The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (23 page)

“I don’t know. But someone who saw us driving across that rough terrain could ask the same question – what are those two
idiots
doing out here
?
We just have to assume
he was there. We can find out the reason later.”

“Okay, but if he wanted to kill me to
keep me from finding his victim
, why would he
merely
strand me
? Stranding someone down there is not a death sentence. Even I got out, and I had a dog and wounded coyote to worry about.”

She had to think about that one for a minute.

“Maybe he didn’t strand you as a means to kill you but to preserve the opportunity. He didn’t want to risk going down the narrow trail at night, so he stranded you knowing you wouldn’t risk going up that trail at night either. Then he could lie in wait for you in the morning and kill you when you came up.”

“But he didn’t.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he overslept.”

“The theory has too many holes in it.”

“So what’s the alternative? It was just a hand, and your
coyote was so hungry he came back and
dug it up?
”

“After moving
a huge stone
?”

“They’re stronger than they look, Hubie. Especially when they’re hungry.”

“I think we can ignore the coyote thesis for now.”

“There is one person who knew you would be out there.”

“Yeah, Alvar Nuñez. I thought of that, but it doesn’t work. If he buried a murder victim down here, he never would have told me the location of the cliff dwelling in the first place.
Not telling me is a lot
easier
and more effective
than luring me
o
ut
t
here and t
h
en trying to kill me. And while he
must have been
pretty certain I would go because of the interest I displayed
in finding more
pots
like
the one he brought
, he had no way of kn
o
wing
when
I would go
.
W
e already said the place is so remote that the chances of crossing pathont>
s
with someon
e
out there are
almost nil.”

“Yeah, but you and your coyote met up, and what are the odds of that?”

“Can we just forget the coyote?”

“N
o need to be sensitive about it,
”
she said.

“
Sorry. I have to admit
I can’t think of any reason for someone to dig up and move the body unless he’s trying to conceal a murder. But I can’t see how to make that explanation fit with the Bronco being moved and me being out there. I think these events are unrelated. Someone buried a body there, got nervous that it might be discovered, and dug it up to put
it
in a better hiding spot. It was just a coincidence that it happened between my
two visits.”

“There are no coincidences, Hubert.”

We drove along in silence. We were at a traffic light in
Española
when Susannah started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I figured it out.
I know what happened. The key is the hole in the hand.”

“How is that the key?”

“An angel came and rolled away the stone, and the body ascended into heaven.”

I just stared at her.

“Well,” she said, “it makes as much sense as any other theory
, and at least there’
s historical precedence
for it
.”

24

24 

On the morning after my return from digging in an empty grave, Tristan drove me to my lawyer’s club on the condition that he could order a
macchiato
. I told him ten in the morning was too early for a
cocktail
, and he told me
a
macchiato
is a coffee.

Layton Kent
occupies a conspicuous table
overlooking the eighteenth green. Layton is rather conspicuous himself
, weighing in at three
hundred pound
s. Oddly, he doesn’t seem fat, merely large.
That look derives, in part, from
his hand-tailored suits which fit so perfectly. You can’t get those off the rack at the Big & Tall Shop.

His size is further masked by his being, for lack of a better word, sleek – slicked back hair, spa-smooth skin and manicured nails.

His other clients are the prominent and well-to-do of Albuquerque. He
helps them shelter their wealth
and defends them when they run afoul of the law. Unlike the Archaeological Resources Protection Act, the laws his other cli
e
nts break
are ‘white collar’. They do not dirty their hands
in the honest toil of digging.

Nor are they
ever
arrested. When it is discovered that they have committed stock fraud or violated banking regulations, the matter is
re
solved in a conference room paneled with exotic wood species from an endangered rainforest. An agreement is worked out whereby they pay a small fine without admitting guilt. Then both sides repair to the club for drinks.

I am neither w
ell-to-do nor prominent. Well,
m
aybe I’m
a bit
promiino" facenent insofar as I have been arrested for murder a time or two, but that is not the sort of prominence that would qualify me to be a client of Layton Kent, esquire.

He stoops to represent me because his wife,
Mariella,
is a discriminating collector of ancient pottery, and I am her
primary source for those goods.

She is also said to be
descended from Don
Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva Enriquez,
Duque de Alburquerque
, the man
after whom our city is
almost named. I say ‘almost’ because, as you may notice, the
first
‘r’
is missing
.

Like the body that was formerly above the Rio Doloroso
.

I don’t know where
either
one
of them went.

In addition to being my best customer, Mariela
de Baca
Enriquez Kent is a
socialite
by virtue of her lineage, her money and
–
the only one that c
o
unts in my opinion
–
her class.

Tristan and I trailed
Phillip, the captain, to Layton’s table.

“These gentlemen claim to have an appointment
with you, Mr. Kent,
” he announced in a tone that made it clear he doubted our claim.

“Thank you, Phillip. You may seat them and sen
d
someone to take their order
s
.”

Layton then turned to us. “Hello, Tristan. It is a pleasure to see you again. I trust your studies are going well.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mr. Kent. My studies are going well. Thanks for asking.”

Instead of greeting me,
Layton
said, “You are fortunate to have this young man
as your nephew,
Hubert.”

I agreed. The waiter arrived. Kent’s club offers an array of specialty coffees. Their lattes are delicious. I ordered on
e
with skim milk and no sugar. Not what I really wanted, but I was dieting.

Layton scrunched his nose on hearing my order but said nothing. He is
normally
a full cream and sugar man.

Tristan ordered his
macchiato
.

“An e
x
cell
e
nt
c
hoice,” said Layton, “
I think I’ll have the same.
The
macchiato
s
here are not
merely
the espresso with a drop of m
ilk offered by the chain coffee
mongers.
Our baristas
place thick
milk foam in a small cup
then pour the espresso through the foam in a stream so
thin
that only a small dark spot shows on the foam.
That, of course, is the
macchiato
that gives the drink its name.”

="+0" face="Palatino Linotype">“Ah, the mark,” said Tristan. “
I’ve read about it but never seen one done that way.”

I feared they would soon be discussing the
macchiato
’
s
bouquet, its notes on the pal
ate
and the finish.

Layton asked me to explain my difficulty, and I did so.

He listened silently as he always does then closed his eyes.

After two or three minutes he said, “Hubert, you remind me of Braxton Goabling, a professor I had in law school. Goabling subscribed to the belief that the best way to prepare your mind for the ordinary was to exercise it on the extraordinary.
He assigned
bizarre cases
for his students
to analyze. You are my current Goabling. Except your cases are not pedagogical fictions. They are
, contrary to
all
reasonable expectation, completely and shockingly real.”

I doubt if he does this with other clients, but he often begins his analysis of my cases with a preamble o
f the s
o
rt just quoted
. I do not comment on them.