THE NEW MEXICO SCOUNDREL
A Skyler Moore Thriller
R. Scott Wallis
Copyright © 2019 by R. Scott Wallis
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places, organizations, and event portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
Cover photo by James Thew / Adobe Stock
THE SKYLER MOORE THRILLER SERIES
THE MAINE NEMESIS
Book One – Available Now
THE NEW MEXICO SCOUNDREL
Book Two – This is It!
THE NEVADA SABOTEUR
Book Three – September 27, 2019
THE ALASKA SCALAWAG
Book Four – February 28, 2020
THE JOHNNY WAINWRIGHT THRILLER SERIES
SCOUT’S HONOR
The All-New Revised Edition – Summer 2019
SCOUT’S NAMESAKE
Book Two – Summer 2020
For Kristin
“Because it’s never too late for a new chapter.”
A WARNING, OF SORTS:
THIS IS BOOK TWO
You don’t necessarily need to read the very first Skyler Moore novel, The Maine Nemesis, to enjoy her New Mexican adventure that follows, but it couldn’t hurt. In the first book, we meet our hero in her quirky hometown of Wabanaki, Maine, along with a rather colorful cast of supporting characters. Of course, murder and mayhem ensue. It’s a fun, fast-paced, ‘Down East’ adventure that leads Skyler and her friends to Miami Beach, New York City, and Las Vegas. Read it second, if you want—all the books stand-alone—but please keep in mind that spoilers here within will ruin twists and turns in The Maine Nemesis. It’s the nature of a series.
That said, enjoy it any way you see fit. Who am I to tell you what to do? I’m not your father. (Or am I? Maybe I’m your long-lost evil half-brother. Or a third cousin, twice removed. We might never know the whole twisted truth about how we’re really related, but I still won’t try to run your life or tell you what books to read or in what order. I promise.)
—R. Scott Wallis
P.S. Please read The Maine Nemesis first.
PROLOGUE
Just moments before sunset, Georgia Reece, a renowned and much sought-after opera singer, who had performed with famed opera companies from Milan to Sydney, arrived home after a shopping spree downtown. She gathered the many bags of clothes and accessories, her Louis Vuitton purse, and a half-full Starbucks cup—which she’d already decided would be swapped out for a glass of wine once she was settled—and made her way into her new house.
Once behind the towering front door, she dropped her packages and purse to the floor. Georgia was faced with a horrific mess and she was having a hard time processing what she was seeing. Despite a commanding presence on the stage—her celebrated coloratura soprano voice once made a Serbian colonel, known around the world for his excessive brutality, weep openly—Georgia was an extremely reserved and restrained person when she was alone, and she painstakingly created an ultra-private oasis within her own walls.
That oasis had been violated and smashed that chilly December afternoon.
She walked warily from room to room, unable to process the senseless destruction. Drawers were ripped from every piece of furniture, the contents scattered on the floor. Most of the paintings were off their hooks. Couch pillows, papers, and clothing were strewn everywhere. Even pasta and crackers were dumped from their ripped-open boxes in the kitchen. It just made no sense. What on Earth were they looking for in the cracker boxes?
It dawned on her that she should be more nervous than mad as she discovered more messes around every corner. Could the perpetrator still be in the house? Why hadn’t she activated the previous owners’ alarm system yet? Should she run back to the safety of her locked car?
But the house was numbingly quiet, so she continued, cautiously, with a fireplace poker in one hand and the Starbucks cup in the other.
When she reached the Great Room, she found the entry point. Glass from a ten-foot-high window was shattered all over the stone floor and a ceramic vase that had been on the patio outside lay on the cowhide rug, broken in several large pieces.
It was the grey ashes on the floor in front of the fireplace that finally sent her into despair. She set down her weapon and coffee and fell to her knees and quietly sobbed as she used her bare hands to scoop her mother’s remains into a pile. Dumping potpourri from a crystal bowl—one of just a few of her possessions still intact—she salvaged as much of the ashes as she could. And when the gruesome task was finished, she washed her hands, then dialed ‘911’ on her cell phone. She explained to the woman who answered that her home had been ransacked and she was promised that a police cruiser would be dispatched immediately.
Georgia had closed on the house just ten days earlier. It was her first home purchase, having only lived with her parents and in dorm rooms, various rented apartments, and properties owned by her two late husbands.
Both men had been cruelly taken from her way before their time—one succumbed to cancer three years after they wed and the other dropped dead of a heart attack on their honeymoon.
Moving to New Mexico to buy the large house on the mountain-side overlooking downtown Santa Fe, was her way of starting over. It was therapeutic. A new beginning. A new chapter in which she longed for serenity, peace, and, most hopefully, an escape from the deaths that repeatedly interrupted what was otherwise a lovely life. Not only was she unlucky in the husband department, but she’d been forced to say goodbye to both of her parents prematurely. Most recently it was her beloved mother, the woman who was now partially contained in the crystal potpourri bowl and partially littered all over Georgia’s brand-new floor.
