by Joseph Badal
Salas favored them with a split-second grimace that served as a smile. He handed Susan a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it.
“We have a 27-1 out on Rio Grande Boulevard. Be on your best behavior; that’s the high rent district.”
“Who got killed?” Susan asked.
“It’s the Comstock place is all I know,” Salas said. “See the deputy on scene. He’ll have the ID.”
“Maxwell Comstock?” Susan asked.
“Yeah, you know him?” Salas said.
“Sure,” Susan answered. “We do cocktails at the country club all the time.”
Salas looked up and squinted. “Don’t be a smartass, Martinez.”
Susan held up her hands in surrender. “I don’t know Comstock, but I’ve heard about him. Guy has more money than God and connections to get him into heaven.”
“That’s him,” Salas said. He pointed at Barbara and then at Susan. “Be careful with this one. Comstock is tight with every politician in town.” He looked at Susan and added, “Especially you, Martinez. No smartass stuff.”
Susan raised her eyebrows, pointed a finger at her chest, and said, “Moi?”
“Get out of here you two,” Salas snapped as they turned away from him. “Have fun. Nothing like a bloody corpse on a hot day to make the juices flow.”
Barbara shot him a sickly smile and led the way to the exit.
“You know the lieutenant’s sweet on you,” Susan said on the elevator ride down to the basement.
“You’re full of it,” Barbara said.
“Can’t you tell from the way he smiles at you?”
“First of all, I’m not interested. Second, he never really smiles. When he tries to, he looks like a gargoyle. Third, I’m just not ready for a relationship. Fourth, I can’t imagine any man would want to be with this,” as she slapped her thigh. She laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it.
Susan frowned as they left the elevator. “You put too much emphasis on looks,” she said.
“Easy for you to say, Miss America.”
“You’ve got that blonde-haired, blue-eyed, high cheek-boned thing going on. You just don’t know how to use it.”
“I use it, but I don’t think anyone wants it.”
Susan just shook her head, strode out of the elevator, and entered the tunnel to the underground lot where their department-issued unmarked Crown Victorias were parked.
“I’ll drive,” Barbara said.
“Okay by me,” Susan answered.
Barbara thought about what Lieutenant Salas had said about a bloody corpse on a hot day. She’d never been able to view a murder scene in a completely objective, dispassionate fashion, the way Susan could. Eight years in law enforcement and she had yet to reach the point where she considered a dead body just another part of the job.
She drove the sedan west to Rio Grande Boulevard and turned north. The drive was pretty much a straight shot past Old Town. The area consisted of expensive, rambling homes in the midst of two-hundred-year-old adobe structures, a few upscale offices and shops, and small horse farms.
“How’d the counseling session go with Manny last night?” Barbara asked as she tried to take her mind off what might await them at the crime scene. Susan didn’t answer right away.
“It was the shits. We rehashed the same old stuff. Manny was steamed when we got home. As if we didn’t have enough problems, the airline’s about to go through another round of layoffs.”
Barbara felt bad for Susan, but didn’t know how to respond, so she stared straight ahead and guided the unmarked Ford northward at the 25-mile-per-hour speed limit.
“We got home about 8:30,” Susan said. “Manny went right to the fridge, pulled out a six-pack, plopped his ass down in front of the TV, and guzzled Coors. By 9:00 he’d polished off four. I heard him mumbling, so I went into the den and, as calmly as I could, said ‘How ‘bout we talk about it?’ Well, good old Manny pitched a full can of beer at me; just missed my head. Then he came out of his chair, shouted, ‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ and took a swing at me.”
As far as Barbara knew, Manny had never been physically abusive with Susan. “Sonofabitch!” Barbara said. “What happened?”
“I punched him. Busted at least one of his ribs. He packed a bag and left.”
“Jeez, I’m really sorry, Susan.”
Susan shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m almost glad it happened. I’m tired of Manny’s crap. It’s almost a relief. I’d hoped . . . there’s the address.”
