“Coffee’s ready.” Rebecca nodded toward the drip percolator on the counter. “Mail’s over there, too.”
“Thanks.” I took a sip. No whiskey. I sat at my desk and brought out the fifth of Black Bush from the bottom drawer. “Sorry.”
“Don’t.” Rebecca frowned. “Please.”
I poured a generous amount of the amber into my mug, and slumped back in my chair. The coffee and whiskey burned my throat by turns. My cat Otis lay curled under the desk lamp. Without rustling his jet-black fur, he opened his eyes a slit and closed them again.
Rebecca marched over and put the cork back in the whiskey bottle. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“The short version? Like I said, Nai’ya’s gone. I’m the father of her daughter. I’m a grandfather.” I grabbed a couple of aspirins from the bottle in the middle drawer and washed them down. I looked up at her. “Okay?”
Tears welled in her eyes. Rebecca had lost both parents as a teenager, and since the death of her brother, I’d been her surrogate father. She gripped the edge of my desk. “You must be overwhelmed. I’m sorry.”
“I tried to drink it away last night.” I rubbed my temples with both hands. Even fast-acting aspirin is too damn slow.
“All those months of sobriety.” She clasped her hands together and raised them to her lips.
I waved off her concern. “I need to find Nai’ya before the cops or anyone else does. Maybe drive out to Laguna, see if she shows there. You stay by the phone. Call me the minute you hear from her. Or if Crawford causes any more trouble.”
My phone rang. Caller ID read “C.J.”
“Gabe, Nai’ya called—”
“On my way.”
Charmaine met me at the restaurant door. “Don’t you be causing him any more problems.” Charmaine’s tone and sharply pointed finger said she wasn’t joking. Thirty years of her life were invested in C.J. “I’m watching you.”
“Promise.” I forced a pained smile.
She led me through the main room. Half an hour before the lunch crowd. The aroma of ribs and barbecued chicken might have seduced me on an ordinary day.
We entered C.J.’s office together. My friend sat behind his desk, working on what I assumed was his first cigar of the morning.
Charmaine shot me a narrow-eyed look and closed the door on her way out.
“So what did Nai’ya say?”
“Sit down.” C.J. motioned me to the chair in front of his desk. “She said she heard from Angelina.”
“And?” I bent forward.
“Who’s Angelina?”
“Our daughter.”
C.J.’s cigar dropped onto his desk. “Say what?” He brushed away the ashes.
I leaned against the desk. “Go on. What else?”
“Hand me that ashtray.” He pointed to a crystal piece in the shape of a boxing ring that sat on my side of the desk.
I slid it over to him.
“She says Angelina had nothing to do with the killing.” C.J. leaned forward. “Gabe, what killing?”
“The one at the casino two nights ago.”
“Shit.” He stared at the ceiling until I prompted him with a keep-it-coming gesture. “Okay,” he sighed. “Angelina’s not running from the cops. She’s running for her life. Nai’ya says she’s going to try to meet up with her. Someplace up north. Says it’s better you don’t know where just yet. She’ll call again when they’re safe.”
“What else?”
“She said to watch out for a guy named Klein and don’t trust nobody.”
I tried to connect C.J.’s words with what little I knew. Klein. Same name as a previous owner of my house. Too much coincidence.
C.J. shifted in his seat. “Your turn.”
I told him about the previous night and what Nai’ya had revealed about our family. I mentioned that Archuleta showed up in the morning and how Nai’ya had fled. I left out the booze.
“Not often a man gets blessed with a daughter and a grandson at the same time.” He put down his cigar. “You thirsty?”
“Coke, if you have it. Anything, really.”
C.J. swiveled his chair around to a small refrigerator and popped a couple cans of soda. He’s the kind of a guy who wouldn’t drink beer in front of me.
“I have to find them before anyone else does.”
“The cops must be scouring the state by now,” he said.
“I don’t mean the cops. I need to get to them before whoever pulled the trigger at the casino does.”
