrong,” Gabe replied.

 • • • 

Approaching Ojitos Frios, Gabe hoped the rumors circulating about the Rudy Espinoza shooting hadn't reached Angie Romero. He didn't want to face an angry, uncooperative drunk with an attitude.

Serious drinkers sweated booze out of every pore, and Angie's front room stank with the sickening smell of alcohol-laced perspiration.

“Who was the son of a bitch who shot him, Gabe?” Angie asked.

“I can't tell you that,” Gabe replied, looking for a place to sit down that wasn't totally foul. He decided to remain standing.

“Rudy was a good man when he wasn't drinking.”

“I'm sure he was.”

Gabe knew the Romero family fairly well. The oldest of the three sisters, Angie had transformed herself from a bubbly teenager into a worn-out alcoholic and a family embarrassment. The house she lived in belonged to her grandfather, the Mustang she drove was registered to an uncle, and the money she lived on came from her father, a vice president at a local bank.

“We were going to get married,” Angie added, as she sat on the soiled divan and sipped her whiskey from a coffee mug.

Her narrow face seemed completely asymmetrical, her lips and fingernails were painted blueberry, and she wore a wrinkled pair of black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and no shoes. Her dull, watery eyes looked sunken against the contrast of her rouged cheeks. Gabe figured Angie had dressed—as best she could in an alcoholic daze—to be a lady in mourning.

“Do you know who called Rudy just before he left the house?”

“No, he answered the phone and then said he had to leave. When do I get my car back?”

“Soon.”

“It better not be wrecked.”

“There is very little damage. Was Rudy working anywhere?”

“Not since last summer.”

“How did he get money?”

“Odd jobs.”

“What was he doing?”

“He didn't say.”

“Not a word?”

Angie shrugged her shoulders. “He had money. I didn't ask where he got it.”

“A lot of money?”

“I don't know if it was a lot. He borrowed some from me before he took the Mustang and left.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“Was he tight with Joaquin?”

“What are you getting at?” Angie asked as she got up and went to the kitchen. She returned with a full mug. “All these questions. Rudy got killed by a cop, that's all I know.”

“Something made him run.”

“Who wants to be hassled by cops?”

“I'm trying to find out what happened. Was Rudy tight with Joaquin?”

“He was his brother-in-law.”

“But not good friends?”

“They got along.”

“Did he ever talk about Joaquin?”

“Only to say that Joaquin had some woman problems.”

“With his wife, Debbie?”

“Her, and with some other girlfriend, while he was separated.”

“Does the girl have a name?”

“I didn't pay any attention. Are you finished? I have things to do.”

“Take care of yourself, Angie.”

“Just leave me alone, okay?”

 • • • 

Kerney did a house-to-house canvas of San Geronimo and the surrounding countryside, asking questions about a young Mexican woman who had either lived or worked in the area. Not surprisingly, no one recalled a woman who matched the description Kerney had compiled from the information supplied by Melody Jordan's analysis.

What Kerney did find surprising was the number of new homes in tucked away places. Aside from upscale vacation cabins and summer homes sprinkled throughout the valley, there were houses of year-round residents in several rural subdivisions and on small parcels of land adjoining some of the large ranches.

Very few people were home. But from the number of swing sets, sandboxes, and basketball hoops outside it was clear that working couples with children were migrating to the once remote, rural setting.

North of San Geronimo, above Mineral Springs in the pine forest at the edge of Johnson Mesa, he questioned caretakers at three youth and church summer camps, and came up empty again.

The afternoon wore on as he stopped at the larger ranches in the valley before looping back through San Geronimo and picking up the county road that paralleled the mesa.

He couldn't quite think of the mesa as his land. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The old stone cabin came into view with a pickup truck parked inside the open gate. He turned in and recognized Nestor Barela walking toward the cabin.

Barela heard the sound of Kerney's vehicle and reversed his direction.

“So, it is the policeman who now owns the Fergurson land,” Barela said when Kerney approached. His tone wasn't friendly.

“Mr. Barela,” Kerney replied.

“I do not like being made to a seem a fool,” Barela said. “You came to my house under false pretenses.”

“I saw no need at the time to tell you who I was.”

“Because you suspected me of wrong-doing?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“And now?”

“I haven't reached any conclusions,” Kerney replied.

“I would never spoil this land.”

“I'm not saying you did. Why are you here, Mr. Barela?”

“To see for myself what was done.” Barela gestured at the cabin. “The wood covering the door must be replaced, and the gate must be locked.”

Kerney shook his head. “Not until the police investigation is concluded. When it is, I'll close the cabin up, buy a lock for the gate, and give you a key.”

“When will that be?”

“It could be days, maybe a week.”

“Make sure you do as you promise,” Barela said, turning away abruptly.

Kerney watched as the old man got into his truck, wondering why Barela even cared about a worthless structure on the verge of collapse.

He closed the cabin door, got a
CRIME SCENE
warning placard out of his unit, and taped the warning on the door. He taped another placard to the gate and closed it before leaving.

 • • • 

Emmet Griffin opened the door to the Horse Canyon Ranch foreman's residence holding a bowl of stew in one hand. Kerney displayed his shield, identified himself, and asked for a few minutes.