Barbara waved at a deputy who stood at the start of a black-topped driveway. She pulled between two Sheriff’s Department patrol cars. White, three-rail wood fences bracketed the driveway and ran between enormous gnarled cottonwood trees. Half-a-dozen horses grazed in a pasture on the right. To the left was a gray barn with a corral in front of it. The corral had red-and-white gates and white wooden jumps set up for hunter-jumper training.
At the end of the long driveway, Barbara stopped the car in a circular drive anchored with a marble fountain. Two Bernalillo County Sheriff cars were parked in front of the entrance to a sand-colored, two-story mansion. Its pitched slate roof, textured stucco exterior, second floor balconies, and tall shuttered windows made it look like something transplanted from Provence. A uniformed deputy stood at the top of four shallow steps, in front of the door to the mansion.
The deputy wore mirrored sunglasses and a tailored uniform that form-fit his huge biceps and sculpted pecs. Barbara nudged Susan. “Try to be nice to Gallagher.”
“Hah!” Susan blurted. “Besides, why warn me? You’re the one who always gets us in trouble.”
“Oh, bull—”
Susan had already moved forward. She climbed the front steps and walked up to Gallagher.
Barbara had worked with the deputy before and had found him humorless, all business. Susan was attractive and sexy, but that wouldn’t win her any points with Gallagher.
Susan just stood in front of the guy, found her reflection in his mirrored sunglasses, and primped.
“Shit!” Barbara muttered under her breath. She climbed the steps to the doorway and nudged Susan aside. “Hey, Gallagher,” she said. “Que pasa?”
Gallagher’s expression didn’t change. “OMI’s here. The Criminalistics Team hasn’t arrived yet.”
“You first on the scene?” Barbara asked.
“Nah!” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the front door. “Saavedra’s in the kitchen with the maid. Gal by the name of Isabelle Parra. He got here first.”
“Anyone else around?’ Barbara asked.
“Nope. I searched the place after I made certain the victim was actually deceased. Even checked the horse barn and the tool shed at the back of the property. There were tools scattered around the barn, so I suspect there were workers here. Probably illegals who dropped whatever they were doing and took off as soon as we arrived.”
“How’d it go down?” she said.
“Looks like someone used some sort of spear on the lady of the house. Did one hell—”
“Used a what?” Susan blurted.
“A spear,” Gallagher repeated. He lifted his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and shook his head. “Bad scene. Hacked her up pretty good.”
“Anything else?” Barbara asked. She felt queasy.
“The victim is Victoria Comstock. Forty-year-old Anglo female. Lady of the house.”
Gallagher stepped aside so Barbara and Susan could walk inside.
The entryway merged into an enormous oval foyer. Two separate hallways radiated off the left side of the foyer. Dead ahead was a third hallway that opened into a forty-foot-deep den, with a dining room on the right, and more rooms beyond that.
“Do you believe this place?” Susan said. She pointed at a bighorn sheep’s head mounted above the doorway to the den. Inside the den there were more trophies—stuffed animals adorned all four walls, the bookshelves, and the floor. The shelves and walls also held Native American arrowhead sets, ka
chinas, baskets, and pots. These were accompanied by African ceremonial masks, weapons, and ebony and wood carvings. Sunk a foot below door level sat bulky leather furniture and animal-pelt rugs that occupied the center portion of the room. Two large fireplaces were spaced about twenty feet apart along the room’s east wall. The air-conditioning cranked out so much cold air the room felt like a meat locker. But even in the frigid air, it only took a few seconds for Barbara to detect the telltale coppery smell of death. She and Susan moved to the edge of the room, just past the recessed portion, near the left fireplace. A man with a surgical mask knelt next to the body.
“Hey, Wulfie,” Susan said, as they approached.
Martin Wulfe, the Chief Field Investigator for the Office of Medical Investigation, looked back over his shoulder, squinted at Susan, then turned back to the victim.
The dead woman was dressed in a white velvet bathrobe cinched closed with a bloody, once-gold sash. A white towel that had apparently been wrapped around her hair now lay in a heap six inches from the top of her head. Blood had saturated the robe and puddled onto the tile floor. A four-foot spear protruded at an angle from the victim’s chest, like a gnomon on a sundial. The recessed overhead lights caused the spear to cast a six-o’clock shadow down the woman’s stomach and beyond her feet.
