Wall of Glass

by Walter Satterthwait

  “Whose idea was it to move up from kachinas to sell the contraband artifacts?”

  “Lucero says it was Biddle’s. According to him, Griego told Biddle four years ago about the eagle feather deal, told him about the European market for Indian art. According to Lucero, Biddle pointed out to Griego that she could make even more money if she didn’t limit herself to kachinas. She already had herself a willing dealer who was depositing her funds in a Swiss account. And she already had a Hopi hanging around, Lucero, who could help them locate the stuff.”

  “And Lucero went along with it.”

  “He says he didn’t have any choice. He said that Biddle told him—not really threatening, just putting out hints here and there—that Lucero was already too involved in the sale of contraband to turn down the idea.”

  “You think that’s true?”

  “That Lucero was coerced?”

  She nodded.

  “Hard to tell. Maybe. But like Winnifred Gail says, he’s one of those people who’ve got important parts missing.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” Rita said.

  “And from what she tells me, by doing the kind of kachinas he did, he was already selling out his religion and his people. Helping Biddle locate a couple of old bowls maybe didn’t seem like all that big a deal. The whole thing may even have been his idea. Maybe he went to Griego with it, and she brought in Biddle. Biddle and Griego aren’t around to tell their side.”

  Rita sipped at her lemonade. “When did Biddle bring in Killebrew?”

  “From the start. According to Lucero, Biddle saw it all as a lark, and he wanted Killebrew to share the fun. They’d known each other for years, liked the same things—according to Lucero, young girls, old whiskey, and fast times. Lucero says Griego never really paid them all that much, a couple of thousand apiece for each shipment they brought in. That makes sense. Griego wouldn’t pay them any more than she had to, and Biddle would’ve probably done it for free. He was getting a chance to play Cowboys and Indians.”

  “And then Killebrew was arrested on the burglary charge here in town. That was the eighteen months when there were only two deposits to the account in Berne.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Killebrew’s arrest slowed the operation down some. Lucero was willing to spot the stuff for Biddle, tell him where the graves were located and how to get to them, but he refused to go along on the trips. People knew him there, and he couldn’t afford to be recognized. So Biddle had to work it on his own. Which made it more difficult and more dangerous. He made only two trips up there the whole time.”

  Rita nodded.

  “And then,” I said, “Killebrew got out of the slammer, and last spring the two of them went back to the Hopi reservation. Only this time, they were almost caught. An old man stumbled onto them while they were digging up a grave. Killebrew killed him.”

  She frowned, nodded again.

  “That was Biddle’s last trip, according to Lucero,” I told her. “He didn’t mind making a few quick bucks robbing graves, but he didn’t want to be involved in murder.”

  “Murder One,” said Rita.

  She was right. The grave robbing was a felony, and any homicide committed during a felony automatically becomes first-degree murder.

  I said, “Neither one of them, Biddle or Killebrew, told Griego about the killing. But the old man’s body was found, and because he’d obviously been killed during a looting expedition, the F.B.I. came in. It also made the papers, even here in Santa Fe. Griego spotted it. It was only a tiny little article, Lucero says, almost a filler, but naturally Griego knew what it meant. She told Killebrew that was the end.”

  “Killebrew had other ideas.”

  “Yeah.” He let it alone for a while, and then came back at the end of the summer and told her he was going to start making the trips again.”

  “Why?”

  “Two reasons. First, the guy who’d been fencing the stuff he’d gotten on the burglaries here in town—some guy in New York, Lucero doesn’t know his name—he refused to deal with Killebrew after he got busted. So Killebrew needed cash. And second, he’d learned—in prison, I think—how much money Griego had probably been getting for the stuff he’d provided. He felt she owed him. So he went to her, told her that if she wasn’t prepared to come across with cash, and more of it, for whatever he brought back, he’d make a few telephone calls. To the F.B.I., to Customs, to the Fish and Game people. Griego was trapped.”

  “Biddle wasn’t in on this?”

