False Witness

by Aimée; David Thurlo

As Sister Agatha walked back outside, she checked her watch. It was almost four thirty now. She’d head over to see Mr. Gutierrez next.

  The Siesta Inn was less than five minutes away, west of Camino Real and adjacent to one of the ancient irrigation ditches dug by farmers perhaps four hundred years earlier. Sister Agatha parked near the office of the long, one-story, pueblo-style building that circled a small interior courtyard. Freshly stuccoed and well maintained, the inn stood as a silent testimony of days gone by, when it had been the hacienda of one of the wealthiest Hispanic families in the area.

  Leaving the Harley in front of one of the large, peeled-log parking lot barriers, she climbed off the cycle and started toward the front door of the office. She’d just reached the steps when she spotted Ralph Simpson beyond the entrance to the interior courtyard, leaning against an old cottonwood, having a smoke. Seeing her, he crushed his cigarette with his heel and came outside the enclosure to greet her.

  Sister Agatha stopped and waited for him to reach the brick-lined walk and join her. “Good afternoon, Mr. Simpson.”

  “Just Ralph, Sister,” he answered. “I was on break, so I decided to have a smoke outside and wait for you. I spoke to Sister Bernarda earlier, and she said you’d be by within the hour.”

  He paused, frowning, then continued. “I’m sure glad she has the cold and not you. It wouldn’t be a good idea for anyone with a respiratory virus to get near Mr. Gutierrez right now.”

  “What makes you think Sister Bernarda has a cold?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “I just assumed … well, her voice sounded choked up, you know? Maybe it was just allergies.”

  Sister Bernarda had no allergies as far as she could recall. Sister Agatha thought it over, and realized that Sister Bernarda had probably been crying in the privacy of the parlor. After the accident the other night, they’d never discussed what was bothering her. Sister Agatha made up her mind right then to find out as soon as possible what was getting her so upset.

  “I’m glad you’ve accepted my boss’s invitation,” Ralph said, bringing her focus back to the business at hand. “But I’m not sure your dog should go into the room with us,” he added, glancing down at Pax. “John’s respiratory problems …”

  “Say no more. Pax will understand. I’ll leave him at ‘stay’ outside in the hall. He’ll wait for me.”

  Once inside the inn they walked down the hall, passing tall, hand-carved pine doors with names like “Sage” and “Chaparral” instead of numbers. Noticing that Ralph was holding his shoulders rigid, and every once in a while cast a nervous sideways glance at the dog, she added, “Relax, Ralph. Pax is harmless.” Making sure she remained between the dog and him, she continued. “But he’s picking up on your anxiety and that’s making him a little tense.”

  He gave her a taut smile. “Sorry, I’m just not that crazy about dogs,” he muttered.

  As they reached the final door, which had a sign proclaiming they’d reached the “Chamisa” room, Ralph reached for a card with a magnetic strip and opened the door.

  Sister Agatha gave Pax the hand signal to “down and stay,” then went inside. The suite was large, and at quick glance appeared to be divided into the sleeping area, a sitting room, bathroom, and a small kitchenette in an alcove. A man propped up by pillows sat up on a high four-poster bed, his breathing loud and labored. He was hooked up to a pulse oximeter, an oxygen and heart monitor that was attached to his finger. Its steady, rhythmic beeping echoed in the background.

  “Wonderful, Sister, you’re here,” Mr. Gutierrez said in a stronger voice than she would have expected under the circumstances. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  She stood near the door, not wanting to be too far away from Pax in case someone came down the hall and reacted to him.

  “Don’t keep John talking too long, Sister. He tires easily, though he’d cut out his tongue before he’d admit it,” Ralph whispered, leaning into her.

  “Will you take a seat here by the bed, Sister?” John said.

  “Thanks, but our monastery’s dog is right outside at ‘stay’ and I’d like to remain close by.”

