Hermit's Peak (18 page)

“So am I,” Kerney said, standing up. “Do you have time to join me for a drink?”

“That's a lovely idea, but I'm afraid I can't tonight. Rain check?”

“Let me know when you're free.”

“Sure thing.”

Melody smiled, thinking that when it came to men in her life it was either feast or famine. Still, she felt pleased with the notion that she'd finally turned Kerney's head.

Melody left and Kerney tried without success to concentrate on work. He finally gave up and put the document
away. He'd felt both annoyed and relieved when Melody turned down his invitation. He tried to think it through, but nothing came except a vague, dissatisfied feeling.

He stepped to the office door and hit the light switch. He had to get back into sync. Somehow, he didn't think that would be easy to do.

Sara woke to the aroma of coffee and found herself on Susie's couch covered with a lightweight throw. She sat up and looked at the night sky through the picture window. The lights of Tucson flickered, flowed, and gathered along the major roads and highways that bisected the desert floor.

She combed her fingers through her hair and found Susie in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta. “What time is it?”

“Almost dinnertime,” Susie answered. “Welcome back to the living.”

“When did I fall asleep?”

“About three o'clock this afternoon, right in midsentence.”

“Can I help?”

“Pour yourself some coffee and sit yourself down. Warning: I only brew leaded sludge.”

Sara got coffee, sat at the Shaker-style table, and watched Susie spear a green bean out of the pot and taste it.

“A few more minutes,” Susie said, turning to face Sara. “This is simple fare. I'm not much of a cook.”

“What were we talking about before I lost it?”

“Your extraordinary discovery of an honest man.” Susie brought over some flatware and place mats, and arranged them on the table. “If you decide you don't want Kerney, would you arrange an introduction for me?”

Sara laughed. “He sounds that good, does he?”

“He sounds yummy,” Susie said, putting a salad bowl between the place mats. “Tonight's menu is store-bought spaghetti sauce, frozen green beans, and salad with bottled dressing. However, I did cook the pasta to perfection.”

“You're quite domestic.”

“That's not where my charm lies,” Susie said as she strained the pasta. “Nor yours. Do you really think you can't be a career officer, mother, and a wife?”

“I could handle two out of three fairly well.”

“So, which one goes by the boards?” Susie asked as she slid into a chair and handed Sara a plate of food.

“I haven't a clue.”

“Why not have it all?”

“I don't think Kerney would be willing to follow me around from post to post for the next ten years. Besides, neither of us discussed getting married.”

“Maybe you haven't mentioned the M word to him. But you've come close, with all that talk of a stud book and getting pregnant.”

Sara poked into the pasta and twisted it around the prongs of her fork. “I guess I have.”

“You amaze me.”

“Why?”

“You have one of the best tactical minds of any serving officer I know, and yet you don't have the foggiest notion of how to reel Kerney in.”

“I'm not sure I want to be that calculating. I don't see you baiting the hook when it comes to men.”

“Oh, you're so wrong. I'm just waiting for the right one to swim by.”

“Okay, how would you reel Kerney in?”

“I'd ask him flat out if he's interested in marriage.”

“I don't know if I'm ready to do that,” Sara replied as she stabbed a green bean.

“Why not?”

Sara placed her fork on the edge of her plate. “I'm not the wife type.”

“You're sure of that?”

Sara picked up her fork and then placed it back on the plate. “I don't know if I'm sure of anything anymore.”

“That's promising.”

“You think so?”

“Do you care for Kerney?”

“I feel more connected to him than any man I've ever known.”

Susie shook her head and her chestnut hair covered her eyes. She brushed it away and grinned. “Jesus, Sara. Listen to yourself.”

“I guess I'm confused.”

“Finally, we're getting somewhere,” Susie said. “Eat your dinner.”

 • • • 

Ruth Pino removed her reading glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose with a thumb, closed her notebook, and glanced at her wristwatch. Dinnertime had come and gone, and by now her ever tolerant husband had their two boys bathed and ready for bed.

The morning's chance encounter with Nestor Barela had turned out to be serendipitous. He had guided Ruth and her team to another site in the narrow valley away from the alluvial fan, where a large, undisturbed colony of Knowlton's cactus thrived. The sight of it nearly made Ruth shiver with delight.

She had no classes to teach tomorrow and would be back in the valley at first light with her graduate students. There was an incredible amount of mapping and census taking yet to be done.

To protect the plants adequately a good square mile of land, perhaps more, would be needed for a preserve. Although he had no legal responsibility to do so, Mr. Barela had volunteered to supply all the fencing material to temporarily protect the two separate sites.

She would tell Kevin Kerney about Barela's generosity the next time they spoke.

Ruth reached for her address book, and dialed Reese Carson's home telephone in Santa Fe. Reese handled all land protection programs for the New Mexico Nature Conservancy.

“Reese, Ruth Pino. I thought you might like to come up to Las Vegas tomorrow for the day.”

Reese groaned. “Is this another last-minute plea to get me to lecture to your undergraduates?”

“No, I've found something I think you might like to see.”

“Don't keep me hanging, Ruth. Tell me what you've got that would be worth my time.”

“Knowlton's cactus,” Ruth said with a smile as she settled back in her chair.

“You're joking.”

“Outside San Geronimo.”

“You're serious.”

“Completely.”

“Jesus, you know what you've got?”

“You bet I do.”

 • • • 

Gabe turned off the shower, dried himself quickly, pulled on a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweatshirt, and slipped his feet into a pair of shower clogs.

A full day of fieldwork hadn't gotten him anywhere. He had half a mind to confront Joaquin Santistevan directly and put the squeeze on him about Rudy Espinoza. What held Gabe back was the nagging idea that Boaz hadn't been killed simply to cover up the wood theft. There had to be more to it than that. For now, he would keep digging and let Santistevan think he had nothing to worry about.