“I thought you might be a cop,” Griffin said as he motioned with his head for Kerney to enter.

“What gave me away?”

Griffin padded across the hardwood floor in his stocking feet. A pair of cruddy work boots were carefully placed on some newspapers by the door.

“I used to talk the talk, and walk the walk. Spent five years as a deputy sheriff in Texas before deciding working with animals was a hell of a lot safer.” Griffin sat in a worn wicker armchair with a matching ottoman, pulled the ottoman close, placed the bowl of stew on it, and started eating.

“No lunch,” he said between spoonfuls. “You don't mind?”

“Not at all.”

Besides the chair and ottoman, the only other furniture in the room consisted of a small TV on a low table and a floor-to-ceiling pole lamp with three light canisters that was right out of the 1950s.

“One of your officers stopped by earlier,” Griffin said. “A Sergeant Gonzales. He was asking about Rudy Espinoza.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I had to let him go because he wasn't worth a damn. About a week after he started, we began losing things.” Griffin paused to wipe his mouth on a shirtsleeve.
“I didn't pay much mind to it at first. Stuff can get misplaced. But when a couple of good saddles turned up gone, I fired him.”

“Did he admit to taking the saddles?”

“No.”

“Did you report it to the sheriff's office?”

Griffin laughed. “A lot of good that did. The deputy came out and took a report. End of story.”

“Did you ever actually catch Espinoza stealing?”

“Nope. But I knew the rest of my crew wasn't doing it. They've been with me since I moved over to this job.”

“Where were you working before?”

“The Box Z down on the Conchas River.”

“Did Espinoza cause any other problems?”

“Not with me.”

“With somebody else?” Kerney asked.

“The housekeeper didn't like him. He kept pestering her. She complained to the boss.”

“What was he doing?”

“Making excuses to go up to the house, trying to get alone with her—at least that's what she said.” Griffin dropped the spoon in the empty bowl. “He wasn't the only one to show interest in her. Luiza attracted men. Cute little thing. Real pretty in a shy sort of way.”

“Can you describe her?”

“She was about five four, in her mid-twenties. Dark hair, dark skin. Her left arm was skinnier than her right arm. She said she broke it when she was a kid.”

“Do you know her full name?”

“Luiza San Miguel was her Spanish name. But she was mostly Indian.”

“You talk about her in the past tense.”

“Yeah, she quit and went home to Mexico. She was from somewhere in Chiapas, the southernmost state, on the border with Guatemala.”

“You knew her fairly well?”

“Not really. But my old boss at the Box Z gave her a good recommendation when she came to work here.” Griffin took his bowl into the kitchen, returned, brushed the dirt off his boots, and pulled them on.

“Did you work with her at the Box Z?”

Griffin shook his head. “Nope, she didn't start there until after I left.”

“When did she quit working here?”

“Soon after I fired Espinoza. Sometime in April last year.”

“Did she give a reason for leaving?”

“Not to me. Maybe the boss knows.”

“Where is your boss?”

“Santa Fe,” Griffin said as he reached for his work jacket. “Won't be back until late tonight.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“She'll be here all day, far as I know,” Griffin replied. “I can't say I liked Rudy much, but I sure didn't wish him dead. You boys are taking some shit about that shooting.”

Kerney held out a business card. “Please give Ms. Bingham my card. Tell her I'll stop by to speak with her in the morning.”

“I'll do that.” Griffin took the card and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

 • • • 

Kerney inserted his card key in the electronic lock and walked down the empty corridor past silent offices. The majority of the civilian workers and headquarters staff was gone for the day, but lights were on in the vestibule to the crime lab. He thought about checking in with Melody Jordan—if she was still working—but decided he had no reason to do so, and walked up the stairs to his second-floor office.

Kerney often worked late to compensate for his totally nonexistent social life. Tonight he was even less inclined to go home. The place would only seem more empty than usual with the departure of Sara and the dog.

A message that Andy Baca had called from Florida was taped to the handset of his telephone. He called Andy, who was about to leave for a cocktail party at the convention center, and enlightened him on the events of the week.

He rang off after reassuring Andy that everything was under control, and started in on the paperwork. He was halfway through a proposed plan for a narcotics raid when his telephone rang.

“Good, you're there,” Melody Jordan said when he answered. “I've got something to show you, Chief.”

“Come up.”

“See you in a minute.”

Kerney's attempt to refocus on the plan failed as his gaze kept wandering to the open office door. He thought about asking Melody to join him for a drink.
Since he did not directly supervise Melody, it would not violate policy to do so.

Why not? Kerney thought. He was a free man with no obligations, and the company of a pretty woman might be the right tonic for his blues.

Melody walked in just as he forced his attention back to the text. She wore a black V-neck top under a waist-length lightweight jacket and a short pleated skirt that accentuated her trim figure.

He put the report aside and smiled. “What have you got?”

“Test results on the bones,” Melody replied, “confirming Dr. Lawrence's assessment. The victim suffered from rickets. That strengthens the possibility she was Latin American.”

“That's good to know. Are you heading out?”

“You bet.” Campbell Lawrence was waiting for Melody. He'd proved to be a very horny man, and she was enjoying every minute of it.