Los Alamos

by Joseph Kanon

  “Right. Rain did a good job on the site. Some broken branches on the bushes, but that could be from falling down. From the looks of it, though, I’d say he was dragged in.”

  “Why?”

  “There wouldn’t have been room for two of them there where we found him. You know, if they’d been together. So I have to assume he was put there. We did find footprints, partial ones anyway.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “No it isn’t. No special marks, just a standard workboot. All the Mexicans around here wear them.”

  “Just the Mexicans?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. Anybody. Any working man.”

  Connolly frowned. “Hmm. Does that seem right to you?”

  “They’ve got dicks too.”

  Connolly looked up, surprised at the sharpness of it. “Okay, let’s get down to it. I read about the pants. Any evidence of anal penetration?”

  “No.”

  “Semen?”

  “No.”

  “What about the park? Is it one of the meeting places?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must. You’re chief of police.”

  “Well, you know, this is a quiet town. I’m not saying we’re Dogpatch—we know what it is. You go up to Taos, where all the artists are, or down to Albuquerque, and I guess you’d find plenty of what you’re looking for. We’ve got a few antique dealers and sandalmakers—well, one look, you can see they’re covered in fairy dust, but they don’t bother anybody. We’ve never had this kind of trouble. Honest to God, I don’t even know where to look.”

  “You mean you haven’t checked the bars or anywhere someone’s likely to have heard something?”

  “Well, I’ll make you a deal. You find out where they are and I’ll check them out for you.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. You get your men to talk to their snitches and get them to tell you where people go at night. Then check it out and talk to people nice so they talk back to you and see what you can see. You do that and I’ll forget you haven’t even got around to basic police work. You’re putting it out this guy was homosexual and then you turn around and say you haven’t got any here. Who do you think killed him, then?”

  Holliday stared at him, offended. “You tell me. What I’m telling you is we’ve got no problem in that park. Take it or leave it.”

  “All right,” Connolly said, “let’s leave it for now. But check about the bars, will you?”

  “I’ll do that. Now suppose we both get down off our high horses and look at what we do have.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as another case down in Albuquerque just three weeks ago.”

  “Same MO?”

  “Close enough. Parking lot behind one of those bars I guess you’re talking about. Another guy caught with his pants down. Stabbed this time. They found him behind his car.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Local businessman. Ran some laundries down there, which is a good business since the war got going. Seems he met somebody in the bar and they went outside to have themselves a conversation. Must have been about money, since he didn’t have any left in his wallet when they found him.”

  “All this according to—?”

  “The bartender. He’s the one found him.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No. Boys there think it was a Mexican, on account of the knife, but they always think it’s a Mexican, so you probably can’t count on that.”

  “They get a description from the bartender?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get you the file on it. I’d say it was a little on the vague side, though. Medium height, medium build, medium nothing. ‘Course, his memory isn’t the best. He doesn’t remember anyone else being there. I guess they don’t have any regulars. They sure haven’t had any since—nobody’s been near the place.”

  “He might have to close it.”

  “The police had that idea too.”

  “What about the victim—any signs of sexual activity?”

  “Plenty. At least this one got his money’s worth.”

  Connolly frowned and got up to pour some coffee, pacing and looking up at the ceiling as he talked, as if he were thinking aloud.

  “Okay, so what do we have here? Let’s reconstruct.”

  “Shit.”

  “Well, let’s try it. A guy goes into a bar, meets another guy, and they go out to the parking lot to get friendly. Either because they took a shine to each other or because one of them’s paying. Now what do they do?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Connolly.”

  “No, follow me for a minute. What do we think happened? What’s the lab report?”

  “You mean the semen? Everywhere. In his mouth, some on his face.”

  “But nothing behind?”

  “No.”

  “So they got to know each other real well. Then one stabs the other and takes his money. So we have to assume it’s not a lover’s quarrel, not with the money gone. How old was the victim, by the way?”

  “Forty-one.”

  “Right. How old did the bartender say the other one was?”

  Holliday turned over a folder cover and glanced at a sheet. “Twenty something. Not under drinking age, of course. He wouldn’t allow that. Not him. I don’t think you can go by any of this,” he said, closing the folder with disgust.

  “No. But not middle-aged, either. Clothes?”

  “Jeans. Blue shirt. Like I said, anybody.”

  “Even a working man. Bar cater to that?”

  “I don’t know. From the sound of it, I’d say it was a fairly democratic place. I don’t think they care about your job.”

  “Okay, so let’s take this same guy—you assume it’s the same guy, don’t you?—let’s take him and put him in our case. What do you think happened?”

  “You’re going to make me do this, aren’t you? I think they met somewhere, maybe one of those bars I don’t know about that you think the town’s full of. Maybe just sitting in the plaza. Anyway, they meet and go down to the park and do whatever they do in the bushes. Then one smashes the other on the head, pulls him further into the bushes, takes his wallet, and gets away.”

  “So what’s wrong with this?”

  “I don’t know, what?”