It was almost too much for her to bear. But by the time the doorbell rang, she was out of tears.
Two officious, by-the-book Santa Fe Police Department officers walked through the house with Georgia, asking questions along the way. She explained that she was new to the neighborhood and knew few people in town. She had no known enemies. And, surprisingly, she couldn’t identify anything in the house that was missing.
“The jewelry appears to be untouched,” she said when they arrived at the large walk-in closet. “It’s not ridiculously expensive stuff, but there’s several thousands of dollars worth of stuff in here.” She picked up the diamond necklace that had been a wedding present from her second husband. “This was insured for $10,000, for example.”
“Oh, right. I see. Not ridiculously expensive,” one officer said.
“Was there a handgun in the house?” the other officer asked.
“Never.”
“Cash?”
“A few dollars,” she said, shaking her head. “I never have cash on hand.”
“Stock certificates, bonds, anything like that?”
“All in a safe deposit box back in New York.” She began to sit down on the side of the bed, but an officer stopped her.
“Don’t disturb anything, please.”
“There’s what looks like a painting by Picasso in the living room,” the other officer said. “That can’t be real.”
“It is,” she said calmly. “Is it still there? I hadn’t noticed.”
“If I noticed it, you can assume it’s still there,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little shaken up. My mother’s ashes were dumped on the floor.”
There were many more questions, but no one could come up with a motive. An evidence team was ordered up from Albuquerque with the hopes that the perpetrator may have left a usable finge
rprint behind.
“I’d consider getting a security system, ma’am,” the older of the two officers suggested. “Unfortunately, break-ins are on the rise in this neighborhood. It could be that this was just a bunch of kids who had no idea what any of this stuff was worth. They might have just done this as a thrill. Out of boredom or something or other.”
“Boredom? Well, isn’t that great,” she said. “But, yes, I think upgrading the security is going to be the first thing on my to-do list. I have something here; I just haven’t activated it yet.”
“I’d get that window replaced A.S.A.P., too, ma’am. It’s supposed to get down into the twenties tonight. We might even get some snow.”
She was unsure who to turn to for that kind of task and it was already dark outside. She was stronger than this, and she’d certainly dealt with worse tragedies, but nevertheless, she began to cry again. Feeling sorry for the widow, one of the officers called his construction worker brother-in-law to see if he could come to her rescue.
“I appreciate that more than you can imagine,” she said after the officer got off his phone.
“It’s the Santa Fe way, ma’am. Just part of the job.”
“It’s not, I’m sure. But thank you for going above and beyond the call of duty. I really do appreciate it.”
An hour later, while the forensics team dusted doorknobs and glass doors for prints, a weathered looking, middle-aged man, dressed in paint-splattered, well-worn clothing and heavy construction boots arrived in an ancient pickup truck with several large pieces of plywood. When Georgia went out to the front driveway to greet him, his mouth dropped open.
“Miss Reece,” the man said, approaching with two extended arms. He took hold of her hands and his heavily tanned face beamed. “I am such a huge fan. I’m so sorry that this has happened to you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, kind sir.”
“Diego, ma’am. Diego Ferrera. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’ve been an opera fan since I was un pequeño chico. My mother was obsessed with the music and my brothers and I grew up listening to little else. I saw you in Rigoletto this past summer. Your performance was nothing less than breathtaking.”
“Estoy muy halagado, mi amigo,” Georgia said in a perfect Spanish accent as she led him hand in hand through the house and into the Great Room. “And I appreciate you coming to my aid this evening. As you can see, I have a large hole in the back of my house.”
“We’ll have this patched up in no time,” Diego said. “And I’ll get someone to replace that window pane tomorrow. There’s a great glass company in town. We can get it done.”
“My hero.”
“Anything for you, Miss Reece. Anything.” And the man got to work.
One of the original responding officers walked up to Georgia’s side. “Are you someone famous?”
She despised that question but was relatively used to it. “I guess so. In some rather small circles. I’m an opera singer.”
“Ahh,” the officer said. “Never been to an opera. I hear the Santa Fe Opera is a pretty cool venue though.”
“It is, indeed. Very unique, with its open-air theater. Every seat has little screens so that theatergoers can read along in English. You should give it a try some time. It’s breathtaking up there.”
“I’m more of a metal fan.”
“I understand. Opera certainly isn’t for everyone.”
“How famous are you? Do you have fans?”
Georgia raised an eyebrow. “Well, Diego here seems to be a fan. People do know me, sir. Some seem to even like me. What are you getting at?”
“Could this mess be the result of your fame?” the officer asked as he gestured around the room. “A deranged fan or something of the kind?”
