by Don Travis
“Thanks.” His voice took on a note of sadness. “So he’s really dead, huh? He was a despicable little shit, but—”
“Yeah, I know. But right now you need to concentrate on Del Dahlman. For example, do you still have those pictures I returned to you?”
“I destroyed them right away.”
“Be sure you tell Hartshorn that. Look, I’m headed back to Albuquerque now. I’ll talk to you this evening. Call me at home. And tell that ice cube guarding your door that when I call, you’re to be notified immediately. Things are going to heat up, and a ten-minute delay getting to you might prove costly.”
“Okay, I’ll fix the problem.”
We were silent for a moment, doubtless sharing thoughts of Emilio. He’d been brash and opportunistic and had cost me a precious personal relationship.
“He didn’t deserve to be murdered,” Del said before hanging up.
“No. He didn’t,” I said to a dead telephone line.
I CAME out of Santa Fe on I-25 and headed toward Albuquerque on automatic pilot.
Was Emilio killed to prevent a meeting? That made no sense. No one knew I would be at the burning except Hazel. I drew a sharp breath. Nobody but Hazel and Emilio. Maybe he confided in someone he shouldn’t have. Why hadn’t he come to the La Fonda instead of looking for me at Fort Marcy Park in a crowd of thousands? Did he feel safer in the middle of a mob? If that was the case, why didn’t he call so we could have talked our way toward one another? Had there been someone with him he hadn’t yet managed to elude?
I shook my head. So many questions, so few answers. He probably died less than a hundred yards from me when one phone call that never came might have saved his life.
Del’s presence in Fort Marcy Park last night was a dose of bad luck, but there was no use worrying about it now. I hoped to hell he had stuck close to those other lawyers the way he claimed. That reminded me of the fleeting glimpse of someone who looked like Paul in the crowd with another man. Could it have been Emilio? Could Paul have—?
I shook my head. Not Paul. He was too decent.
As the Impala crested a rise and began the swift drop toward the bottom of the long hill south of Santa Fe known as La Bajada—literally The Hill in colloquial Southwestern Spanish—an automobile suddenly loomed in my rearview mirror. It took a long second to realize it was an electric blue Mustang ragtop. Before I could react, the Ford swung to the left and drew abreast of me. I couldn’t identify the driver through the raised tinted windows during the few seconds before it muscled past and swerved right, trying to force me off the road.
The steep grade beyond the shoulder would have rolled my Impala, but the other driver had tried to catch my front panel with the rear of his vehicle instead of smacking solidly into my side. I stood on the brakes. The Mustang’s rear bumper ripped off with a bang, spraying steel and chrome and plastic all over the highway. The Impala went into a skid. As I fought to bring the Chevy under control without going over the side, the Mustang fishtailed wildly. Emilio’s wet dream would have tumbled over the embankment but for slamming into a road sign hard enough to send it back onto the asphalt.
I ground to a halt with the Ford’s mangled rear bumper wedged firmly beneath my vehicle’s chassis. After wasting a moment to calm my nerves and get my breathing under control, I checked all around to see if other bad guys were coming for me before grabbing the cell phone and punching in 911. As it rang, the Mustang moved slowly down the highway. Either it was badly damaged or the driver was considering coming back to finish the job. I reached beneath the seat and grabbed my backup weapon, a Colt Junior, .25-caliber semiautomatic. With a wary eye on the retreating vehicle, I quickly related the details of the attack to the emergency operator and asked her to notify Detective Hartshorn. By the time I hung up, the Mustang had disappeared over the far hill.
A green Porsche breezed around me without slowing, jump-starting my faltering heart. A Lincoln with Colorado license plates was more considerate. The middle-aged driver tucked in behind me, got out of the car, and offered help. Concealing the small pistol in my right hand, I told him the authorities were already on the way. After the tourist left me his name, address, and cell phone number in case he was needed as a witness, the Lincoln pulled back onto the freeway, heading south.