“Gloves and masks are in my case,” Wulfe said.
Barbara nodded, grabbed masks and gloves from the coroner’s case, and tossed a set to Susan.
“Meet Victoria Comstock,” Wulfe said. “Haven’t seen one this bad in a long time. Lot of anger built up to do this.”
Barbara twisted away and sucked in a deep breath. Her already queasy stomach threatened to revolt. Hold it together, she told herself. She slowly turned back to the corpse. Fortunately, Wulfe and Susan concentrated on the victim and hadn’t seemed to notice her reaction.
It was impossible to tell anything about how the woman had once looked. Barbara absorbed every gory detail: A dozen bloody gashes crossed her face; dried blood filled her eye sockets; her throat had been carved open.
Wulfe placed brown paper bags over the victim’s hands. He laid a black plastic body bag next to her body. He looked at Barbara. “You want to slip this under her when I roll her up on one side?”
Barbara looked at Susan. She guessed her partner noticed the sick expression on her face. “I’ll do it,” Susan said.
Wulfe carefully removed the spear and wrapped it in plastic that he pulled from his coroner’s bag. Then Susan slipped the body bag under the corpse as Wulfe tilted it onto its side.
Once the body was in the bag, Wulfe zipped it closed, sealed it, and signed, dated, and timed the bag tag.
“You want to guess how long she’s been dead?” Susan asked Wulfe.
“At least ten hours.”
Barbara held her breath. Her bulletproof vest suddenly felt two sizes too small. “What was that thing in her chest?”
Wulfe frowned. “That thing is an assagai. It’s a short stabbing spear used by the Bantu people of Africa. It’s got a razor-sharp five-inch tip attached to a four-foot shaft.”
“How do you know about African spears?” Susan asked.
“I read a lot,” Wulfe said. “You should try it once in a while.”
“Gee, Wulfie, and I heard your speed was action-hero comic books.”
“Huh!”
Barbara moved across the den to a built-in entertainment center that ran at least twenty feet in width and went floor to ceiling. She guessed the collection of stereo and video equipment cost more than she made in a year. Maybe in two years.
She ran her fingers down several stacks of DVDs and read their labels: Braveheart, Saving Private Ryan, Star Wars, 24, Breaking Bad. She moved to the next stack and slid a finger from title to title. She stopped on a case in the middle of the stack: Vickie-2012 Dallas Hunter Jumper Classic. Others had similar typewritten labels: Vickie-2011 Tucson Dressage, Vickie-2011 Austin Hunter Jumper Nationals, Vickie-2013 New Mexico Hunter Jumper Event, and so on.
About to move away, Barbara noticed the edge of a disk protruding from a DVD player. She hit the POWER button, pushed the disk into the machine, and pressed PLAY. Snow and static exploded on the screen. Then the screen came to life with images of men and women in black helmets and jackets, white blouses, tan riding breeches, and shiny knee-high boots. They rode horses in an arena with crowded bleachers.
The picture changed. Now there was just one rider who rode through an obstacle course of jumps. Though she knew nothing about the horse world, Barbara could see that the woman she watched must be an expert. She and the horse moved as one. They cleared each jump flawlessly. The only sounds that came from the TV were the horse’s heavy breathing and the thuds of its hooves. The horse cantered around the arena, burst into a gallop just before each jump, and gathered itself to leap. After the horse and its rider had cleared the last obstacle, the crowd in the bleachers cheered.
In the next scene, a man in a sport jacket and tie presented the same rider with a blue ribbon and a silver trophy. The rider, helmet off, stood next to the animal and rubbed and kissed its neck.
“Vickie, you were fantastic,” a man said from off camera. “Never better. You could have won Nationals today.”
“Oh, honey, you always say that,” the woman replied, but she sounded as though she believed the compliment and she flushed and smiled with pleasure.
