Like cleaning the place up yet again from the excesses of these crazy Anglos. The woman’s lawyer had told her to get the place ready to be shown, whatever that meant. She was glad to have the work because it was the last she would likely have from this house. And the blond woman who had taken her to the clinic the day before had fired her as soon as the doctor left, saying that she was afraid that having Isa around would put her family at risk if Pelirojo found out she had been the one to take her to the clinic. The priest had told her not to worry, that he would find her other work, but for now she was glad to still have this job.
She twisted the mop in the big roller and slapped it down on the wood floor. The big, gray rug was gone and she could see where it had lain. The red wood was darker where the sun had hit it.
Can wood get a suntan, she wondered, and giggled a bit at the thought.
Then she sobered again, remembering the sight of the man, so handsome and so dead, lying on the rug. She was glad no one expected her to clean the rug. There was so much blood. She sighed and swished the mop around in broad circles and tried not to think about anything more than the floor. By the time she got to the edges of the room, Isa’s mind was settled and she was humming one of those children’s songs that Pablo was so fond of, this one about a bus with wheels that go round. She smiled to herself.
Of course they go around, she thought. What else do wheels do?
She broke into the words as she finished mopping the spot where the broken glass from the mirror had been. She noticed a glinting shard caught in the molding and bent to remove it. It was stuck fast. She was afraid she would cut herself if she pulled too hard, so she laid down the mop handle and went to find a washcloth so that she could remove it, conditioned by weeks of employment not to leave even the tiniest bit of dirt or disorder lest she risk a scolding if the lawyer was as temperamental as the man had been.
As she walked into the bathroom, she noticed a neat, round hole at the edge of the doorframe. It was almost obscured by the pattern of the earth-colored wallpaper.
She traced the edges of the hole with her finger and then shrugged. There was nothing she could do to fix that. She took a washcloth from the marble shelf by the shower and went back to extract the glass. It came free easily but left a tiny crevice in the polished wood.
Isa held the shard in the palm of her hand for a moment and regarded the baseboard and the scratches and tiny holes that the pieces of the broken mirror had left on this part of the shiny, beautiful floor. She tossed the piece of glass into the trash with the others, thought for a moment and then stood by the dresser, looking in the direction of the bathroom door. She tried to remember where the man’s body had been in the middle of the pale spot. She paced a few steps back and forth until she was sure she had it right, raised her arm level with her eyes and cocked her head, squinting at the distant doorframe.
Dios mio, she thought and went back into the bathroom to look for a nail file.
This would be harder to remove than the piece of glass had been, and she didn’t want to make the hole any worse. It took her a moment to pry the soft metal out of the wood of the door. It was wedged at an angle, held in place mostly by the soft plaster of the wall. She eased it out on the tip of the file, and it skittered down the wall when it worked free. She caught it with her free hand, rolled it over in her palm, and dropped it in her pocket. Then she smoothed the edges of the paper that had frayed as she worked it loose, pleased that the hole was no more noticeable than before.
She was back downstairs in the room off the kitchen emptying the last of the wash-water into the big metal sink when she heard a knock at the back door. It was the priest, come to take her back to the lady doctor for more photographs.
Isa smiled as she let him in, put the mop and bucket away, and ran water into the sink to wash away the last of the bubbles. The priest held the door for her, and together they walked around the side of the house to the long driveway in front where the priest’s car waited. They had just rounded the big rock planter when Isa remembered the key in her pocket, the one the lawyer said to leave on the kitchen table. She hurried back, leaving the priest to wait.
When she returned, he was in the deep shade of the house, leaning up against the stone wall, one long leg crossed over the other and his arms folded. She could not make out his face in the shadows, and anyway, it could not have been this kind and gentle man. But seeing him brought back a sharp memory of another tall figure in the shadows of the house the night of the killing.
I must remember to tell the lady doctor, she thought as she fingered the bullet in her pocket.
CHAPTER SIX
JUNE 8, AFTERNOON
“Pull over, Quick! Let me out here.”
The big morgue van was just nosing into the alley behind the Center when I saw Father Matt heading toward the big main doors, Isa Robles in tow. In the chaos of the afternoon, I had forgotten they were due to come by for me to take additional photographs of Isa’s wounds. I didn’t even wait for the van to come to a full stop before I jumped out of the passenger’s side, thumping the rear fender with the flat of my hand as I jogged around the back calling Father Matt’s name as I went.
He paused and waited for me to catch up. Isa scurried behind him as I approached. Standing next to him, half hidden by him, she looked more like a child than a grown woman. Her medical record put her at twenty-six, but she could have passed for a teen with her diminutive frame and smooth skin, marred though it was by the bruises that had come to full flower. She had quite a shiner, and I had no doubt that the bruise I was interested in would show some interesting details. I made a point of speaking to her first. “Hello, Senorita Robles,” I said, remembering my momma’s admonition to always give people the most respect possible.
“Isa,” she replied simply.
“Isa,” I affirmed. “Con permiso.”