I got out and took emergency flares and bright red warning triangles from my trunk to place them on the road behind my disabled vehicle. Then I tried to reach Gene, figuring he might be able to apprehend the Mustang from the south, since there were not many ways off the interstate between here and Albuquerque. It took ten minutes to locate him, but after I explained what had happened, he went to work setting up a roadblock. Artie was doing the same thing from the other side, I imagined.
A black State Police cruiser, lights flashing, pulled up behind my car, which was blocking the right lane. A tow truck wasn’t far behind. The trooper was a young guy I didn’t know, but after I casually tossed out the name of the District 1 commander—the rookie’s home base in Santa Fe—his attitude eased. He took down the information and allowed me to read his report and correct a couple of minor points before motioning the wrecker to haul my Impala up on its flatbed. The old car was a no-frills vehicle, but it had served me well for the last couple of years. Probably time for a new one. Now I wouldn’t have to repair the dent Hickey’s baseball bat had made in the hood.
The state trooper gave me a ride back to Santa Fe, where we huddled with Artie Hartshorn. As we were wrapping it up, the state cop, whose name was Pachenco, received a call. Emilio’s Mustang had been spotted heading east on a dirt road running across the Santo Domingo Pueblo. It was unclear if the tribal police were in pursuit.
“Somebody was keeping an eye on you, BJ,” Artie said. “You notice a shadow?”
“No, but I wasn’t looking for one. My guess is somebody was hanging around the park this morning to see how things went. They trailed us to the station and then followed me to the La Fonda.”
“Why would they want to take you out?”
“Because I’m investigating Del’s blackmail demand. That’s the only connection there was between Emilio Prada and me.”
Artie thought for a moment. “Well, the bozo in the Mustang cost you a car, but he did you a big favor.”
“How’s that?”
“He moved you to the bottom of the suspect list in the Prada killing.” The Santa Fe detective frowned as if he had suffered a sudden pain. “And this probably blows the hate crime theory out of the water too.”
I RENTED a Ford Focus and once again headed for Albuquerque, a little jumpy any time a vehicle overtook me on I-25. I barely noticed the rolling hills and the wildflowers and sage I usually found so comforting. The distant Jemez Range to the west looked secretive, repelling instead of attracting me. As my rental topped a hill north of the Santo Domingo exit, an ominous column of black smoke to the east drew me off the freeway and along a rough dirt road toward the mountains. In less than a mile, a reservation cop crawled out of his parked patrol car and waved me down. The dark, husky man looked me over suspiciously.
“Gotta turn back. Can’t go no further.” His tone was clipped and no-nonsense.
I glanced at the column of smoke rising from behind the sand dune over the man’s shoulder. “What’s the problem, officer?”
“This is Pueblo land. You gotta get back on the highway. Can’t cross over here.”
Aware that non-Native traffic regularly used this road to connect with the highway running between the old mining town of Madrid and Santa Fe, I nodded toward the greasy smoke. “Because of that?”
“That’s right.”
“Let me hazard a guess. It’s a 2004 blue Mustang with gold trim. Plate reads ‘BIGBOI.’”
The tribal lawman stepped back. His hand did not quite reach for his weapon, but it twitched. “How do you know that? You responsible for this? Get outa the car.” He got it all out in a single breath.
Moving slowly, I complied. He backed off a good six feet as
I closed the car door behind me. “I know because the bastard who was driving it tried to run me off the road on La Bajada. You can confirm that with State Police Officer Pachenco, badge number 2901. Pachenco hauled me back to Santa Fe so I could rent this car and go home to Albuquerque. I guessed what had happened as soon as I saw the smoke.”
“What do you mean?” He squinted at me suspiciously.
“His car was almost disabled by the crash. I called 911 and then talked to Detective Artie Hartshorn of the Santa Fe Police Department, who’s investigating last night’s murder of the owner of that car.”
“Murder?” He lost his squint and went round-eyed.
“A stabbing. Probably by the bozo who tried to kill me.”