  “Why don’t you bring him inside the room? It’s okay,” John added. “I have difficulty breathing, but it’s from physical deterioration, not allergies. As long as he doesn’t try to get up on the bed, he’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gutierrez.” Sister Agatha opened the door, gave Pax the command to “come,” then placed him at “down” and “stay” just inside. “He’ll be fine right there.”

  Ralph pulled a chair closer to the bed for Sister Agatha then retreated silently.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Sister,” John said, then coughed, the sound deep and ominous.

  As Sister Agatha took a seat, she studied the man before her. In contrast to his manicured nails and expensive gold ring, John’s face attested to a rough life lived with a ready fist. His nose had been broken more than once, and there were little scars on his left cheek as well as one long one by his chin. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark circles rimming each. Though he couldn’t have been more than fifty-five, he was pale and didn’t inhale as much as gulp in a breath and then let it out in an uneven gasp. Yet he seemed to be struggling less than a cardiac patient like Sister Gertrude did at times, or the asthmatic roommate she’d had in college.

  “I’ve read a great deal about you in the local paper,” John said, then added, “I lived in this area some years ago, and when I moved away to Colorado I missed it, so I decided to subscribe and keep up with the news.”

  She nodded politely, hoping he’d get to the point of the visit soon—the job she was supposed to do. Curiosity was nipping at her heels.

  As if reading her mind, he continued. “I’m a dying man, Sister Agatha—big C. My niece is my only living relative, and I’ve got reason to believe that she’s living in this area now. I’ve hired private investigators, of course, but they’ve only come up with strangers who have the same name. It’s possible she’s gotten married, but if she has, there’s no record of it in this state or any of the adjacent ones. I have no leads, but you seem to be very resourceful. After reading about your exploits working with the police, I knew you were just the person to help me.”

  “I’ll need to know a lot more, Mr. Gutierrez,” she said cautiously.

  He nodded and continued. “My niece and I lost track of each other several years ago, not on the best of terms, and it’s important that I find her quickly. I have no children of my own, so she’ll be inheriting everything I’ve worked for—my corporation and its assets. But my reasons for needing to find her go beyond that … it’s about continuity and family. I can’t die in peace until I’ve had a chance to talk to her again.” He paused, as if gathering his strength, then glanced at her and continued. “I’m prepared to offer you—well, the monastery—that strip of land the Archbishop and I discussed briefly over the telephone. I’ll also pay for any expenses you may incur if you accept the job.”

  Ralph Simpson stepped over and held out a check from a Denver bank that had already been made out for five hundred dollars.

  “That’s just to cover your initial expenses,” John said. “I’ve also had the necessary papers drawn up to transfer ownership of a substantial portion of land to the monastery—should you find my niece—along with a generous check for your services.”

  He waved toward the night table, where a thick manila folder was resting. “That deed would expand your borders and give you a very effective buffer zone against any possible future development. Go ahead and look for yourself, then take it with you and have an attorney vet it out.”

  Sister Agatha reached over and skimmed through the papers, which appeared authentic and accurate from her limited knowledge of legal documents. Although she knew enough about business not to allow her enthusiasm to get the better of her, this was clearly a Godsend. Knowing honesty was called for now, she fought the temptation to keep her mouth shut about any misgivings and take the deal imm
ediately.

  “I don’t know what you’ve read about me,” Sister Agatha said, “but have you considered the possibility that I may not be able to find your niece?”

  “I have full confidence in your abilities, Sister Agatha,” John said simply. “But even if you fail, you’ll still get to keep whatever remains of that check. I’m sure your order can always find a use for the money. And by at least trying to find her, you’ll be helping a dying man.”

  Christian charity almost compelled her to accept on the spot. But she knew better. The vow of obedience bound her. “I’ll talk to Reverend Mother this evening. The decision is totally up to her. But, tell me, what makes you think that your niece is in this area, and what’s her name?”