As Gabe walked downstairs he decided to follow up on Angie Romero's interesting tidbit about Joaquin's involvement with another woman during his separation from his wife. He found Orlando at
the kitchen table looking through his open briefcase.

“What are you doing?” Gabe snapped.

Orlando closed the briefcase and turned to face his father. “Nothing.”

“You know better than to mess with my stuff.”

“Sorry. I was just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Interested, that's all.”

Gabe pulled the briefcase off the table and studied his son. Orlando kept his eyes glued on the tabletop.

“You shot Rudy Espinoza,” Orlando said.

“Don't you dare tell anyone about that,” Gabe replied as he sat.

“People are already saying you did it. Are you going to lose your job?”

“No.”

Orlando shifted nervously in his chair. “You could retire.”

“Not while you're in school.”

“I've been thinking about transferring to another school for my senior year.”

“Why? You've got just a little more than a year until you graduate.”

“I'm bored. The classes are too easy. There's no challenge.”

“For chrissake, you're on the dean's list. Where would you go?”

“Albuquerque.”

“And live with your mother?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“Not yet.”

“Will all your credits transfer?”

“I don't know. I just know I'm bored with school here and sick of living in Las Vegas.”

Gabe let out a sigh. “You're over twenty-one and I can't make you stay, but I think it's a dumb move at this stage.”

“I'm not asking for your advice or help. I plan to do it on my own.”

Gabe shook his head, mostly as a reminder to himself to stop arguing with his son. “Do what you think is best. But let's talk about this again later, okay?”

“You wouldn't be pissed at me?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Gabe reached over and rumpled his son's hair. “I'm sure. But I'll miss you if you leave.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you still have that baseball card collection?”

“Yeah, it's in my closet. What made you think about that?”

“It flashed through my mind a couple of days ago, and I remembered all the time we spent looking for those hard-to-find cards you just had to have. You were nuts about those cards.”

“Yeah.” Orlando forced a smile and glanced at the briefcase. “Are you still mad at me for looking through your stuff?”

“No. Just keep what you read to yourself, and don't be sneaky, okay? I'd rather have you ask.”

Orlando stood up. “Okay. I work from six to midnight.”

Gabe checked the wall clock. “Well, you better go flip those burgers.”

“The job sucks.”

“Which makes finishing college all the more important.”

“I'm going to finish, Dad. Just not here.”

“It sure sounds that way.”

“Later.”

“Yeah.”

Orlando left and Gabe stared at the wall while reality bit him in the ass. He knew Orlando's leaving was inevitable, but he'd never imagined it would happen before he finished college. He pushed himself out of the chair, made a sandwich, ate it quickly, went to his bedroom, and put on his shoes and socks. Coming downstairs he could hear his footsteps echo through the house. Maybe he should sell the goddamn place like Orlando suggested, or at least rent it out and move into something smaller.

He grabbed a jacket from the hall closet. Tonight he would hit the bars and work the Santistevan girlfriend angle.

 • • • 

Bernardo opened the car door, climbed into the passenger seat, and gave Orlando a broad smile. “What's up?”

Noise from cars crossing the highway bridge over the train tracks vibrated through the open windows.

“My dad is just working on the Rudy Espinoza shooting, nothing else.”

“He blew Rudy away, didn't he?”

“I don't know about that.”

Bernardo laughed. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that all you know?”

“Luiza's bones haven't been identified, and the two officers who were working on the case have been reassigned.”

“Does that mean they're giving up?”

“I don't know what it means.”

“It sounds like it to me.”

“Every case stays open until it's solved. I know that much,” Orlando said.

“They're never going to solve it,” Bernardo said, putting his hand on the door latch. “Stay in touch.”

“I don't think so.”

“Play it that way, if you want.”

Orlando shot Bernardo a hard look. “What we did doesn't bother you, does it?”

“Worrying about it won't change anything.”

“That's cold.”

Bernardo got out and ducked his head inside the open window. “You sure you don't want to keep your eyes and ears open, just in case?”

Orlando shook his head. “I'm out of it.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Just split, Bernardo. I'm already late for work.”

 • • • 

Except for a dispatcher and one officer who was finishing her end-of-shift paperwork, the district office was empty. Gabe exchanged a few words with the woman,
told the dispatcher he'd stopped by to pick up some personal items, and moved on to the shift commander's cubicle he shared with two other sergeants.

He booted up the computer, accessed Motor Vehicle records, typed in Joaquin Santistevan's name, scrolled through the file to the photograph, and printed a copy. The photo came out grainy but usable. He stuck it in his pocket and glanced across the corridor at the vacant assistant commander's office. He wondered if he would ever get to pin lieutenant bars on his collar and move in. Two days ago, his chances for the promotion looked good. Now, maybe they weren't so hot, unless he could tie Rudy Espinoza to the Carl Boaz murder. With Orlando planning to leave home, he wasn't so sure he cared.

He left the office and drove down the main strip, stopping at each bar along the way, showing Santistevan's photo and asking bartenders and customers if they knew Joaquin. None of them did.

He tried the college hangouts near the university with the same results, and decided on one more stop at the Plaza Hotel bar before calling it quits for the night. Inside, two couples—obviously out-of-town hotel guests—were sitting together at a window table that looked out at the plaza, and three men were at the bar watching a basketball game on the wall-mounted television.

He approached the bartender and showed her his shield and Joaquin's picture.

“I know him by sight, not by name,” the woman said. “But he doesn't drink here. I haven't seen him for a while.”

“Where did you see him?”

“At the monthly singles party. The local paper sponsors it. They use one of the banquet rooms in the hotel. I work them for the extra money.”