“What’s your connection to the man who was stabbed?”
“I’m a licensed private investigator.”
After I gave him the short version of recent events, he contacted his superiors at the Santo Domingo Pueblo station. I used the opportunity to call Gene, who grasped the situation quickly and asked to speak to the officer. Eventually the cop, whose breast tag read Watchi, handed my phone back to me and relaxed a little. I asked if there was any chance I could take a look at what was left of the Mustang.
He shrugged. “Why not? I doused it with my fire extinguisher, but it didn’t do much good. Whoever set the fire soaked it pretty good with gasoline. Who in the hell carries around that much spare gas?”
“These guys did because they planned to burn the Mustang all along. It was stolen and possibly evidence in the murder. They probably filled up a couple of jerry cans in Santa Fe.”
We topped the sand dune, and what the officer had said was true. The once-beautiful car was now a blackened wreck. The interior was either burned to a crisp or melted into mush. The only things still afire were three of its four tires.
“Well, we’re not going to get anything from that. You find any tracks?”
“Yeah.” Officer Watchi moved past me out onto the desert hardpan to point out a single set of footprints. “The perp went a quarter mile up to the top of that hill before heading back to the road.”
“Went to high ground to call for help, I’ll bet.”
“Yeah. Then he struck out for the road about a quarter mile east of the burning vehicle. From there I’d say he met up with a car.”
“Anything else?”
“The vehicle pulled a U and drove back to the spot where the Mustang was hid behind the hill. Looks like two individuals got out of the car.”
“A car, not a motorcycle?”
“Uh-huh. Why’d you ask that?”
“The guy who got killed might have been mixed up with a motorcycle gang. Did the car that picked up the driver of the Mustang come in from the west? From I-25?”
“Yep.”
“The Porsche!” I told him about the green Porsche that had roared past me after the Mustang disappeared over the hill. “Dollars to donuts that was a confederate watching his tail.”
He grabbed his shoulder radio as I clawed for my cell phone. Artie and his partner showed up thirty minutes later. Another state trooper arrived right behind them. The FBI would probably show up next. They had jurisdiction over major crimes on reservations, and the torching of a murder victim’s car on Pueblo land likely qualified.
Chapter 17
LATER THAT afternoon my rental car breezed past Sandia Pueblo and approached the recently rebuilt Tramway intersection.
Enough was enough. I took the exit ramp west and headed home, punching in the speed-dial number for my office as I navigated the curve. Although Hazel had already heard the news, she spent five minutes satisfying herself my carcass was intact. Like I said, a mom at heart. Then she turned professional and rattled off the day’s events and waited, probably with pen poised, for me to provide instructions. Few were needed because she’d already taken care of most of the details.
As I pulled into my driveway, I saw something affixed to my front doorframe. Reaching for the little Colt now tucked into my belt, I crawled out of the car and looked around cautiously. Nothing stirred except a curtain on the front window across the street. Mrs. Wardlow might be old, but not much escaped her notice. She was a one-woman neighborhood watch committee.
The envelope on the doorjamb beside the screen was held in place by a small knife. A slight bulge alerted me to something other than paper inside the packet. Backing away without touching anything, I placed a call to Gene. An hour elapsed before his disreputable brown sedan pulled up in front of the house. He looked tired as he plodded up the sidewalk.
“Roadblock didn’t catch anything,” he said. “Neither did Santa Fe’s. That Porsche is probably halfway to Mexico by now, or else it’s chopped up in some back-alley shop and already inventoried for parts. They’ll make more money on it that way.” He pointed to the front door with his chin. “Another present?”
“Yeah, and it looks like there’s something in the envelope besides a note.”
His brow furrowed. “Do we need the bomb squad?”
“No, it’s too small for a bomb. But I didn’t want to touch anything until you got here.” I indicated the neat white brick house across the street. “Chances are Mrs. Wardlow saw who put it there. Or the vehicle they were driving. She notices everything that goes down on this street. We need to have a word with her.”