  “I don’t know either, but there’s something. Let’s take our boy from Albuquerque—let’s say he’s young, let’s say he’s still in jeans and workboots, and let’s say he lets guys give him blow jobs. Probably for money. In Albuquerque something goes wrong. Maybe the guy won’t pay, or maybe our boy’s ashamed or—So he meets Bruner, or Bruner meets him, and they strike a deal. But why should Bruner pay? He’s young too. Good-looking.”

  “There’s nothing in that. Why do guys go to hookers?”

  “Okay. So let’s say he likes the convenience. Or even just likes the idea. They go to the park. They have sex, but before they even finish our guy kills Bruner, takes his money, keys, everything, steals his car. Is this the same guy? Why not finish? Who stops in the middle of a blow job?”

  Holliday followed Connolly around the room as if he were watching a court performance, caught up in the story. “Well, I sure as hell never did. From a woman, I mean. Unless I was going to—”

  “Move on to something else. Right. But they never did.”

  “They didn’t in Albuquerque either, remember?”

  “Yes, but our guy’d already finished. Maybe the other one was still hoping. So why stop this time? There’s something we’re not getting here. Why take everything? You just have to get rid of the wallet somewhere else. Why even bother?”

  “Maybe he’s not real bright.”

  “And the car. That’s just looking for trouble. It’s not so easy to lose a car.”

  “Well, that’s where I disagree with you. Everybody wants a car these days—when’s the last time you saw one for sale? So we put a trace on the license, which it won’t have anymore, and check out the used lots and the black market—yeah, we do have t
hat—but I’ll bet it’s already gone. You just drive down the road to Mexico and first thing you know you’ve got money in your pocket and keep the change. Hell, they don’t care down there. If it’s got wheels, you can grab yourself a stack of pesos.”

  “But he didn’t do it before and he was in a goddamn parking lot.”

  Holliday was quiet. “Well, maybe it’s like you say,” he said finally. “But you know what that means?”

  Connolly nodded. “Somebody else did it.”

  “And where does that leave us? We got a victim we don’t know anything about and a killer we know even less. No victim, no suspect. Fact is, the Albuquerque case is all we’ve got. Without that, we might as well hang it up.”

  Connolly leaned on the back of the chair. “But it doesn’t fit.”

  “And here I was having all this fun, just like a big-city detective.” Holliday grinned at Connolly. “You spend your life handing out parking tickets and then you get a real live murder and the next thing you know you’re up a creek without a paddle. Guy says nothing fits. Might as well go take a vacation. But it’s got to fit somehow. Look, we’re making this too hard. It could have happened just the way we said it did in the first place, couldn’t it?” He looked up calmly. “Couldn’t it?”

  Connolly shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “In fact, you might even say there’s no reason—no real reason, anyway—to think it didn’t happen that way. So he took the car. So what? Maybe he needed a way home. We don’t know where they met. Maybe your man drove him all the way from Albuquerque and he didn’t want to hitch back. You might even say it’s likely that it happened the way we said.”

  Connolly nodded. “But I can’t picture it.”

  “Oh. Is that some of that professional police work you were telling me about earlier? The kind we don’t do?”

  Connolly smiled. “All right. But I can’t. Why the pants?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would he have his pants down? Why would he need to?”

  “Maybe they were taking turns.”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t sound like your parking-lot guy.”

  “Maybe he was playing with himself. It’s possible.”

  Connolly nodded. “Okay. Then why don’t I believe it? Why can’t I picture Bruner doing that?”

  “Maybe you need to be—you know, to imagine it.”

  “I’m not, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I wasn’t,” Holliday said firmly, then grinned. “Might have come in handy, though, all things considered. We’re flying blind here.”

  “Okay, let’s go with your story. What else?”

  “You want to tell me about his car?”

  “ ’Forty-two Buick. Probably in great condition—he loved the car, apparently. Liked to go for drives. I’ll get you all the numbers. Any point in sending the info across the border, in case you’re right about that?”

  “To the policía? We’d just be spinning our wheels. Well, hell.”

  But Connolly was smiling. “Okay, so we stay home. Then we need to get the Albuquerque police to lean on that bartender. They listen to you, or do you want me to pull in big guns? I’d rather they didn’t know we’re involved in any way.”

  “I’ve been saving up a favor or two.”

  “Let’s use them, then. I’ll bet the bartender can be persuaded, upstanding citizen that he is.”

  “Any idea what else your man may have had on him?”

  “Other than the wallet? No. Probably kept all his keys on one ring. He was that kind of guy.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “Neat.” Connolly paused. “Obsessively neat, in fact.”

  “You mean the kind who wouldn’t want to get his knees dirty on the grass?” Holliday said.

  “My mind is that easy, huh?”

  “No. Just one track. But I’ll tell you something, I wondered about that too. Why take all his stuff? It doesn’t fit that kind of crime. I thought maybe somebody didn’t want us to know who he was.”

  “And you didn’t.”

  “Not for a while, anyway. Now we know everything,” Holliday said wryly. “By the way, who wants the body? Any family?”

  “The army, I guess.” Connolly got up. “You’ll let me know about Albuquerque. And the bars?”