C.J. put his soda on the desk and looked at me. “How?”
“Start at the beginning, I suppose. At the scene of the crime.”
“Be careful.”
I chugged the last of my soda and promised to keep in touch. Charmaine stared me through the restaurant and I gave her a wave on my way out.
I shielded my eyes from the brilliant morning sun on the way to my car. Over on the far side of the parking lot, a gray SUV squealed its tires around the corner and sped toward me.
Sunlight caught a glimmer of metal from a rolled down rear window of the vehicle. I dropped to the ground. Three shots exploded. One whistled past my ear. I hit the asphalt with a thump. One shot tore into the pavement inches from my face. A chip of concrete grazed my cheek. A sharp crack sounded behind me. Air hissed from a front tire on a blue Chevy Camaro parked next to my Hudson.
I hugged the ground until the SUV sped away. By the time I struggled to my feet, there was no sign of my assailants. I paced around the Hudson. No visible damage. I wiped some wetness from my cheek. Blood. I checked the shot-up tire on the Camaro and took out my wallet, rolled a couple of fifty-dollar bills together and stuffed them into the driver’s door handle.
Charmaine stood at the restaurant entrance, her one hand on hip, the other screening her eyes. “What’s going on out there?”
“It’s okay,” I lied. “A couple kids on a joyride. They’re gone.”
She shook her head all the way back inside. I crawled into the Hudson and drove home to get my gun.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rebecca looked up from her desk when I walked into the library. “What happened to you?”
“I’m okay. Heard from Nai’ya?”
“No, sorry. Crawford left about half an hour ago, so the police haven’t been a problem.” She stared at my cheek. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s nothing, just a scratch.”
She came over and dabbed at the wound with a tissue.
I shook her off. “Don’t fuss.” I walked to the big desk and took my .38 from the middle drawer, checked to make sure it was loaded and turned toward the door.
Rebecca moved to block my path. “I’ll let the wound on your cheek go, but why do you need a gun?”
I raised my hand to protest, thought better of that and let it rest on her shoulder. “Relax. I have to run out to Pueblo-66 to talk to a guy. My mother taught me never to go visiting empty-handed.”
“Let me come with you.”
I studied the worry in her eyes and shook my head. “I’ve lost one daughter already.” I touched her cheek and left without looking back.
People tend to notice my Hudson, so I took the Land Cruiser instead. On my way up the access road, Sam Archuleta passed me going in the opposite direction. My driver’s side visor was down. And the sun was shining into his eyes as he drove past. I didn’t think he noticed me.
Pueblo-66 Casino is one of those sad places where people who can’t afford it get separated from their money. It had been opened for six months now, against the will of Duke City politicos who’d lobbied for a downtown casino run by their friends. The money behind Pueblo-66 came from some East Coast “tribal” organization of questionable pedigree. Whoever owned it enjoyed solid connections up in Santa Fe.
I passed on valet parking and pulled into the free lot. A short walk to the casino gave me time to enjoy a sudden fall breeze and figure out what I’d do once inside.
The building was an overdone mix of neon and silver
chrome, like a diner on steroids. Two massive electric warriors guarded the front entrance and cast ghastly orange light on the steps. I removed my sunglasses and walked inside.
The recent murder hadn’t dampened business. Mid-week, mid-day, yet the place was crowded. The dissonant sounds of a hundred slots assaulted my ears. Thick carpeting that reeked with six months of stale tobacco made my nose a liability.
I bumped through the crowd, past the gaming rooms, and followed the “Main Office” signs. Yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed a stairway to an upper floor. A thick rope stretched between heavy silver stanchions in front of the stairs. A small metal sign read: “Authorized Personnel Only.”
One step over the rope, a quick bob-and-weave under the police tape, and I was on my way.
Two suits of young muscle appeared at the top of the stairs and descended toward me in tandem. I tried to glide past them. They parted like the Red Sea, each grabbing one of my upper arms.
