“I don’t know for sure,” she said.
“Now you’re fishing.”
“I’m hoping he’ll look into it after you call him,” she said. “I can’t seem to get him to call me back.”
“So you were at the fire where the two bodies were found?”
“Yep,” she said. “I was there.” She thought of the joke she’d made with Gil at the fire scene, when she’d teased him about giving her his trademark don’t-tell-anyone-at-the-newspaper-about-this-crime-scene speech.
“This will go great in the story I’m writing tonight about the newest home invasion,” Tommy said. “Wait.… damn. It’s past eleven o’clock. Copy desk probably put the paper to bed already. Hang on.” In the background, Lucy heard Tommy calling over to the night editor. She couldn’t be sure of what they said to each other, but she was completely sure of what the answer would be. In journalism, some deadlines were absolute.
“Damn,” he said back into the phone. “They said there’s no way to stop the presses.”
“Yeah. I know,” she said. “It’s a bitch how those deadlines work. If only I’d called a half hour ago.” She could hear how tired she sounded. Not sarcastic, just tired.
“I guess I can get it in the day after tomorrow,” he said. “That sucks, though.”
Lucy sighed. “Yeah, it sucks, but that should be fine. It’ll be a big scoop.” The story wouldn’t hit the paper—or any other media—until Christmas Day. It might give Gil enough time to do something with the information she was sending him through Tommy.
“But you still have to make the call as soon as we hang up.”
“Okay. I will. Promise,” Tommy said. “What else can you tell me? What’s the name of the department they work in? When did the home invasions we’re talking about happen? Do they include those people killed in the house fire and the family that was hit last night?”
“Nope. That’s all you’re getting from me.”
“Okay. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you will.”
“But what do I say when Montoya asks how I got the information?”
“Tell him the truth,” Lucy said, laying her head against the wall near the phone and closing her eyes. She had promised Gil only three days ago that she wouldn’t tell anyone at the newspaper about the fire or the bodies. Seventy-two hours was all it took for her to renege. She felt worse about breaking that promise than about her DWI. She had been drinking and driving; she deserved to be arrested. It was embarrassing, but she could make a joke out of it that would make everyone laugh, including herself. But her promise to Gil wasn’t as easy to make light of. She knew Gil had taken her promise seriously—and would take her breaking it just as seriously. She might just have lost one of her few friends. “Tell him I told you—and please tell him I’m really sorry.”
* * *
Joe was asleep against the passenger-side window. His breath had caused condensation to build up on the windshield. It was hard to see outside the SUV, but the heavy vapor also served as a tinted window, making it hard for anyone to see in. They had been sitting outside of Abetya’s house for more than seven hours. Gil was reconsidering having SWAT go in when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but thought it might be Chief Kline calling him back.
“Detective Montoya, this is Tommy Martinez from the Capital Tribune. How is your evening going?”
“Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, sir. I was hoping you could confirm that all the victims from the three home invasions you’ve had this week are connected.”
Gill thought for a second before saying, “What do you mean connected?”
“I mean they all worked in the same department up on the Hill.”
The ringing phone had woken Joe up, and he was staring at Gil, trying to understand only one side of the conversation.
“The Hill?” Gil asked, confused. “I don’t—where are you getting your information?”
“From my boss … I mean my old boss, Lucy Newroe.”
“Lucy told you to call me,” Gil said. It wasn’t a question. Next to him, Joe swore loudly. “And she said the victims all worked up on the Hill.” Joe swore again.
“Yes, sir, and she told me to tell you that she’s sorry.”
“May I ask what she said she was sorry for?”
“She didn’t say,” Martinez said. “I assume she thought you’d know.” Gil did know—she was sorry for breaking her promise.
Gil hung up the phone after saying “No comment,” but not in response to a specific question, just the conversation in general. He looked over at Joe.
“We missed something.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
December 24
It was early morning when Kristen Valdez pulled up in front of the Gonzales mobile home. For the last half hour, she had been watching from her house up the street, waiting for the telltale smoke coming out of the Gonzales’ adobe oven in the backyard. Everyone would be cooking today, and the first thing that had to be done was to make the fire in the horno before sunrise. While she’d waited, she spent her time trying to get a good enough Internet connection to research genetics on her phone. She had been thinking about the man who had burned in the house fire. If she understood the Wikipedia entry about genetics correctly, it seemed possible that George Gonzales was the missing man. Joe had said that genetic testing proved the burned man had been a crypto-Jew, which meant he was a descendant of the conquistadors. For more than four hundred years, the pueblo tribes had been intermarrying with the Spanish, to the point that it was no longer possible to determine based on looks alone who was Northern New Mexico Hispanic and who was Pueblo Indian. If a Gonzales’ ancestor had married a crypto-Jew, George might have the gene.