  “No. Griego told him about it later. It was the reason he was so pissed off at Killebrew. He couldn’t do anything about it, though, because if Killebrew got caught, and talked, tried to plea-bargain, Biddle would’ve gone down the tubes with him.”

  “So if Biddle hadn’t died,” Rita said, “Killebrew might have kept on looting indefinitely.”

  “Right.”

  Rita sat back, sipped her lemonade. “It doesn’t sound as though Killebrew killed him, does it?”

  “No,” I said. “Lucero says Killebrew was furious when he heard that Biddle was dead. The cops knew of the connection between the two of them, and Biddle’s death brought a lot of pressure down on him.”

  “It brought a lot of pressure down on Silvia Griego as well, I imagine.”

  I nodded again. “Like I said, she was already cracking. Biddle’s death nearly pushed her over the edge. The old man at the reservation had been bad enough, but this was someone she knew, someone she’d slept with. And she thought Killebrew had killed him.”

  Rita sipped her lemonade.

  “And then,” I said, “I showed up. I spooked her, Lucero says. She called him after I left the gallery, and she was talking about ending it, going to the cops before Killebrew killed her, too.”

  “And Lucero called Killebrew.”

  I nodded. “He says all he wanted to do was persuade Killebrew to talk to Griego, convince her he didn’t off Biddle. I think that’s probably true. I don’t think he wanted Griego dead.”

  “But Killebrew did.”

  “Killebrew had more to lose. He had a couple of federal offenses hanging over him, and a murder charge—the old man on the reservation. He’d already done time, and he didn’t want to do any more.”

  “So he went to Griego’s house that night and killed her.”

  “And then I showed up and he clubbed me.”

  “You’re lucky that’s all he did, Joshua.”

  “I know. He was in a hurry to get out of there. If he’d had the time to think about it, he probably would’ve decided to finish me off.”

  “He almost did last night.”

  I shook my head. “He was after Lucero. I’m sure I would’ve been a nice bonus, but it was Lucero he wanted. And Lucero knew it. That’s why he’d been hiding out since Tuesday, the day he learned Griego was dead. Lucero was the one person left who knew what had happened, and with Griego dead, sooner or later the cops would get to him. Killebrew didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “How is Lucero doing?”

  “Hector says he’ll live. But the slug turned his right arm into Jell-O. He won’t be carving any more kachinas for a while. Maybe not ever.”

  “He’s told everything to the police.”

  “Yeah. It looks like this thing is pretty much over.”

  “Except for Killebrew,” she said.

  “They’ll get him. Everyone in the world is after him right now, including the Feds. But I’ll tell you, Rita, I don’t think we’re ever going to see that necklace of the Leightons.”

  “Why not?”

  “If Killebrew stole it, if he actually had it in his possession, he’s probably dumped it by now. He’s already got enough shit to worry about, without worrying about a hot necklace.”

  She sipped her lemonade. “I don’t think Killebrew stole it,” she said.

  I looked at her. “You don’t, huh? Well if Killebrew didn’t, then who did?”

  “The same person who killed Frank Biddle.
”

  “And who might that be?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I have an idea or two.”

  “And would you care to share them with me?”

  She shook her head. “Not just yet. I want to make a few phone calls over the weekend. I should know for sure by Monday.”

  “Rita,” I said, “I hate it when you do this.”

  She laughed.

  “What do you know,” I said, “that I don’t?”

  “Nothing,” she smiled. “Didn’t you read the reports you brought me? Killebrew’s burglaries two years ago?”

  “Yeah, I read them. What was in them that was so important?”

  “It wasn’t what was in them,” she said. “It was what wasn’t in them.”

  I frowned. “Are we talking here about the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime?”

  She nodded. “We are, Dr. Watson.”

  “Rita.”

  She smiled again. “Monday. In the meantime, Joshua, I think you should be very careful. Killebrew is still out there somewhere, and he has no reason to like you. Maybe you should leave town for a while, go up to Taos and get a room in one of the hotels.”

  “I don’t like Taos.”

