Land of Entrapment

by Andi Marquette

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m just going to see if I can track this group down and if I do, it’s up to Melissa to take the next step. I have other work to do, after all.”

  “How long will you be there?”

  “I don’t know. A week or two, most likely. It depends on what I find. I might not be any help at all.”“I doubt that,” she said in her “my daughter is the smartest thing on the face of God’s green earth” tone.

  “Okay, honey, just check in with us when you can and drive carefully.”

  “Will do. Say hi to Dad.”

  “And you say hi to Chris.”

  I grinned. My mom thought Chris was the coolest thing since sliced bread. “She’ll appreciate that. All right, I’m outta here. Talk to you later, Mom. Love you. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hung up and put the phone back in the pocket of my cargo shorts. What was it about talking to my mom that made me feel sixteen all over again? I took the pump nozzle out of my tank and waited for my receipt to print out. That done, I drove a short distance away from the pumps and parked again so I could access my cooler and make a sandwich. Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the road and within about forty-five minutes I was coming into Clovis, a town just on the inside of the New Mexico border known for its meat-packing and Air Force base. I passed a battered Ford pick-up as the music switched to a different country mix.

  Singing along as I-84 snaked north, I put an extra twang in the lyrics and watched out my windshield as the landscape morphed into Billy the Kid country, windswept grassy buttes speckled with cholla cactus and small hills that swelled from the soil like geographic pimples, some with bases carved into hidden arroyos, a few deep enough to hide a man on a horse. By four I was nearing the eastern edge of Albuquerque on I-40. The Sandia Mountains loomed out my windshield, the eastern plains lapping at their flanks like an ocean wave at a beach. The freeway wound through them via Tijeras Canyon, which opened slightly above the city and spilled travelers into a seemingly never-ending strip mall and hotel hell that served as oases for tourists and hang-outs for residents in some of the beaten-down neighborhoods in this part of town.

  Albuquerque sprawled for miles across a high desert floodplain of the Rio Grande. Seeing my old stomping grounds made me grin like a kid. I mentally catalogued the parts of the city, ticking off the names like I was pointing out old friends at a reunion. The older neighborhoods lined the river and the newer ones—the ’burbs—pushed east until they rammed up against the base of the western side of the mountains.

  Residents refer to those areas as the Far Northeast Heights, though I dubbed them “The Frights” when I lived here.

  The outline of downtown swam in the early evening haze, the highest building probably no more than thirty stories—nice because it didn’t overwhelm the awesome expanse of landscape that surrounded the city. West of downtown sat Old Town, the site of the original Spanish Plaza. Older haciendas and estates occupied land north of Old Town, along the east side of the river while newer suburbs spread along the west side of the river—the poor cousins of the Northeast Heights though nicer neighborhoods lined the banks farther north. Developers were always busy ramming big tract homes into West Side enclaves then surrounding them with more strip malls and chain restaurants.

  Melissa and I had rented a house near campus, just off the funky and occasionally monied area called Nob Hill. Central Avenue—what had been part of the original Route 66—split off from I-40 and ran west all the way through the city. It crossed the river just past downtown and smacked into the West Side. I-40 then picked up the role of Route 66 and continued on to California. I exited I-40 onto Central just west of Tijeras Canyon. I wanted to see the city because I hadn’t been back since last January, over a year ago.

  I cruised west down Central, noting that things hadn’t changed on the eastern edge, generally run-down and seedy. As I neared Nob Hill, the businesses began to appeal to a more upscale clientele, sporting galleries and groovy restaurants. I slowed, reminiscing about my years here. All sorts of people hang out in Nob Hill, from skate punks to college students, local hippies to yuppies. I smiled as I passed the Flying Star, a popular restaurant-coffee joint and then Kelly’s, a local brewpub. On my right stood the Monte Vista Firehouse, a two-story adobe-like structure that really had been a firehouse once. The downstairs served as an upscale restaurant but the second-floor bar had a more casual ambiance. Patrons could hold onto the original brass pole as they went up and down the stairs. I found a parking space on the side street next to the Firehouse, which sat on a corner, and dialed Melissa’s number. This time, she picked up on the second ring.