“Well, if you don’t think it’s a bomb, let’s see what we’ve got.” Gene skirted me and climbed the steps to study things without touching the knife. “The other message was shoved through the mail slot, wasn’t it? So the blade’s deliberate. A message within a message, so to speak.”
“That’s what I figure. They killed Emilio with a knife, albeit a considerably bigger one.”
“That it is. Artie faxed me a photograph of what they think is the murder weapon. Big sucker.”
“But not too big to be concealed in clothing. I figure it’s homemade. Somebody ground a piece of steel into a blade and made a hilt for it.”
“Lotta trouble. Why not just buy an anonymous blade somewhere?”
“Harder to trace. Or maybe somebody’s just into making knives. It wasn’t a bad job. Showed some skill.”
“Well, this one looks store-bought. It’s a miniature hunting knife. Buy them anywhere. Not much chance of running it down.” He peered closely at the envelope. “You’re right, there’s something inside. Let’s get some crime-scene techs out here.”
“Why? There’s not going to be anything on it. No prints, no DNA, no nothing. These guys are too careful.”
“These guys? What makes you think there’s more’n one of them?”
“Because there were two in the truck that firebombed my house. And because somebody picked up the bastard who tried to run me off the road.”
“Yeah, there’s that. Okay, there’s more than one of them.”
“And besides, I’ve learned a few things since I talked to you last.”
As we waited for his team to arrive, I shared my latest theory about the motorcycle club double murder.
“Artie told me about that. The witness’s name is Miranda Skelton, right? If I understand it, all Del’s doing is protecting her rights. Making sure she doesn’t get screwed over by the system.”
“That’s what they say, but the Santa Fe DA already has her in protective custody so nobody can get to her.”
Gene snorted. “If you believe that, you wasted eight years on the force. Best way to get to a prisoner is through another prisoner, you know that.”
“Yeah. But Del’s connection is too obvious to ignore. Somebody’s trying to blackmail him. And for peanuts.”
“True. Have you checked with Del to see if he got a message too?”
“No. Guess I’d better do that.”
I delivered a warning to my unhappy client, who said nothing had been delivered to the office; he didn’t know about the apartment. He agreed to call me if he found anything. Del wanted details on what had gone down up in Santa Fe, but I put him off. Gene’s people arrived
as I hung up, and after a thorough search of the grounds and the house, Gene and I walked across the street to question my neighbor while they worked on the knife and envelope.
No one of my acquaintance more aptly fits the description of a “prim and proper old lady” than Gertrude Wardlow. Seventy-odd years had given her masses of soft, carefully powdered wrinkles, but her bright blue eyes were as beautiful today as they undoubtedly had been when Herb Wardlow first started courting her. I had never seen a single white hair out of place, even in a stiff wind.
She didn’t wait for our questions.
“I saw it all.” She spoke calmly in a carefully modulated voice, a frail hand at the lace collar of an old-fashioned housedress.
“Did you call it in, ma’am?” Gene asked.
“I had the phone in my hand when BJ showed up. So I let him do it. I’ll give you my statement now. This dark green Porsche pulled up, and a man got out of the passenger’s side and put that thing on your door while the driver waited with the engine running. He just plunked it right on the frame and ran back to the car. The wheels made an awful racket when the driver took off down the street. A terrible waste of gas and good rubber, if you ask me.”
She had little more to add. The man who got out of the car was young. How young? Well, young. And he was slightly built. Dark? Fair? Dark, she thought, but her eyesight wasn’t all that good these days.
I took out my card and put in in her hand. “Ma’am, I don’t think anything else is likely to happen, but I want you to have my cell phone number in case you need to reach me.”
“Thank you, BJ. That’s very thoughtful of you. I’ll put it away where it will be handy.”
“Don’t hesitate to call me or the police if you see anything—and I mean anything—that doesn’t look right.”
As we trudged back across the street, Gene said, “Well, we know the Porsche was the pickup car and it came down to Albuquerque.”