  “Are you carrying the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  WHEN THE OFFICE PHONE rang at ten o’clock on Monday morning, I thought it might be Rita, calling to wrap everything up for me. It was Derek Leighton.

  “Croft,” he said, and his voice was harsh and coarse, fraying at the edges. “Croft, you’ve got to get out here! He’s got her! He’s got my daughter!”

  “Slow down,” I said. “Who’s got your daughter?”

  “Killebrew, goddamit! He’s got Miranda; he’s kidnapped her. There’s a note and he wants money, a hundred thousand dollars, and he wants you to deliver it.”

  “You’re at home?”

  “What? Yes, yes of course I’m at home.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  LEIGHTON MUST’VE BEEN standing just behind the door, because he swung it open only a second or two after I rang the bell. Jeans, boots, a denim work shirt with the tails hanging outside the pants. His face was blotched with red and his curly hair was tangled, as though he’d been raking it with his fingers. Breathing quickly through his mouth, he said, “Come in, come in.”

  “Where’s the note?” I asked him.

  “Living room,” he said, and I followed him down the red tile steps. The note was on the sofa. He picked it up and handed it to me, his hands shaking.

  I held it carefully, by the edges, but Leighton had obviously been worrying the thing, handling it again and again as he reread it. I didn’t think it would show any prints but his. It was a half sheet of lined yellow legal paper, torn from the larger sheet, not cut. The writing was in neat block letters that had probably been done with a ruler.

  IVE GOT YOUR KID. I WANT ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND IN USED BILLS READY BY FOUR OCLOCK. HAVE CROFT THERE TO GET INSTRUCTIONS FOR DELIVERY. NO GUNS AND NO COPS OR I SWEAR TO GOD THE GIRL DIES.

  “Will you do it?” Leighton asked me, urgency making the words tumble out. “Will you carry the money? I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  “Mr. Leighton, sit down for a minute.”

  “Don’t bloody tell me what to do!” A vein pulsed at his temple. He ran his hand back along his scalp, swallowed, took a deep breath. Trying to level out. “If you won’t carry it, I’ll carry it myself.”

  “Everything will be all right,” I told him. I didn’t really believe that, but the man was working himself into a coronary. “Let’s sit down and see what we’ve got here.”

  He frowned, but sat down in the padded white chair. Still breathing heavily through his mouth, he leaned forward and rested his arms along his thighs, letting his hands dangle. I sat down on the sofa and held up the note. “When did this come?”

  “Twenty minutes ago.” He looked at his Rolex. “Twenty-five minutes, a half an hour. Five minutes or so before I called you.”

  “And how did it come?”

  He took another deep breath, let it slowly out. “The doorbell rang. When I answered it, there was no one there.” He nodded to the note. “That was lying on the mat.”

  “You didn’t see or hear anyone?”

  “I thought I heard a car driving away. But by the time I read that and got out to the gate, it was gone.”

  “Your wife’s not home?”

  “She spent the night down in Albuquerque with the Duprees.”

  “Have you called her?”

  He pursed his lips, looked away. “She has a friend down there.” I knew from the way he said it that friend meant lover. “I can’t reach her, and she won’t be back until tonight.” He shook his head, ran his hand through his hair again. “This will kill her.”

  I asked him, “Are you normally home on Monday?”

  He looked up. “Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything? My God, man, we’re sitting here talking and that bastard Killebrew has got my daughter.”

  “First of all,” I said, “we don’t know that Killebrew sent the note.”

  “Of course it was Killebrew!” He pointed to the note. “He knows your bloody name, for godsakes! He’s trying to get away, that’s what the newspaper said. He needs money, and so the sonofabitch has taken my daughter to get it.”

  “Mr Leighton, if it is Killebrew, and I think you’re probably right, it is, you’ve got to remember that the man’s not stupid. He knows that his best chance of getting away with this is to keep her alive and well.” I hoped that was true. I said, “You’ve got to call the police.”

  “Are you insane? Didn’t you read what he said. He’ll kill her.”

