A Tooth for a Tooth

by Ben Rehder

  “You want to stop beating around the bush?”

  “Has the sister come to town?” I asked.

  “She has not. So what?”

  “Do you have a sister?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I have two,” he said.

  “How far would you go, and how quickly would you get there, if one of them went missing?”

  “That’s an appeal to emotion, not facts or evidence,” he said.

  “Exactly. Did it work?”

  “It did not. Do you have some special information you need to share about the situation? Something that indicates Brandi is in New Mexico and her sister is covering for her?”

  “None whatsoever, unfortunately. It’s just something that should be checked, in my opinion.”

  “I’ve heard that you sometimes like to tell cops how to do their jobs, but I hadn’t seen it until now.”

  “I like to think of these ideas as friendly suggestions.”

  “Here’s a suggestion: Don’t do that anymore.”

  He hung up. I sat in silence for ten minutes, pondering what I’d learned.

  I wished Wolfe could get warrants for Brandi’s home, vehicle, cell phone, and bank data, but at the same time, I doubted he would learn anything from any of it, regardless of what had become of her.

  Going on the run without leaving a trace was extremely difficult nowadays. Almost impossible, especially if you were talking about dropping out for good, never to be seen again. But could someone disappear for a short period of time, like a month or two, or maybe even a few years? Still a long shot, but I couldn’t rule it out. Brandi seemed like an intelligent woman, and, unlike most older folks, she would be more likely to understand the technology traps that would leave a digital trail showing where she’d gone. If that’s what had happened, she likely did her best to make a clean getaway.

  If someone had killed her or simply abducted her, that person had likely been Joe Jankowski or one of his lackeys. The fact that they’d managed to make Brent Donovan vanish without getting caught left me thinking they could’ve done it again with Brandi.

  Which was more likely? I would’ve said it was a toss-up—except for the behavior of Brandi’s parents and sister. They weren’t doing the things one would expect them to do. That tilted me toward Brandi running away. Total hunch, admittedly.

  But so what?

  I clicked over to the website for Southwest Airlines and checked the route map. Closest destinations were El Paso and Albuquerque. El Paso was slightly closer, but I chose Albuquerque because it would be a nicer drive. The flight I selected departed at 6:40 the next morning.

  29

  Did I really need to go to Ruidoso, or was I just giving myself an excuse to get out of town? Temporarily running away from Mia? Or, to put a positive spin on it, taking a well-deserved break to handle stress and anxiety more effectively?

  Nonsense. It wasn’t going to be a break. I would be working.

  Early this morning, as I gave Mia a goodbye hug while she lay in bed, I admitted that I was worried about leaving her home alone.

  “I know you can take care of yourself,” I said, “but still.”

  She rubbed my back and said, “You know as well as I do that the odds of Damon Tate coming over here again are virtually nil, especially after you shot his brother. They’ve tried it twice, so how obvious would it be to try it in the same location a third time?”

  “I agree, unless he’s smart enough to think we reached that conclusion, which would then make a third attempt at the house all the more surprising.”

  “You know these guys never give anything that much thought,” she said. “He’d try to get to you somewhere else. Maybe steal a car, then pull up beside you at a red light and open fire.”

  “I’m glad you haven’t been giving this any thought,” I said.

  “Or maybe he’ll drop a giant anvil on your head.”

  “At least that would be quick,” I said. “Just be careful while I’m gone.”

  “You worry about me too much,” she said.

  It was true, and although I would never reveal this to her, there were times I wished I’d never asked her to be my partner. It was a dangerous job. What if something happened to her? In this case, however, involving Damon Tate, I was confident she was right. If he did try anything, he wouldn’t do it at the house. He’d try to kill me in a manner exactly as she described, where there would be no reliable witnesses and very little evidence. Even better if he could make it look like road rage or a random street killing during a robbery.

  “I worry just the right amount,” I said.

  I let my hand drift under the sheets and—

  “Stop that,” she said. “You’ll miss your flight.”

  “But when I get back?” I asked.

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  Progress?

  The flight landed on time and I got my rental car—a plain-vanilla sedan with gray paint and tinted windows—without any issues.

  I stopped for some outstanding huevos rancheros at Standard Diner—a busy place housed in a remodeled 1930s Texaco station—then went south on Interstate 25.

  Google Maps estimated that it was a three-hour drive to Ruidoso, and that’s roughly what it took. Gorgeous scenery all the way. High-desert terrain at first, with gentle hills and junipers, then the road began to climb into forests thick with Ponderosa pines. Mountains in the distance. Rough country. The weather was downright heavenly. Seventy degrees with no humidity whatsoever. I drove with the windows down.

  I came into Ruidoso from the north on Highway 48 and drove from one end of town to the other, just to get my bearings. It wasn’t a big place. The bulk of the town, or at least the retail district, was situated along two streets—Sudderth Drive and Mechem Drive, which formed an upside-down T intersection on the south side.