  “Her maiden name was Angela—Angie Sanchez. She’s my late sister’s daughter. She was fresh out of high school when her mother and father died in an auto accident on Highway 528. Angie’s the only family I have now. Several months ago, after giving up on private investigators, I put out feelers through my business associates and one of them—a local Realtor—told me she’d seen Angie at the Cottonwood Mall, the shopping center on Albuquerque’s northwest side. You’ve probably heard of it.”

  Sister Agatha nodded. “Go on.”

  “She saw Angie through the store window as she passed by and they made eye contact. My associate paid for her purchases and hurried out of the store, intending on catching up to her but, by then, my niece was nowhere in sight. It happened so fast she was sure she’d spooked Angie somehow.”

  “What kind of work does Angie do?”

  “She has a degree in business and has worked in real estate. What she’s doing now …,” he shrugged.

  “I could use a photo if you have one,” Sister Agatha said.

  He motioned toward an envelope on the nightstand next to him and she reached for it. Inside the inn’s stationery was a small snapshot. “That’s a copy I made from the original. It’s five years old.”

  Sister Agatha looked at the grainy image, cropped and enlarged from an apparent group photo. The face looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she had seen Angie in the Bernalillo area. The knowledge made Mr. Gutierrez’s offer even more tempting.

  “What have you done to try and find her?”

  “According to my investigators, every phone book and journal in four states has been checked, including all the databases online that we can access. If Angie’s married and has a new name now … well, it’s not possible to check out every Angela in the country, is it? But this new lead is the best I have. It makes sense that she’d return to Bernalillo. Angie lived in the area for many years and she has some very happy childhood memories of this place.”

  “What were her interests and hobbies?”

  “She loved country-western dancing and used to frequent some of the local nightclubs. And, as far as hobbies, she always liked hiking in the bosque.” A faraway look came over him as he continued. “I still remember the first hike Angie went on with her father and me. We’d decided to spend the night in the Manzanos, south of Capilla Peak. I used to love that area, and at that time I was still working as a hunting guide. Halfway down the trail to our planned campsite, Angie realized that her favorite stuffed animal was missing from her backpack—a raggedy, pitiful-looking white rabbit. We offered to buy her a new one when we returned to town—then a dozen new ones—but she wasn’t having any of it. Her dad and I ended up walking almost the entire distance down the mountain trail to where we’d parked the car, searching for that thing,” he said then began to cough. After taking a sip of water, he continued. “By the time we found it, it looked chewed up, like a wild animal had played with it, but it didn’t make any difference to her.”

  He paused until his breathing evened again. “Memories like those are what I hold most dear right now—and if there is an afterlife, that’s what I’m taking with me. Family matters to me, Sister, though it took me a long time to realize that.”

  Sister Agatha returned the photo to the envelope and placed it back on the nightstand. “If Reverend Mother says I can take the job, I’ll be back for the photo and that check. But I don’t feel right taking either until she gives me permission.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, then went into a long coughing spasm that left him shaky and breathless.

  She walked to the pitcher and refilled his water glass without being asked. “Are you all right?” she asked, as he took it from her hand.

  He nodded. “It’s uncomfortable, that’s all,” he managed.

  “I do have one more question,” Sister Agatha said. “How close are you to selling the vineyard?”

  “Eric Barclay’s interested in buying it back from me. I took it off his hands a few years ago when he was having financial troubles. He’s already offered me what I paid for it plus five percent, but the truth is that my own financial advisers insist I can do better. There’s another party putting together an offer I believe will be much more lucrative.”

  “And what do the other prospective buyers plan to do with the vineyards?”

  “I have no idea, but I do know the individuals have two significant rental apartment structures within the Albuquerque area.”

  Sister Agatha managed not to groan. “I’ll be in touch again as soon as Reverend Mother makes her decision, which I expect will be shortly,” she said, standing.

  “I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Sister.”

  Soon she and Pax were on their way back to the monastery. As she sped down a long curve in the road, Sister Agatha spotted a sedan quickly closing in on her. It was no one she recognized, but as the distance between them narrowed, a sixth sense warned her of danger. Sister Agatha glanced at Pax, who seemed to sense her abrupt change of mood, and now sat fully alert.