Now Kristen got out of her Mitsubishi Eclipse, which looked almost doll-like next to the black Ford F-150 truck already in the driveway, and walked up to the Gonzales’ door. She felt the wind cut through her jeans and creep up under her T-shirt. She pulled her coat around her tighter as she knocked, then glanced back at her own house, just up the road. She could swear she saw her mother peeking out from behind the kitchen curtains. Her mother had been none too happy when Kristen had told her about the governor’s request to help locate George Gonzales, because it meant going into the witch’s home. Kristen touched the turquoise stone hanging from a heavy silver chain around her neck. Her mother had made her wear it because the blue color warded off spirits that might wish to do her harm. She also was carrying a loaf of bread wrapped in foil, which her mother had sent in the hope that it might keep them in Josephine Gonzales’s good graces.
Mary Gonzales, George’s wife, answered on the second knock. She was a large woman in her twenties with acne-marked skin and smooth, straight black hair.
“Hello, Mary,” Kristen said. “How are you?”
Mary didn’t answer. Kristen said, “The governor told me you were worried about your husband. He wanted me to look into it.”
Mary didn’t move the door, which she had pulled open only a few inches.
“That’s okay,” she said. “We don’t need any help. We heard from him yesterday. He’s fine.”
“I understand,” Kristen said, a little disappointed. That meant George wasn’t the burned man. It would have helped the case if he had been. “I’m glad it all worked out.” Mary wasn’t looking at her and instead watched the road, as if she were waiting for something, which made Kristen curious. She said, “Would you mind if I came in? My mom made some bread for your mother-in-law.”
Mary hesitated, but someone inside spoke in a low tone that Kristen couldn’t hear, and Mary opened the door. As Kristen moved past Mary, she noticed the other woman had her coat on, keys in hand, and was holding her purse. Inside the trailer, a dark brown shag carpet and a wood stove churning out heat gave the place the feel of warm dirt. A baby about six months old sat in a bouncy swing, while a toddler around two years old hit some wood blocks with a plastic hammer. George’s mother sat on
a brown-plaid sofa next to a Christmas tree loaded with tinsel.
Kristen nodded at Josephine Gonzales, who was so petite she seemed in danger of being sucked into the couch. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Gonzales,” Kristen said. “My mother wanted you to have this.” She handed the foil-wrapped bread to Josephine Gonzales, who looked at it with suspicion, causing Kristen to say, “It’s just pumpkin bread.” They hadn’t offered Kristen a seat or anything to drink, making it clear they wanted her gone. She took another moment to glance around the room, but nothing seemed out of order. She said Merry Christmas to them again and turned leave. Next to the front door were a rolled-up sleeping bag, a camp stove, and a box of granola bars. Without commenting on the camping gear, she went back outside and got into her car. She pulled away and drove down the street to her own house. But instead of getting out, she parked where she could see the only road leading out of their neighborhood. And then she waited.
About five minutes later, the Black Ford F-150 drove past, with Mary Gonzales at the wheel. Kristen watched until the truck was almost out of sight before she started to follow it.
* * *
The hospital was dark and quiet as Gil and Joe walked through the hallways. Natalie Martin was still in the same waiting room, but the sleeping children were gone, replaced by a woman sitting next to her, holding her hand. Natalie Martin introduced them to her sister, who had flown in for the holidays. Natalie Martin said the medical team had decided to do the surgery at the hospital instead of flying her husband down to Albuquerque. So, after her boys had been picked up by her friend Julie, she was still doing what she had been for the last twenty-four hours: waiting.
Since the reporter’s phone call last night, Gil and Joe had been going over all the threads of the case, checking everything that might indicate a connection between the victims and the laboratory. Gil kept officers in front of the Escobar house, and he sent a car to Abetya’s to keep up the surveillance. Gil called Chief Kline to update him, and Gil suggested they hold off alerting the movie people until they had either verified or debunked the reporter’s story.
“We should just call Lucy,” Joe said. “She’s the one who figured out the laboratory connection. She might know more about it.”
It was a solid suggestion, but Gil didn’t want to call her. At the moment, he never wanted to talk to her again. “I think she’s proven she cannot be trusted as a resource,” he said.
“Come on, Gil,” Joe said. “We should at least ask her.”
“That’s not an option,” Gil said. It must have been his tone, because Joe let it drop.
They kept sifting through all the papers at the office for another fifteen minutes, until Gil finally accepted there was one sure way to find out the truth. That was how he ended up in the hospital. He hadn’t wanted to bother Natalie Martin again, but the only other choice was to go to Lucy, and that was something he wouldn’t do.
“Mrs. Martin, we do have a few more questions for you,” Gil said, pulling one of the upholstered chairs closer to her and sitting down. “Do you know this man?” He showed her a picture of Abetya. She shook her head, and Gil asked, “He isn’t one of the men who broke into your home?”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t seen him before.” Gil looked at Joe, who nodded. It seemed more and more likely that Abetya was the burned man.
“Can we ask more about what kind of work your husband does?” Joe asked, trying to get an answer to their other question—how Hoffman and his team had found their victims. During the car ride over, Gil and Joe discussed the idea that maybe the home invasion crew worked off two victim lists: one from the movie studio and one from the lab.
“He’s a biochemical engineer,” she said.
“And where does he work?” Gil asked.
“He does water safety testing for the state,” she said.
“He doesn’t work for the lab?” Joe asked. “Not even doing contract work or something?”
“No,” she said. Joe looked over at Gil. It looked like Lucy’s tip was wrong; the victims were tied to the movie after all, not the lab.