  “Everything. No secrets here.”

  “Doc, so far we’ve got nothing to be secret about. How did the papers cover this?”

  Holliday took a clipping from his desk. “One-day sensation. Your people tried to pull the plug, but it was too late. Tourist killing, unknown assailant. Police following up leads. This kind of thing we could spin out for weeks around here, but they got closed down after the first day. If you want to do me a favor, you could square it with the paper so they’ll talk to me again.”

  “I can’t. Not yet. Any connection made to the Albuquerque case?”

  “Not directly. Just the rise in crime. Things going to hell all over. You know. They got a good week’s run out of Albuquerque, so you can’t really blame them. They even had pictures of the bar. No wonder business fell off. But people here didn’t have time to get nervous. We put a patrol car on the Alameda for a few nights and that was it. The smart money’s on it being a drifter who passed through town.”

  “And right out again.”

  “Headed north when the smart money last spotted him.”

  “Doc, it’s nice doing business with you,” Connolly said, shaking hands and turning to go.

  “Any time. Store’s always open.”

  “That reminds me,” Connolly said, turning back. “Do you know anyone who sells Indian jewelry around here?”

  “Are you crazy? Everyone sells Indian jewelry around here. What kind do you have in mind?”

  Connolly took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully unfolded it to display the turquoise pieces. “I don’t want to buy any. I want to get these appraised. You know anything about turquoise?”

  “Only that most of it looks like crap. You’re not supposed to say that here, so don’t quote me, but it always seems a little clunky and cheap to me. What do you want to know?”

  “What it’s worth.”

  “Better take it over to Sonny Chalmers on San Francisco Street. Most of the new places have gone out to Canyon Road, but Sonny can’t be bothered to move. Anyway, he’s your man. Chalmers of Santa Fe. Around the corner and two blocks down. How’d you happen to come by the pieces? Belong to anyone we know?”

  “Doc.”

  Holliday dismissed him with a wave.

  Sonny Chalmers had been a boy in the last century and even now he had the slight, boyish look of the perennially young, something Connolly guessed he had managed by conserving energy. San Francisco Street was quiet, only a few people passing in the morning light, but the inside of his shop was utterly still, and he scarcely looked up when the soft ping of the entrance bell broke the silence. He stood behind one of the glass jewelry cases, leafing through the morning paper. Half the store was given over to conventional jewelry, the usual display of engagement rings and charm necklaces, the other half to local turquoise, several cases of elaborate belt buckles and bolla ties for tourists.

  “Can I help you?” he said, still not looking up.

  “I hope so. I wondered if you could tell me about these pieces,” Connolly said, unwrapping the handkerchief and laying them out.

  Chalmers moved the paper aside. “You wish to sell them?”

  “No. Just have them appraised.”

  Chalmers’s glasses hung from a chain around his neck. He raised them now and peered at the turquoise. “Oh, yes. Very nice, aren’t they? Navajo. You see how fine the settings are—only the Navajos work silver like this. The stones are good, but of course it’s the silver that gives them value. The dine use sandstone molds. You can always tell.”

  “Can you tell me how much they’re worth?”

  “Oh, exactly. I sold them, you see.”

  Connolly looked at him, surprised
at his luck. “These pieces? You sold these pieces?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m not likely to forget them. Might I ask you how you came by them? I’d be curious to know what you paid.”

  “They’re not mine. Chief Holliday said you might be able to help me appraise them.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “Not exactly. I’m helping them.”

  “Well, that sounds mysterious. May I ask how?” Chalmers said, looking directly at him over his glasses.

  “It’s about the man who bought them. Do you remember him?”

  “I don’t know his name, if that’s what you mean.”

  Connolly took out Bruner’s photograph. “Is this him?”

  Chalmers nodded at the photograph. “Yes. What has he done?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Ah.”

  Connolly paused, waiting for Chalmers to offer more. “Do you remember how much he paid?”

  “Two hundred dollars. Each time.”

  “They’re worth two hundred dollars?” Connolly said, surprised.

  “Well, that’s what he paid for them,” Chalmers said. “The original price was higher, but he was a man who liked to bargain. Yes, he liked that. He took great pleasure in that.”

  “But they’re worth more?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said that’s what he paid for them. It was the same each time. He’d pick a piece—always one of the better ones—and in the end he’d say, ‘I’ll give you two hundred for it.’ ”

  “And you took it?”

  “Well, you don’t turn down two hundred dollars lightly. Not since the war. The tourist trade—well, you see,” he said, indicating the quiet shop. “One has to make a living.”

  “But you didn’t sell at a loss?”

  “Oh, I’d never do that. No indeed. But they’re fine pieces. He got a good price.”

  “Did he know anything about jewelry?”

  “Not a thing. He bought strictly by the price tag. I don’t think he cared about the pieces at all. Of course, the most expensive pieces are the best, so he did very well. He wasn’t cheated. He did come back, you know.”

  “But if he didn’t care about them, why was he buying them?”

  Chalmers looked at him quizzically. “I assumed they were gifts for a lady.”