  The streets were lined with dozens and dozens of small shops, galleries, inns, cabins, and restaurants, but it wasn’t garish or tacky. The town had a welcoming and laidback feel to it. Eclectic. Artsy. With a Native American theme to many of the names and signs.

  Heading west on Sudderth Drive again, I spotted Chaparral Arts, which was Ingrid Sloan’s place. I’d done a little more research via overpriced Wi-Fi on the plane, and even though Chaparral Arts was classified as an art gallery, it was more of a gift shop that included arts and crafts on consignment from various local artists.

  I glanced through the double glass doors as I cruised past, and I saw a few people inside, but I couldn’t make out any faces. It was tempting to pull over and go in, and I could just imagine the thrill of locating Brandi mere minutes into my mission, if she happened to be there. But what were the odds? I figured I’d better plan something a little more organized than just wandering inside and seeing who was there.

  I knew from googling that there were some chain motels on the edge of town—Comfort Inn, Motel 6, Super 8, and a few more—but those were outnumbered by quaint little properties that featured collections of individual cabins tucked among the pine trees. Many of them were flashing a neon VACANCY sign, so I had my pick. After all, despite the great weather, it wasn’t yet ski season, when this little town would be packed.

  I spotted a place called Apache Village Cabins and swung into the drive. Apache Village consisted of maybe a dozen small cabins in three neat rows, with one cabin acting as the front office. I parked and went inside. There, I found a friendly older gentleman who took my information, charged me a reasonable fee for a two-night stay, and said I could almost certainly extend that stay if necessary, because it wasn’t like he was expecting a big rush at any moment.

  “We don’t get many drop-ins without a reservation,” he said. “What brings you to town?”

  “Just needed a break,” I said. “I was overcome by ennui.”
/>   “On what?” he said.

  “Ennui,” I said. “I was restless.”

  “Sign right here,” he said.

  I could tell that my one-bedroom cabin had been built some time ago—maybe in the forties or fifties—but it had been well maintained. It had character—and a fireplace, complete with a supply of pine logs. The living room had pine walls, a pine ceiling, and a pine coffee table and entertainment center. I found pine cabinets and countertops in the kitchen. All of the bedroom furniture was built from—wait for it—pine. Everything smelled a little musty and smoky, but in a good way, if that makes sense. It smelled like a cabin in ski country, and that’s hard to beat.

  I put my small suitcase on the bed and went out to the living room. It was 3:18 in the afternoon, one hour earlier than it was back home.

  I backed into a corner, took a photo, and texted it to Mia.

  Thirty seconds later, she said, Cute. Is this toilet also made of pine?

  I said, I hadn’t noticed, but that explains the splinters in my butt.

  She said, Keep me posted. xo.

  I sat on the couch and tried to make a choice. Go into Ingrid Sloan’s shop as a customer and see what I could learn, or wait outside and follow her when she left?

  If I went into the store, I would immediately give something away—my appearance. She would see me face to face and might remember me later. That may or may not be a problem.

  I opted for Plan B, but first I took a quick nap.

  I got lucky and found a primo parking spot in a large lot between two curio shops, and directly across the street from Chaparral Arts, which would close at 5:00, according to the website. Right now it was 4:48.

  As far as I could tell from my online snooping, Ingrid didn’t have any employees. She opened and closed the place every day of the week except Mondays, which she took off. So she was in there right now, just waiting for one last customer to leave. I was using a small super-zoom camera I’d packed in my suitcase to check things out from a distance, and it looked like the customer was a lone older woman with white hair.

  I knew what Ingrid Sloan looked like from photos on Lucinda Sloan’s Facebook page, and there was a more recent photo on the website for her shop: Ingrid smiling invitingly from behind a glass-topped jewelry case, with some oil paintings on the wall behind her. Nice looking lady. Probably 30 years old. So I wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing her. I knew from driving behind the shop earlier that there was a back door, but there weren’t any vehicles parked in the back. She would leave from the front entrance and walk to her vehicle, probably that green Subaru Outback parked forty feet from the door, because the only other nearby vehicle was a boring late-model sedan, which screamed rental car, which most likely meant the white-haired woman was driving it. A tourist.

  So I waited patiently.

  I would follow Ingrid Sloan from a discreet distance, and with any luck she would go straight home. Then I’d decide what to do next. Figure out a way to determine if Brandi was holed up inside. Maybe wait until tomorrow and stake the place out, waiting for Brandi to go somewhere. Or attempt to get a look through a window—without being arrested for peeping. It would all depend on where Ingrid lived—house, condo, apartment?

  Now it was 4:57. I could see the back of the customer’s head, and she appeared to be talking to someone—had to be Ingrid—I couldn’t see.

  I hoped Ingrid didn’t have some long list of tasks she completed daily before closing down the shop for the night. Balancing the books? Sweeping the floors? Making calls or returning emails?

  The white-haired lady was still talking, and then she gave a wave and turned for the door, and now my camera was zoomed right into the face.

  Holy mother.