“Nope.” The unibrowed hulk to my left held my arm in a vice-like grip. His partner roughed up my jacket and patted me down to my knees. Neither of these bright boys thought to check my right pants leg above the ankle. They missed my strapped-on .38.
“Tell Mr. Klein that Angelina Harper’s father wants to see him.”
That got their attention. They froze and gazed at one another, two minds challenged to make a decision.
“Are we going to stand here until the cops come back?” I said. “Let go of my arms and take me to Klein. I got information he needs to hear.”
This they seemed to understand. They bracketed me and marched me up the stairs.
The sign above the open door read: Joseph Klein, Manager. Crime scene tape blocked the entrance. My escorts paused in front long enough for me to glance inside. I’d seen the décor before, in a Motel 6 somewhere south of the civilized world. But the motel didn’t have such a large, dark stain on its rug.
“Move.” Unibrow pulled me away. “Nobody goes in there.” We moved two doors down to another open office.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Klein. This guy insists on seeing you. Says he’s Angelina’s father.”
Only at the mention of her name did Klein look up from whatever he was reading to stare at me. I’d seen his type before, back in my boxing days. His sour, unshaven face and ill-fitting suit recalled the lowlifes that populated the seamier fringes of the New York fight game. Judging from Klein’s girth, the most exercise he got was hoisting a fork to his mouth. That, and maybe lifting the five pounds of jewels that kept the sunlight off his fingers.
The muscle boys prodded me into a chair across the desk from their boss, who scowled at the guy on my right. “Let’s get something straight. The only person who insists around here is me.”
“Sorry, Mr. Klein.” Unibrow bowed his regret. The other guy checked his reflection on the top of his shoes.
Klein rubbed his nose. His hand sparkled in the light. “Who are you?”
“McKenna. Gabe McKenna.”
“You have two minutes.”
“I’m trying to find my daughter. I thought you might be able to help.”
“Angelina’s a sweet kid, but why come to me?”
“Figured I’d start where she was last seen. That’s here. On the night of the shooting.”
“So you heard about that unpleasantness.” He sounded like maybe a glass of spilled wine had stained the carpet instead of a man’s blood. “McKenna, I haven’t seen her since I left for the opening of the Sun Mountain Art Gallery in Santa Fe. That was a couple of hours before the unfortunate incident occurred.”
“Did anyone else see her? Speak to her?”
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t get back until yesterday morning. I’m afraid I can’t help you. But if you do see Angelina, tell her we all miss her and to hurry back soon.”
I squeezed the armrests on my chair and stared him down. “Can anybody verify you were in Santa Fe when the killing took place?”
Klein leaned toward me. Each word unfolded carefully. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He looked at his boys and made a quick, circling motion with his hand. “In case you get any ideas, my two associates here will vouch for me.”
“That’s right, Mr. Klein.” Two voices responded as one.
“I may have even shaken hands with the governor there. What do you think about that?”
I leaned toward him. “Too many convenient details, that’s what I think.”
Klein held his right fist an inch from my face. The muscle boys moved in close on either side. I didn’t flinch.
“I’ve had people hurt for saying less than you just did,” Klein snarled.
“I’m sure you have.”
He nodded toward the door. “Get him out of here.”
With a strong arm on either elbow, my feet barely touched the floor all the way to the casino door.
Unibrow bid me farewell. “Fuckin’ wise guy. Show your face here again and I’ll rip it off your skull.”
They stopped at the front door like dogs at an invisible fence and pushed me down the few steps. I kept my balance and most of my dignity. I shook out my shoulders and waved before fast-walking to my car.
I started the engine and leaned back against the driver’s seat. So that was Joseph Klein. Crude. Dangerous. A by-the-book, unimaginative guy. If he was in charge of the casino, he had to be fronting it for somebody else.