  “Hi. Where are you?”

  “Parked next to the Monte Vista across from Disco Display House.”

  “I’ll be right there. Give me about fifteen minutes.”

  She cleared her throat. “I was wondering—”

  “Okay,” I said, cutting her off. “See you when you get here. Bye.” I knew she wanted to say more, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but I still wasn’t sure. I got out of my car and walked around to the sidewalk so I could lean against the passenger door. On this side of the Firehouse, big elms provided some nice shade. The air felt like hot parchment. I reveled in it as I opened my phone and speed-dialed Chris.

  “Hey, esa! ¿Estás aquí? ”

  “Hola, Detective Gutierrez. Or should it be ¿ mujer caliente?”

  She laughed.

  “Just got in. I’m waiting on Melissa.”

  “Girl, you’d better not be.”

  I grinned. “Not in the biblical sense.”

  “That’s a relief. So when is it my turn to see you?

  And hopefully it’s sooner rather than later.”

  “Let me get settled and see what the situation is.

  We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “We do.”

  I had a thought. “Well, wait. How about dinner tonight? I’m dying for some chile.”

  She paused for a moment, probably checking her calendar. “I have time. A rare thing, but for you, Kase, I’d call in sick. The dead guys can wait, after all.

  Call me when you’re done with Miss Thing. Besas, amiga.”

  “Will do. Later.”

  I hung up and slid my phone into my pocket, still smiling to myself as I watched traffic crawl past on Central, part of the lingering rush hour. A group of goth teens wandered past, all in black trousers and tees. I wondered how they managed to do that during the summers here. The price of fashion. I smelled food from the Firehouse and my stomach rumbled. After Melissa took me to Megan’s I’d give Chris a buzz and go in search of some New Mexican food. There was a restaurant off Rio Grande Boulevard near Old Town called Monica’s. I had been thinking about it since Lubbock.

  A black Lexus SUV turned left from Central.

  Melissa parked behind me and got out. She was still dressed for work, in a cream power suit and a dark blue blouse. Her hair was pulled back. She took her shades off as she approached. “Hi.” She stood looking at me and I saw from her body language that she wanted to hug me but thought better of it. “Okay.”

  She pointed down the street. “It’s actually right around the corner, a little mother-in-law place behind a house just off Monte Vista on Berkeley. I’ll show you.”

  “Sounds good.” I got into my car and waited for her to pull out ahead of me. We turned immediately right behind the Firehouse onto a street that was barely a block long and cruised onto Monte Vista.

  Melissa turned left into one of the nicer older neighborhoods that made up Nob Hill. She stopped after half a block at a stucco house whose covered front porch required five steps to reach the two camp chairs positioned near the front door.

  The main house, like so many others in this city, mimicked Spanish and Native American adobe style, sand-colored and flat-roofed. I call it “faux-dobe,” a desert-colored stucco that imitates the rounded, organic lines of actual adobe. Whoever lived in the fro
nt house had xeriscaped the yard with native plants and cacti. A second concrete walk on the right probably led to the back house. It squeezed between the main house and the tall wooden fence next door. I touched both easily with my arms outstretched. This arrangement was typical of a lot of older neighborhoods here. Big main houses often harbored cottages in the back.

  The two residences shared the back yard, hard-packed dirt surrounded by a six-foot wooden fence.

  Melissa motioned me to precede her down the walkway. Someone had cordoned off a small garden plot in the back against the fence. A few tomato and chile plants showed their bounty. Maybe I could have a couple of each later on. I’d check with the people in the front house. A barbecue grill—one of those four-legged affairs that still required charcoal—stood just off the roofed back porch of the main house, also accessible by five steps.