I smiled and pushed the door open for her to enter, then followed behind leaving Father Matt to fend for himself. I nodded to Tina as we passed. She was back at her desk, still looking a little unnerved with the radio giving updates in the background. Father Matt listened intently.
“Another shooting, Jane?” he asked, disbelief obvious in his voice.
I shrugged. “Town Park. Broad daylight during the festival. You know as much as I do.”
It was as clear a signal I could give that this was not a subject for discussion. Isa’s eyes widened, but she said nothing. Wherever the two of them had been, it clearly wasn’t within earshot of a radio, and it sure wasn’t in town. Quick came in through the security door that separated the public areas from the morgue itself.
“Body’s inside, boss. Want me to get it ready?”
I considered the time and the events of the day. Suddenly, I was tired, and all I wanted to do was go home. I expected he did too. I shook my head. “It can wait until morning. Bring me up the camera, then why don’t you lock up and go home? All of you.”
Home for Quick and the rest of my staff was one of several apartments on the fourth floor of the building, but at least it wasn’t the morgue or the office.
“Sure thing.” He nodded to Father Matt and Isa. “Miss. Reverend.” Then to me, “Be right there.”
I left Father Matt in the lobby listening to the radio and ushered Isa into my office. “Have a seat on the couch. Can I get you something to drink?”
She shook her head and we sat in awkward silence until Quick reappeared with the camera bag from the van. He handed it to me without a word and ghosted out of the room. I turned up the dimmer on the overhead lights. The architect who designed the space was a fanatic for light. Ordinarily, I hated the bright intensity of the overhead spotlights, but they would come in handy now. I put on my business face and stepped over to Isa.
“Let me take a look.” I took her chin in my hand and tipped her face upward. She squinted at the light but did not protest. The bruises, only faintly red when I first saw her, had purpled and swollen, much more impressive than they had been when I
first saw her, and much easier to see. She’d taken quite a beating in addition to the rape. I wondered whether the good Dr. Brownmiller had thought to get x-rays of her face; with this much bruising, she could easily have a broken cheekbone. I made a mental note to check the records to be sure, and I took un-Christian delight in the possibility of making the good doctor bring her back in for more studies if she had not.
Isa winced and wrinkled her nose when I touched her eye, but this time there were no tears in her big brown eyes. I straightened up and stepped back, recovering the detached attitude I needed when working with living, breathing people.
“Let’s take a few shots of these bruises,” I said. “Can you hold the scale for me?”
She nodded and I retrieved a small ruler from the interstices of the bag and handed it to her. I kept up a meaningless chatter to fill the silence, hoping to keep Isa at ease and to distance the news of today’s murder. It seemed to work. She even giggled when the edge of the plastic tickled her under her chin, then flushed with embarrassment. At length, I had documented all the visible bruises, and it was time to move on to the money shot, the one I hoped would pin the attack on the culprit. She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it down to show the bruise on her chest, now a perfect representation of a horseshoe, complete with a few pinprick hemorrhages from the prongs.
“It is what his ring looks like,” Isa said, looking down at the bruise, her chin nearly on her chest, her fingers pulling the skin tight so she could see it better. This time, I noticed that her eyes were glistening. Isa was brave, but this was a lot for her to handle. I knew from experience that revisiting the reality only made it worse, not better. I grabbed a tissue from my desk and handed it to her.
“Yes, it is,” I said briskly, “and that’s going to make it easier to convict him. Good thing, yes?” I handed her the ruler. “Can you hold this for me?”
Isa nodded. I positioned her hand, and tilted her chin out of the way to eliminate the shadow across the bruise. Three quick snaps and I was finished.
“I’ll get these off to the sheriff first thing in the morning.” I had finished my initial report, but the events of the last few days had kept me from talking to anyone from the Montrose Sheriff’s Office.
“Thank you.” I was struck again by the great dignity in Isa’s voice. “Will they put him back in jail?”
“Back in jail?”
“They took him away right after, but he is not in jail now. My friend told me so. She told me...” Isa hesitated, then continued with more resolve, “to be careful.”
I wasn’t surprised her assailant was back on the street; after all, Marla Kincaid was walking the streets, and she had killed a man. But how to explain the vagaries of American justice to this woman? I sighed.
“I agree. It doesn’t seem right. But maybe this will help convict him. Evidence like this, it’s very powerful in court.”
Her face brightened. I congratulated myself on scoring an emotional victory. She handed me the ruler and buttoned her blouse again. I was reviewing the images on the screen of the camera when she cleared her throat and extended her hand to me.
“I found this at the house I was cleaning. The one where that man, Houston, was killed.”
She dropped something hard and heavy into my palm. I was stunned. It was a wad of lead about the same size, if tactile memory was any judge, as the slug I had removed from Mitch Houston. This one retained some of the general shape of a bullet, a discernable base and a flattened nose. It was definitely not a 0.22 round. I raised it in the light and twirled it between my two fingers as I tried to take in what I had just heard. Isa sensed my confusion.
“It was in the wall of the bedroom. I found it when I was cleaning. It is important, evidence, si?”