The only distinctive thing about Klein was his taste in jewelry. Especially the ring he wore on the fourth finger of his right hand—a large, black onyx number, with a raised golden figure of Chief Tammany.
CHAPTER NINE
Rebecca held the front door open as I walked inside. “How’d it go?”
“Too early to say.” I strode into the library, unstrapped my gun and slipped it into the center desk drawer. “I need you to check a few things for me. Online.”
“Such as?” She grabbed a pen and yellow pad and sat at her desk.
“Guy named Joseph Klein. With a K. Joseph Klein Associates. Anything you can find. See if the Joseph Klein who runs the casino is the same guy who once owned this house. Any personal or business information that’s out there. Any indications of criminal activity—”
“Slow down!” Rebecca flipped a page on her yellow pad.
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to check something else. If I get back early enough, how about dinner?”
“Sure.” Rebecca’s gaze followed me as I moved toward the door. “Now where’re you going?”
“Santa Fe. To look at Southwestern art.”
I left her shaking her head. It was time to change cars. Love to see my Hudson turning heads in the state capital.
A chilling wind blew through my half opened side window. The City Different—as appreciative Santa Fe residents often call their town—burned bright with autumn. Aspens spread a palette of yellow gold on the Sangre de Christo Mountains. The late September sun peeked around swift-moving clouds.
I followed Cerrillos Road into town and suffered slow traffic to Canyon Road. I lucked into a rare parking spot in front of my destination.
Yellow, red, and blue Grand Opening banners fluttered in the courtyard of the Sun Mountain Art Gallery. Three outdoor metal figures—an eagle in flight, a Native warrior and a mounted cowboy—defined the artistic theme. A sign above a newly renovated door proclaimed “The Finest in Historical Southwestern Art.”
The front door of the single-story adobe building was itself a work of art. I paused to admire its arched, Old World style, inlaid stone and weathered warmth. I pressed the metal door lever and walked inside.
In contrast to such a distinctive door, the gallery interior was white bread all the way. Granite islands of pottery and small sculptures dotted a hardwood floor. Track lighting illuminated paintings along each exposed brick wall. It could have been any gallery in any town.
Thanks to my background in archeology and pre-Columbian America, I know quality historical art. I didn’t see any here. Still, with the ext
erior decoration and extensive collection inside, whoever was behind the gallery sunk a significant amount of money into it.
I gazed at a washed-out watercolor labeled Mesa at Sunset. A polite throat cleared itself behind me. I turned around to a smiling countenance on a man about four inches shy of my six feet. His pinstriped gray suit was neatly tailored, his half-glasses looked comfortable on the end of his nose. The light streaks of gray at his temples could have been applied with an artist’s brush. This gentleman spent serious time in front of a mirror.
“Lovely piece, don’t you think?” He touched my shoulder and peered around it. He let out a muted purr.
“Hmmm. You the owner?”
“I am.” He extended his hand and gave me half a squeeze. “Reginald Addison. Is there some way I might assist you?”
I returned a squeeze and a half. “As a matter of fact, there is. I’m here to buy a painting for my friend’s new office.” I strolled down the line of wall-to-wall art. Addison followed me like a puppy.
“How large a space do you wish to cover?”
I turned. “I beg your pardon?” Maybe this guy sold paintings by the square yard.
“We could narrow things down if you’d tell me what size space you need to fill.”
“Okay.” I rubbed my chin and pretended deep thought. After a mannered sigh, I took a shot in the dark. “You know the painting Summer Rain by Fritz Scholder?”
“Of course. Wonderful study.”
“About that size.”
Addison put a delicate finger to his lips and tapped like he was taking inventory of his front teeth. “Perhaps if you could describe your friend’s office décor I might have a suggestion or two.” He cocked his head and waited.
“Sure. In fact, you may even know the guy. I think he attended your recent opening. Name’s Klein. Joe Klein. Runs the new casino down in Albuq–”
“How do you know Mr. Klein?” From the tone of his voice, this puppy was now a guard dog.
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