  I turned my attention to the cottage’s wooden front door, visible through the security door’s black grill. Like the two windows that framed it, the door was painted turquoise. A plain white shade covered the small window in the door itself and dark blue curtains hung in the other windows. Melissa unlocked the security door and pulled it open, then unlocked the front door, which swung inward.

  I stepped in. The entire place was saltillo-tiled and the smooth stucco walls glowed soft white. Megan had put a few colorful area rugs down, giving it a nice ambiance. The first room was a living area. A futon couch stood against the wall beneath a side window and a coffee table sat in front of it on which Megan had placed three red pillar candles. Bookshelves adorned the opposite wall, surrounding a compact entertainment center that included a television and stereo system. A small desk with a flat-screen computer monitor on it took up the far corner just beyond the couch. I noticed papers and pamphlets stacked next to the monitor.

  A doorway on my right past the bookshelves led to the kitchen, small but bright. It sported a Mexican tile counter and 1940s-era cabinets painted white though the handles were red. A new sink and appliances and a bistro table in the corner gave it a cool retro look. I walked back into the living room.

  Beyond the living room—shotgun style—through an archway covered with a beaded curtain was obviously Megan’s bedroom. I pushed the beads aside and surveyed the room. The door to the bathroom stood directly across from me. I entered the room, liking the vibe in this little house.

  Megan’s bed was made. A small closet occupied the left back corner. It was open and I glimpsed her clothes hanging neatly within. She was like Melissa in that respect—a place for everything. For a college student, Megan was a neat freak and her decorations indicated sophisticated tastes. Little pieces of folk art, nice lampshades, framed photographs of landscapes and European cafés. I peeked into the bathroom.

  Small sink, commode, shower stall. Two plants sat on the windowsill to the right. They seemed to be doing okay. Melissa must have been taking care of things.

  I turned. Melissa was standing near Megan’s bed, head bowed. Her arms were crossed over her chest.

  She looked like she might cry. She glanced up at me and managed a smile, her eyes clearing. “It’s nice, huh?”

  I nodded in agreement. “It’s very nice. I won’t mess it up,” I added, a half-hearted attempt at humor.

  “Here’s a key.” She handed it to me. I took it and put it in one of my front pockets. “I left the stuff I found next to her computer,” she added.

  “Is it okay if I check her bookshelves?”

  “K.C.,” Melissa said with a gentle remonstration,

  “make yourself at home while you’re here.”

  “Yeah, but...” I let the question hang between us.

  “She hasn’t been using in a while. Over two years now.” Melissa’s tone was distant.

  I hoped I didn’t find anything to suggest otherwise. Megan’s history was such that I worried about another relapse and if I found anything that would indicate that she had, I’d have to let Melissa know. And I didn’t think either of us was up to dealing with that. “Okay. Let me unload my stuff and I’ll check in with you tomorrow—oh, do the people in the front house know I’ll be here?”

  She nodded. “I told them Megan was enrolled in a school program out of state and that a friend would be here for a while. Their names are Jeff and Sage.

  Nice people.”

  “Well, I won’t pee on their cacti, then.”

  She stared at me, not sure what I meant.

  I cocked my head. “You can laugh. It was a joke.”

  She smiled then. “Sorry.”

  I shrugged. “I know. This is weird. I don’t know what else to tell you.” I held the key up. “I’m going to unload.”

  “Kase—”

  The way she said it made me pause.

  “Can we...” she stopped. “Never mind. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Call if you need anything.” She left and I followed at a distance, watching as she got into her car. It’s just residue. That’s all it is. The black Lexus pulled away from the curb as I opened the hatchback of my car and hauled my duffle bags out and slung them over my shoulders. After dumping my stuff on the bed in Megan’s room I poked around in her kitchen. Melissa had apparently emptied it of all perishables. God, that must’ve been hard. I found coffee in a container on the counter by the sink and a coffee maker in a cabinet. That was good news. I returned to the living room and decided not to start looking at racist crap just yet. I locked up and went back to my car.

  I BIT INTO my chicken enchiladas, served

  “Christmas,” with both red chile and green chile sauces poured over the top.