  “Hang on,” she said. Accelerating, she zipped into a side street that wound its way back around to the main highway. When the sedan didn’t follow, she breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she was getting paranoid.

  Then she spotted the sedan again. It was coming up the side street and once again closing in on her. She thought about the hacker who’d been causing so many problems for them, remembering that he or she was a local. Maybe he had read that old article in the paper and knew that the nuns were now managing the NexCen Web site. If he’d also grown tired of those impersonal computer attacks …

  “I don’t like this, Pax. Hang on, boy,” she yelled over the rumble of the motorcycle as she accelerated.

  Sister Agatha moved out, heading down one of the back roads that ran toward the river. By the time she doubled back, circled around, and reached the main road, now south of Bernalillo, no one was behind her.

  She smiled, satisfied, but then, a second later, she heard a siren and, as she slowed down and pulled over, she saw the sedan she’d tried so hard to avoid coming up behind her.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Sheriff Tom Green called out as he parked and got out of the unmarked sedan. “Practicing how to lose a tail?” he added with a grin.

  She removed her helmet and glared at him. “You knot-head! Why didn’t you use the emergency lights or siren before now? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

  “I just wanted to show you my new car so you’d recognize it. What’s making you so jumpy?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Really,” she added, seeing the open look of skepticism on his face. She didn’t expect him to talk about police business that didn’t concern her, so there was no reason why she should discuss monastery business with him—or the problem with their computers. “Have you found out anything that might help us get compensated for our broken gate?” she asked, changing the subject quickly.

  He shook his head. “I know how important that is to all of you, so I’m not ignoring it. But the only thing I’ve got is some scuttlebutt. Jack Miller’s planning to sue Liz and Leeann’s families.”

  “That’s a waste of time. They have no money to give him. I’d pressure them myself if I thought it would get me
the name of whoever was behind the wheel of that SUV.” She paused and then holding his gaze, added, “We’ve got to find a way to get those kids to tell us what they know.”

  “The problem is that neither girl is in custody now so—” Before he could say anything else, he received a call on his cell phone. Tom stepped away from the Harley, spoke hurriedly for a moment, then closed up the phone. “Gotta go. There’s a problem back at the station.”

  After he drove off, Sister Agatha fastened her helmet and continued north through town, intending to return to the monastery. As she passed the Burger Biggins, the new local hot spot for the town’s teens, she caught a glimpse of Liz standing beside a customized car talking to some tough-looking kids.

  Away from authority figures like the police and her mother, Sister Agatha suspected that she would have a better shot at getting answers from Liz—that is, of course, providing she could find a way to separate her from her friends for a few moments. To that end, she came up with an idea that was practically foolproof. With a smile, Sister Agatha made a left turn. She had work to do at the Burger Biggins.

  6

  LIZ STOOD WITH THREE BOYS WHO WERE WEARING EXTREMELY baggy pants, dark, sleeveless T-shirts, and amateur tattoos with a stylized font that reminded her of old English.

  As Sister Agatha pulled into the parking slot next to them and stopped, one of the boys whistled. “Hey, Sister, primo set of wheels there!”

  Sister Agatha removed her helmet and placed a hand on Pax, making sure he stayed inside the sidecar at sit. “Ernesto, I haven’t seen you in years,” she said, recognizing him from his grade-school days at St. Charles despite the peach fuzz haircut.

  “Nobody but Tia Rosita calls me Ernesto anymore, Sister. My name’s Macho.”

  “Really? Well, I have to agree with Tia Rosita. To me, you’ll always be Ernesto.” She looked at each face, making eye contact with every member of the group. “I was just talking to Sheriff Green, and I believe he’s looking for some volunteers to help scrub off some of the graffiti on the sides of buildings downtown. Would you guys like to lend a hand?” she asked. Tom had said no such thing—not this time—but there was a project going on, sponsored by the Police Athletic League, so it wasn’t a total lie.