  “Kidnapping is a federal offense, Mr. Leighton. Any evidence of it and the F.B.I. can come in right away. They’ve got equipment, resources—”

  He sat up. “Absolutely not. I forbid it, Croft, do you hear me? This is my daughter we’re talking about, and I’ve got the right to make the decision. If you won’t carry the bloody money, I’ll carry it myself.”

  “Nothing’s going to get accomplished here if we don’t stay calm. Are you positive that Miranda is actually missing? When was the last time you saw her?”

  Another deep breath. “Last night. She went over to a friend’s house, Nancy Garcia, over on Gonzalez. I called there after I called you. Miranda left there this morning to go to school.”

  “This friend of hers, Nancy. She and Miranda went to school together?”

  “No. They both have their own cars. And I called the school right after I called you. Miranda never showed up for classes.”

  “We’ll have to talk to Nancy.”

  “I did, I insisted on it. She said that the last time she saw Miranda was when the two of them left her house this morning.”

  I sighed. None of it looked very good.

  “Well, Croft,” said Leighton. “Are you going to help me? Are you going to carry the money?”

  “Can you raise that much by four o’clock?”

  “Of course.”

  Of course.

  I thought about Killebrew. As Rita had said, the man had no reason right now to like me. And he was running scared. I thought about the note; it’s telling me no guns. I thought about the girl. Just another adolescent girl, a bit gawky, a bit awkward, just another pair of pale gray eyes blinking behind thick horn-rim glasses.

  I sighed again. “I’ll carry it,” I said.

  LEIGHTON WENT OFF to talk to bankers and brokers. I went off to talk to Rita. She had some ideas, and she made some suggestions.

  By three o’clock I was back at Leighton’s house. He had the money, one hundred thousand dollars, mostly in small bills, neatly piled inside a Lufthansa flight bag.

  He waited. Neither one of us said much. The call came exactly at four, and Leighton answered it.

  “Hello?” His voice was ragged and his knuckles were white as his hand gripped the receiver. His face l
it up. “Miranda! Miranda baby are you okay?” He canted his torso to the right, leaning into the phone. “Okay baby, it’s going to be okay, I promise. Okay, okay, baby. He’s right here. I’ll put him on.” He held out the receiver to me, his lips compressed, his brow furrowed.

  I took the receiver, put it to my ear. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Croft?” The voice was thin and frail.

  “Yes, Miranda.”

  “He says to bring the money to the Cerillos turn-off on Route Fourteen. At six-thirty. He says no policemen, Mr. Croft. He says he’ll kill me.”

  “Is Killebrew there, Miranda?”

  “Yes, he—” And the line went dead.

  NINETEEN

  THE CERILLOS TURN-OFF had been a good choice. South of Santa Fe on Route 14, it stood on a rise of land with a view for miles in every direction. There was no traffic this time of day, and if you saw more than one car coming to the drop, or spotted a helicopter clattering in your direction, you could simply drive away and give it a shot some other time.

  It was high desert country all around, rocky and gullied, crisscrossed by narrow arroyos, barren except for the occasional piñon or mesquite. Far off to my right as I approached, the sun was setting behind the Jemez Mountains and a bright red stain was spreading across the pale blue sky.

  At the top of the incline, on the far side of the dirt road that led to the small town of Cerillos, was a ragged jumble of rock maybe fifty feet high. I saw no car parked nearby, but if people were waiting for me, they were waiting in there, hidden.

  I swung the Subaru off the road and parked it. I lifted the Lufthansa bag from the seat and got out, closed the door.

  A narrow passageway led between the rocks into thickening shadow. The rocks were boulders, all piled helter-skelter atop one another, each big enough to hide someone with a gun.

  I shifted the flight bag into my left hand and took a step into the the passageway.

  And stopped. And called out: “Killebrew.” Playing it according to the script. And hoping that Rita had been right about it.

  There was a sound up ahead, a click and rattle of stone, and then suddenly, as though she’d been pushed, the girl lurched out from behind one of the rocks. Fifteen feet away. She wore running shoes, khaki slacks, a silver Porsche racing jacket.