“I couldn’t even fathom that, officer. I’ve heard from a few people over the years, but nothing that stood out as questionable or disturbing in any way. No one has ever harassed me in public or at one of my homes. I travel freely, and I’m only recognized in public a very tiny fraction of the time. I’m very rarely on television or in magazines. Most people don’t know this face.”
“Diego knew your face.”
“Like I said, it’s very rare and it surprises me every time it happens.”
“Well, it might be worth exploring,” he said flatly. “And I’d get that security system activated just as soon as you can.”
Georgia found it very difficult to sleep that night. It might have been because she left every single light on in the house. It might have been because the house still looked like a tornado had ripped through it. Or, it could have been because there was a complete stranger sleeping on her living room couch. Diego insisted on staying when she commented that she didn’t feel safe in the house but wasn’t too keen on checking into a hotel. And while she was both unnerved and touched by his gesture, she didn’t know how to turn down his magnanimous offer. He was a police officer’s brother-in-law who loved Rigoletto, so he couldn’t be all that bad, she decided.
CHAPTER ONE
In the English basement office of her Washington, D.C. brownstone, Skyler Moore was finishing up some paperwork after a long day of conference calls and meetings that had all but completely drained her energy. She’d been working non-stop for months, foregoing her usual late-autumn vacation to see to an ever-growing client list. She’d recently hired two new gung-ho associates, but the work continued to pile up. Her boutique public relations business was booming—mostly because she signed superstar pop singer Carissa Lamb to her roster—and the focus of the company had rapidly transformed from mom-and-pop products and small non-profits, to all-things celebrity and entertainment.
Skyler was slightly out of her element but energized by the new challenges that she was facing on a daily basis. She’d recently returned to the nation’s capital after a whirlwind business trip that took her to New York City, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles where she’d met with her top clients—she insisted on regular face-to-face interactions with the people who paid her bills.
She had more work to do, but her suitcases were still packed and sitting in the bedroom upstairs; she dreaded having to deal with them, but knew she’d never get anything done until the task was done. Her boyfriend was also clomping around somewhere above her head in the creaky old house and she was having a hard time concentrating.
She headed up to the kitchen on the ground level where she poured herself a glass of pinot grigio before continuing upward to the second-floor master suite. Thankfully, the house was quiet now that the staff had gone home. She constantly second-guessed her decision not to move the company to larger digs somewhere downtown but appreciated her effortless commute; the quick elevator ride to the basement level was certainly better than braving D.C.’s congested streets on a snowy day. Washingtonians simply didn’t know how to deal with the white stuff and the city had pretty much come to a screeching halt when the first flurries started to fall that morning. The government was put on liberal leave. Public schools were closed tight. The grocery stores were devoid of toilet paper and milk. It made Skyler long for her hometown back in Wabanaki, Maine, where several feet of snow didn’t put a dent in anyone’s day and the hordes didn’t run out to buy up every single last loaf of bread.
“It’s really coming down out there,” he said as she entered the room. “Looks like home.”
She walked over to the bay window and stood next to him. It was a bittersweet moment. He was scheduled to leave the next morning and she’d gotten used to having him around. But he was bored. He needed something to do other than playing endless video games and getting in her way when she tried to work. And Wabanaki needed him more than she did. And while she certainly earned enough money to support them both, he’d appreciate some of his own money in his pocket again.
“I wonder if my flight will get off on time,” Leonard Little said absently. “They don’t kn
ow how to clear the runways here.”
She slipped an arm around her boyfriend’s firm wide back and pulled him close. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too,” he said. He turned to face her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “But it’s not forever.”
He’d been a police officer back in their childhood hometown in Maine. Skyler had known him since they were kids, but it wasn’t until last summer that they’d started an accidental sexual relationship that quickly turned into a love affair. When Leonard’s estranged wife had been brutally murdered, the unlikely pair teamed up to help find the perpetrator. When they followed a lead to Miami, they started having sex and pretty much never stopped. It was fast, unexpected, and altogether satisfying, especially since the never-married Skyler had been relatively unlucky with maintaining healthy relationships over the years.
Then after a very unfortunate July—which involved the death of both a close mutual friend and Leonard’s father, who had been the Sheriff of Wabanaki for decades—the new couple decided to flee Maine to live in Skyler’s house in Washington, D.C. But now he was going back to the scene of the crimes. And it hurt them both.
“The new Sheriff needs you. Your town needs you,” Skyler said. “You’re doing the right thing, darn it.”
“I can’t believe Kristin broke both legs. Porter emailed me photos of the car accident. It didn’t look that bad.”
Skyler crinkled her brow. “What are you talking about? The whole front end was smashed in like an accordion.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I guess that would do it.”
“Um, yeah, dummy. And I feel so badly for her,” Skyler said. “Lord knows that Porter and the rest of those deputies aren’t up to running that police department without her at the helm. But you’re right, it’s not forever. Legs heal. And you don’t really have a choice now, do you?”
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