Barbara stared at the screen, mesmerized by the woman. She felt a momentary twinge of envy. Vickie Comstock was ravishing. She looked to be in her early thirties, years younger than the forty Gallagher had told them. The tight-fitting riding jacket and pants showed off her figure—full breasts; narrow waist; tight, athletic legs. Strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a bun. A light breeze fluttered a few loose strands of hair around her face. Her eyes were large and blue, nose patrician-straight, neck long and slender. She looked Hollywood-perfect. Barbara glanced in the direction of the body bag. There was no resemblance between the woman on the television and the mangled corpse in the bag.
“What you got here?” Susan said as she came up next to Barbara.
Barbara pointed at the screen. “I think that’s our victim.”
“Some difference, huh? She won’t ever look that good again.”
Barbara knew Susan was being neither morbid nor disrespectful. Gallows humor was common in law enforcement, especially in homicide. It was a defense mechanism to avoid insanity.
“Deputy Saavedra’s in the kitchen with Isabelle Parra, the maid,” Susan said. “”Let’s go check her out.”
CHAPTER 3
In contrast to the multi-colors of the Great White Hunter theme of the den, the Comstock’s kitchen was a sea of black granite, dark custom cabinets, and a chef’s stainless steel dream. Cut flowers filled an assortment of crystal vases. A five-shelf bookcase held every sort of cookbook Barbara could imagine. The room was at least thirty feet wide by forty feet long, with slabs of black granite countertops and every culinary device known to man: Vinotek; two Sub-Zero refrigerators—one with a glass door; a separate freezer; a Viking cook top and double ovens; and a commercial espresso bar.
The kitchen opened onto a half-circle sunroom with a table and four chairs. French doors on the far side of the sunroom led out to an herb garden. A deputy with his back to Barbara and Susan sat in one of the chairs next to a Hispanic woman in a gray maid’s uniform trimmed with white collar and cuffs.
Barbara touched Susan’s arm and pointed her chin at the deputy. Susan took the cue and cleared her throat. The deputy turned, got one look at Susan, and immediately stood up and came to attention. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Before the man could say a word, Susan said, “Would you join me for a minute? I’d like your take on what happened here.”
Barbara had to stifle a laugh at the look on the deputy’s face, a sappy expression that as much as said he would follow Susan into hell if she asked.
The deputy reached for a small notebook on the table and glanced at Barbara for a mome
nt, before he looked back at Susan. “I wrote down everything Ms. Parra told me.”
“That’s nice,” Susan said. “Maybe you could share all of that with me.”
“Sure, you bet,” the man said. “Maybe . . . we could do it . . . outside.”
“The den’s a lot closer,” Susan said. “Why don’t we sit in there?”
The deputy turned pale. “Sure, if that’s what you want.” His voice had gone up a couple octaves.
Barbara took pity on him and said, “There’s a table and chairs out on the patio beyond the sun room there.”
Susan smiled. “I guess that would be okay, too.” She marched out of the kitchen through the sun room, the deputy hot on her heels.
Barbara walked to the table and pulled out the chair the deputy had vacated next to the maid, who looked startled and rose to her feet as though Barbara was the President of the United States. Barbara patted the maid’s arm and said, “Why don’t we sit down?”
She was about forty-five, a short dumpling of a woman, with the almond shaped brown eyes, high, sharp cheekbones, and nut-brown skin that reflected her Aztec ancestors. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear-swollen.
“Esta bien?” Barbara asked, once they were settled in their chairs.
“Si,” the maid said. “Pero es muy terrible.” She covered her face with her hands as she broke into tears.
Barbara waited for the tears to stop, then introduced herself.
“What time did you arrive here this morning?”
“Ees maybe 10 o’clock. I work five days the week, but do food shopping on Monday and Friday. So, today is shopping day.”
“Do you come here first and then go to the store?”
“No, no. I come from my place to the store. Then I come here.”
“Where do you live?” Barbara asked.
“On Edith Street. Ees not too far from here. Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe a leetle more.” She gave Barbara her address and telephone number.
“Do you know where we can find Mr. Comstock?”
“Mr. Comstock is no in Albuquerque. He went last night for Los Angeles. But he has office here, in downtown.”