  “As good as you remember, huh?” Chris had ordered a burrito, also smothered Christmas.

  “Better.” I took a sip of my Negra Modelo. “Is it just me? Or is this truly some of the best chile ever?

  Or is it that I just haven’t had it in a while?” I took another bite, savoring.

  “Could be. Bet you can’t get it in Texas.”

  “Of course not. New Mexico is the chile capital, mujer.”

  “I’m glad you remember your loyalties.” She winked at me.

  “Always.” I cut a piece of enchilada off with my fork and worked it around my plate to get both red and green on it. The low murmur of conversation drifted from neighboring tables, all heavy Mexican-style wood. Monica’s was always cheery, the tile floor and windows always spotless, and entering was like coming into your favorite aunt’s kitchen. Great food, made with lots of love. I chewed and swallowed, enjoying the food, the energy, and the company.

  Chris set her beer down. She was off this evening and didn’t have to be at work until the next day at nine. “Do you have this kid’s name? Megan’s boyfriend?”

  I looked up. “Damn. I forgot to ask Melissa what his last name is. So far, all I know about him is that his first name is Cody, he drinks Diet Coke, and he has a swastika tattoo on his left forearm.”

  “Sounds nice,” Chris said sarcastically. “See if you can find a photo of him at Megan’s and maybe his full name and I’ll run a check for you. If he’s violating probation or anything, then we’ll have a reason to find him and bring him in.”

  “That’d be great. I have to go through the stuff Melissa found to see if I can get a sense of what type of group this is and how many people we might be talking about. Thank God Megan has high-speed Internet there. I’ll be doing some poking around online, too.” I looked across the table at her, and felt a familiar stirring in the air between us.

  Chris ordered another Dos Equis from the server, a nice middle-aged woman who was probably part of Monica’s family. “So how are your folks?” Chris smiled. “Still running wild in Tucson?”

  I laughed. “On both sides of the border, lately.

  They just got back from Central America a few days ago. Mom says hi, by the way.” I reached for my beer.

  “What about yours? Anything new to report that you didn’t have time to tell me two days ago?”

  “Nope. Same shit, different day. As usual, Dad wishes I h
ad stayed a counselor and Mom hopes to get me married off some day, police thing notwithstanding. And you and I both know that has as much chance of happening as the moon falling.”

  She grinned.

  “Well, it depends. Married to a man or a woman?”

  I waggled my eyebrows at her.

  “Either.” Chris took one of the chips from the basket, dipped it in salsa, and took a bite.

  “Oh, ye of little faith! How are the boys?” I used my favorite term of endearment for Chris’s three brothers.

  “Working their asses off for the company. At least my dad has nice, big, strong sons to carry on at Gutierrez and Sons Construction. With the possible exception of John. He’s not as into the business as Pete and Mike are.”

  I cut another piece of enchilada. “Oh? Is he on the verge of finally coming out?”

  “No, dammit, and it’s so obvious. Why won’t he talk to me about it?”

  I chewed and swallowed before answering.

  “Maybe because he’s the youngest, and he’s trying to make his own way.”

  Chris made a noncommittal noise and reached for a chip. “I don’t want to push him. I just want him to be happy with himself.”

  “We should all be happy like that. But even if John decided to go his own way, there’s always you to take over the business and show those big, strapping men how it’s done,” I teased.

  Chris threw a piece of chip at me. “Nah. I love building things and I love that I learned all that growing up, but I did my time there. Every damn summer from high school through college. I definitely don’t want to do it full-time.”

  “But you look so damn sexy when you’re running around with power tools,” I teased. “Way sexier than your brothers.”

  She kicked me lightly under the table. “Speaking of siblings, how are your sisters?” Chris looked at me expectantly after swallowing a bite of her burrito.

  “Kara’s probably sitting in another tree in northern California to protest logging and Joely is probably running guns in Estonia.”

  “Kara’s still working for that wilderness group?”

  Chris grinned at my eyeroll.