  It’s not often that I’m totally stunned by something I see, but in this case…wow. Never expected it.

  The white-haired lady was Doris Donovan. Brent Donovan’s mother. Not someone who looked like her, but absolutely her. No doubt.

  What the hell was she doing in Ruidoso, New Mexico, talking to Brandi Sloan’s sister?

  30

  I followed her, of course.

  She went west on Sudderth and turned north on Mechem.

  I’d already made up my mind that I was going to confront her. I had to know what was happening here. I needed answers.

  She slowed as she neared the Apache Village Cabins, and for one strange moment, I thought she was going to take a left into the same drive I’d used earlier. But she took a right instead on Terrace Drive, then kept left on Lower Terrace Drive and turned right into a place called Idle Hours Lodge. She pulled up to a cabin very similar to my own and parked her rental car.

  I pulled in behind her, but I could tell she hadn’t noticed me yet. I stepped from my car and waited for her to get out of hers. When she did, I said, “Hi, Doris.”

  She was a bit startled by my voice, and she looked at me, and for a brief moment, I could tell that she recognized me, but she didn’t remember from where. Then she got it. Her eyes widened and she said, “Good Lord, what are you doing here?”

  “Excuse the trite reply,” I said, “but I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  I was ready for a lie. I’m just here on vacation. Something like that. She’d be nervous, stammering, because I’d caught her at…something. Was she somehow involved with Brandi Sloan and Joe Jankowski? Had she taken part in her own son’s disappearance and apparent murder? That sounded downright insane, but I’d dealt with enough evil scumbags over the years to know that they sometimes had a talent for masking their true selves. You see it on Dateline all the time.

  But Doris Donovan didn’t appear guilty or worried. Instead, she grinned.

  In a low voice, she said, “I’m here looking for Brandi Sloan.” She looked particularly tickled when she added, “And I found her yesterday.”

  “This is all new to me,” she said. “I don’t know what to do in a situation like this. Do I just go up and knock on the door? Do I call the police?” She touched my forearm. “It’s so great that you’re here, because now you can tell me what to do!”

  She had invited me inside and now we were seated at the dinette table in the cabin’s small kitchen.

  “Absolutely,” I said, doing my best to keep my excitement in check. She may or may not have found Brandi Sloan. She could be mistaken. Might’ve seen someone who looked like Brandi Sloan, somebody she really wanted to be Brandi Sloan. I’ve done the same thing myself many times. So I said, “Can you start at the beginning and tell me why you’re here?”

  “Oh, you bet,” she said. “After our meeting—excuse me, would you like something to drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bourbon and Coke on the rocks?”

  Didn’t expect that.

  “Great.”

  She got up and went to the fridge, where she retrieved a liter-sized bottle of Coke. Pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from the cabinet.

  As she mixed the drinks, she said, “After we talked, I started thinking about Brandi Sloan and the fact that she’d gone missing, just like Brent. And maybe I’ve read too many Helen Haught Fanick novels, but it made me start wondering if I could figure out what had really happened.”

  She came back to the table with the two drinks in short glasses and sat down.

  “Thank you,” I said. I took a sip of the drink and it was damn strong.

  She said, “I figured it was one of two things—same as with Brent. She’s dead, God rest her soul, or she ran away. And I wondered—if she did run away, was it because she knew something about Brent?”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “So I got on Facebook and managed to find some of her family members. I saw that she had a sister out here, and I thought Ruidoso would be a wonderful place for Brandi to hide out.”

 
This was either a remarkably savvy lady, or my job was a lot easier than I’d led myself to believe.

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said.

  “I figured as much,” she said. “Oh, hang on.”

  She got up again, went to the pantry, and came back with a metal tin filled with her amazing cookies. “I’ve always liked something to nibble with my bourbon,” she said. “Help yourself.”

  I took a cookie but didn’t eat it just yet.

  “So you just decided to launch your own investigation?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “I don’t think I’d call it that, but I knew the police wouldn’t come all the way over here to look into things, and I’m retired, so I figured why not? I used to come to Ruidoso years ago with my husband and I thought it would be nice to visit again. If I didn’t find her, it would just be a vacation.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Three days ago,” she said. “I waited a couple days after we talked to see if anyone found her.”

  “And, like, how…what have you done so far?”

  “Well, on the first afternoon, I parked outside of Ingrid’s studio and waited until she left, and then I followed her home.”

  Good God. We shared a brain.

  “Did she see you?”

  “I don’t think so. I stayed far back. She lives on Carrizo Creek, on the way out to Inn of the Mountain Gods. You know where that is?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s about three miles due south of here, but it takes about ten minutes to get there. It looks like she has a couple of acres and a horse. Nice place.”

  “So you followed her out there and then what?”

  “Well, then I knew where she lived, and when she was working the next day, I went back out there and parked along the shoulder where I could see the house. Sure enough, I saw a light come on in a room up front, and then a woman passed by, just for an instant, and I’m fairly certain it was Brandi Sloan.”