Then Natalie Martin added, “But I did.”
“You did?” Joe asked.
“That’s where I worked before the boys were born two years ago,” she said. “Actually, I guess, technically, I’m still employed there. I took a leave of absence after my maternity leave was up.”
“In what department did you work?” Gil asked.
“Primary Structural Biosystems,” she said. Joe swore and went pacing off a few feet. “But I can’t tell you what kind of work I did. It’s classified.”
“And do you know Dr. Jim Price and Stanley Ivanov?”
“I know Dr. Ivanov,” she said. “I’ve heard of Dr. Price. I think he might have been the one who replaced Dr. Ivanov when he retired.”
“But you’ve never met Dr. Price.”
“No,” she said. “I was on maternity leave when he transferred over.”
“Do you know if Dr. Ivanov and Dr. Price knew each other?” Gil asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I kind of doubt it.”
“Why’s that?”
“I barely knew Dr. Ivanov, and we worked together for ten years.”
Gil stood thinking for another second. Something was nagging at him. It took him a moment to realize what it was. “You’ve never met Dr. Price,” Gil said again, more to get his thoughts in order than as a question. “So there would be no way that he would know about your Pontiac Tempest?”
“No,” she said. “But Dr. Ivanov might have known about it. I kept a picture on my desk of my husband and me standing in front of the car the night he proposed. My husband’s big proposal idea was to take me out for a ride after finally getting the car redone and then ask me to marry him as we looked at the stars.”
She started to cry, and her sister, who had been silent for the entire interview, hugged her tightly and said, “I think it’s time to take a break.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin, I know this is hard, but I have just a few more questions,” Gil said. The sister sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair.
Gil took this as a sign he could continue. “Can you think of anyone at work who had a problem with you, Dr. Price, and Dr. Ivanov specifically?”
She shook her head, then added, “But the people in my office … it wasn’t a happy work environment.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Everyone there is brilliant, but they do better working by themselves,” she said.
“Can you elaborate?” Gil asked. She didn’t answer for a moment. He could tell she was reluctant to talk about it. He tried a different tact. “You’ve been on leave for two years, Mrs. Martin. You haven’t returned to work, but you also haven’t quit. Why is that?”
“I love the work,” she said.
“But you haven’t gone back.”
She shook her head and closed her eyes. “It was my dream job,” she said, opening her eyes at looking at Gil again. “But those people…”
“Your co-workers were competitive?” Joe asked.
“It was more than that,” she said. “In every lab it’s expected that your co-workers will take your chemicals or make sure your experimental protocols are out of date. That kind of stuff happens all the time. People get envious of others moving ahead and want to slow them down. But in our department, it went beyond that.”
“How so?” Gil asked.
“I had my own lab, which I kept locked, but I would come in and find alcohol dumped in my cell cultures, killing months of work. Or whole sections of papers I was going to publish would somehow get permanently deleted from my computer. It finally got bad enough that I told my boss, Dr. Goodwin.”
“What happened?” Joe asked.
“She said I was doing it myself because I wanted someone to blame for my mistakes,” Natalie Martin said. “She made me take a lie detector test, and the security officers kept pulling me in for interviews. After that, I kept my mouth shut.
”
“Did you ever find out who was behind it?” Gil asked.
“No. And by the end, I didn’t care; all I wanted was to get out of there,” she said. “The last straw was right after I found out I was pregnant. One of the first things I did was get rid of all the chemicals in my lab that could cause birth defects. A week later, I was running some DNA when I noticed that the agarose gel I was using had a blue tint. I ran some tests and found someone had put ethidium bromide in the gel.”
“That sounds bad,” Joe said.
“Ethidium bromide is a teratogen,” she said, her voice angry. “It intercalates double-stranded DNA. They were trying to expose me to it to give my babies birth defects. What kind of person does that? I took maternity leave the next day.”
* * *
Lucy was asleep on her bunk when a corrections officer opened the cell door. “Lucy Newroe, you have a phone call.”
She followed him to the guard station and picked up the phone. She recognized Joe’s East Coast accent instantly.
“How you holding up?” he asked, surprising her with his concern.
“Fine,” she said. “I’m thinking about getting a prison tattoo while I’m in here, to add to my street cred.”
“I can’t get the charges dropped, but I can get you out of there.”
“No, I think I’ll stay,” she said. “I have arraignment in a few hours, and I’ll get out then.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I don’t want any special treatment. I’ll work my way through the system like everyone else. I screwed up, and I need to pay the price. But thanks anyway.” Clearly, hearing the AA dogma over and over about taking responsibility for one’s mistakes had made an impact on her, she thought.
“You did the crime so you’ll do the time?”
“Something like that, but, really, I just don’t want to go home. There’s a pile of laundry there I want to avoid as long as possible.”
“We got your phone call, or rather the one from your co-worker,” he said. “Thanks for the tip, even if you kind of screwed us in the process.”
“If you had just called me back, we could have avoided all this unpleasantness,” she said. “But aren’t you going to ask me how I found out the lab connection?”
When the Devil Doesn't Show: A Mystery Page 17