Trying to remain calm, I asked her, “Where, exactly, did you find this? In what wall?”
“The one where the door to the bathroom is. It was in the wood.”
“In the wood?” I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“In the wood. The edge of the door, the side. I had to pry it out.”
“Pry it out?” I was beginning to sound like a parrot. I strode across the room to buy myself some time, mentally reviewing the scene and my processing of it. This was a mistake of major proportions on my part, and it changed everything about the case.
Everything. I dug on the desk for my report and muttered under my breath, “You’ve been watching too much CSI.” I was surprised when Isa replied.
“What is that?”
I had not intended to be heard. I looked up from the report, which confirmed my recollection that Tom Patterson told me that there was only one shot from the gun in question, not that that mattered, given that this explained why the bullet I had recovered seemed the wrong size. It was still my job to comb that room, and I missed a bullet hole. Isa was glaring at me. She clearly didn’t know what I was talking about, but she had caught the sarcasm in my voice. A bad habit of mine. I instantly regretted my indiscretion and my blame-the-bearer response. She had not meant to do any harm.
“It’s a television show,” I explained. “One about crime technology. About collecting evidence.” One that makes everyone in the world think he can do it, I added silently to myself.
“So this is important? Yes? ”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes briefly. “It could be. But it won’t…”
I paused, unwilling to explain that her removal of the slug dashed any hope of its ever being used in a trial, not to mention that prying it out eliminated the chances of being able to make a ballistics match, despite the fact that it was relatively intact.
Isa made the connection instantly.
“It won’t be used? Porque?” She immediately corrected herself. “Why not?”
I sighed again. “Because you found it and took it out. It means I can’t match it to anything, and I can’t prove where it came from.”
“But I am telling you. And I was very careful. Even the paper on the wall is no worse than it was.”
“I know. And I believe you. But there are rules we have to follow. Like when I came to see you at the clinic. I had to do that, not Dr. Brownmiller.”
“Then why didn’t you? You were there, I saw you. If it is your job, why didn’t you do it?” A momentary pause, then a moment of doubt herself. “Did you miss something with me too?” She added, “Maybe you don’t watch enough CSE.”
I could hear panic edging in as she considered the possibility that her assailant might go free because of me and my incompetence. I winced. I deserved that. I had insulted her and let Tom Patterson down.
“CSI. And no, I don’t. Maybe I should.” In spite of my growing sense of dread, my reply sounded absent-minded, my mind racing with the full implications of that bit of lead. If it matched the other one, officially or not, odds were very, very good that Marla Kincaid was innocent. And there was that other two-shot murder, the one I had just come from, with nasty implications of its own.
**********
Pete Wilson was passing by the White Deer as Ivanka Kovacs, the old woman who owned and ran it, was locking the door. It wasn’t late for a summer evening, and Wilson was surprised the avaricious old bat would pass up the chance for an extra buck by closing so early, but he guessed that there hadn’t been much business since the shooting. Most of the shops had closed their doors; only the restaurants and the bars—mostly the bars—were busy.
He’d done a profile on her when he first came to town, and she’d impressed him as being canny and sharp and as tight with a dime as the bark on a pine tree. Still, Wilson had to admire her. She worked every day in the shop or at the family ranch where they raised the sheep for the wool that went into the sweaters and scarves and shawls the little shop sold to anyone with enough money to afford three digits starting with five for a simple pullover. In the shop, she was known as a tyrant, not putting up with the lazy ethic of the town’s work force, importing her own staff from God-knows-where in Eastern Europe, somethi
ng Wilson heartily approved of. The girls who worked in the shop were sexy in an over-ripe, slightly tawdry way, mostly brunette- turned-blond and filling out the inventory in a most inviting fashion. And like their boss, they were never seen without their makeup: dark-lined eyes, lots of mascara, and bright red lips. On them it looked great; on her, sad and out of place. On the other hand, he gave her credit for trying to keep up appearances at least. He liked the natural look well enough, but too many of the women in this town took it to extremes. A little paint now and then wasn’t such a bad thing.
Most of the people he had interviewed this afternoon had been women, partly out of preference but mostly because they were the ones most likely to have their cameras and phones out to record any happening that involved their precious offspring. He’d criss-crossed town, following one lead after another, knocking on doors, wheedling and cajoling until he amassed an electronic folder of videos and stills taken at the day’s festivities. He’d even gotten releases for them, in case he wanted to use one or two to accompany the article he was already writing in his head.
He stopped by the market and picked up a frozen dinner on his way back to his little down-valley house. Like many who lived in the area, Wilson couldn’t afford to live in town proper; instead he rented a 20-by-30 foot bungalow, not much more than a shack, really, that perched between the highway and the river just below the site of the old uranium mine. It wasn’t much to look at, he reflected as he unlocked the door, but it was cheap and Internet and cell phone access, the lifeblood of his occupation, were consistent at this particular spot. He dropped his backpack on the couch he’d salvaged from a remodel of one of the hotels in Mountain Village, stripped the wrappings from his frozen meal, punched time into the microwave, and fired up his computer.
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 8