Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  After exchanging contact information including cell phone numbers, Ben promised to give Les’s best to Sandy and hung up. A lot to think about. But just that much more reason to find Robby, who apparently was still in the area. He’d like to get Sandy’s take on all this, and a quick call to Gloria confirmed that Sandy had a break. Second opinions never hurt.

  + + +

  Ben had learned that having a chat in his boss’s office meant clearing his own chair. The office never changed. Not one of four chairs, presumably for patients and colleagues, was clear. It was sort of a specialized filing system. So, when Ben picked up the two open books and four-inch pile of papers on top of the chair nearest Sandy’s desk, he gingerly put everything on the floor. Nothing was disturbed. He’d be able to replace the stack in exactly the same order as when he removed it.

  “What’s up?” Sandy closed his laptop and sat forward. “I’m assuming Julie’s still doing well?”

  “Better than well. Can’t wait to get out. If you have the time I’d like to run some things by you. Concerning Emmett, alias Robby, Merritt. For starters, I just got off the phone with Les Kaiser. He says, ‘Hi’.”

  “What led you to Les?”

  Ben filled him in on the little black book and private investigator.

  “When he referred Robby to us, I supported Les in his request to keep his part of Robby’s history under wraps,” Sandy said. “These cases are sensitive. I don’t have to tell you that. Most of the time you feel like you’re flying by the seat of your pants. Sometimes you just don’t know how things are going to go. I think Les wanted to compare notes—once you’d spent some time with Robby—and not influence you one way or the other. Finding out you were available to take the case put us both at ease. We both felt you would be a terrific role model. Fair and non-judgmental. I hope you don’t feel I let you down—needlessly kept you in the dark.”

  “No, not at all. Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I’ve lost contact with Robby. I don’t feel good about that.”

  “Didn’t he tell you he was going home?”

  “Yes, but I have every reason to believe it was a lie or something changed his mind.” Ben paused, “Were you familiar with the circumstances surrounding the death of Robby’s adoptive mother?”

  “More or less. I know he was cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  Ben quickly shared the circumstances surrounding Connie’s death, ending with the fact that she was his biological mother.

  “That’s an interesting twist. I suppose he stands to inherit a part of the estate?”

  “Around five million.”

  “Making his portion greater than what the senator’s natural children will get?”

  “Yes. They will divide five million three ways. Which hasn’t made him popular. Let alone simply the shock of finding out he exists.”

  “I can imagine.” Sandy absently chewed the end of a pencil. “You think it was Robby who warned Julie right before the explosion? Was dressed as Connie?”

  “And, the night before, laid his mother out in her wedding gown. I admit because of his history, it’s possible. Guess I’d change that to probable.”

  “But you don’t think he killed her?”

  Ben shook his head, “I’m not sure the cops will agree with me.”

  “Well, at least, the fact that Ms. CdeBaca’s death was murder hasn’t been leaked to the press … yet.” Sandy opened the Albuquerque Journal and turned the front page so Ben could read it.

  “Local philanthropist, wife of New Mexico’s longest serving senator, dies after short illness.” That’s as good as anything for now, Ben thought. Probably kept Robby safe. The picture looked recent. “Mind if I take this for Julie?”

  “It’s yours.” Sandy picked up a pencil and absently rolled it between thumb and index finger. “How fragile do you think Robby is? Under the circumstances, after the loss of two mothers? Leaving murder out of the equation, if he did dress Ms. CdeBaca and then dressed like her, we’re seeing signs of a possible disturbance.”

  “I agree.” Ben watched Sandy tap the pencil against the desk’s edge. Nervous habit. Annoying, but not something Ben wanted to mention.

  “The risk of suicide is fifty percent higher in gender-variant children. How old is he now?”

  “He’ll be twenty-one in March.”

  “He’s a bit past the danger years. Still, without transgender support or counseling … did you know he’d been on hormone blockers throughout most of his adolescence?”

  “We hadn’t gotten that far. It’s not in his records.”

  “I should have made that info available. What is it about hindsight?” Sandy looked sheepish. “He was on them until just a few months before his sixteenth birthday. For all of the research—about twenty years worth—we still don’t know how it affects brain growth. There’s some indication there’s a delay in emotional maturation.”

  “I’ve read the research, but the treatment seems a little extreme. I’m assuming both parents agreed to it?”

  “According to Les, the father was fit to be tied—his child dressing in his wife’s clothing before kindergarten even. The mother appears to have been the supportive one. Then the father was lost—very traumatically, struggling with cancer over a number of years. To keep from upsetting the father, Robby was forbidden to engage in any transgender behavior in front of his father for over three years. Apparently, his mother condoned the behavior in secret.”

  “I’m not sure you can just turn that sort of thing on or off at a whim. Masculine in front of father, feminine in front of mother.”

  “Exactly. He was not quite nine when his father died and more than a little disturbed. I think the mother, unable to face losing anyone else dear to her, sought help and was willing to try anything. The possibility of pre-pubescent suicide was a very real threat.”

  “But instead, puberty was delayed with hormone blockers?”

  “Regulation of gonadotropin-releasing hormone—which puts puberty on hold.”

  “It couldn’t have been legal ten years ago.”

  “Internationally, the treatment is well known and recommended. If I remember correctly, Ms. Merritt sought treatment outside the States. It seemed to have bought her six years or so of calm.”

  “And then?”

  “Robby chose to end treatments and the onset of puberty was immediate. Complete with the acting out of a normal teen. A normal teenage boy, I might add. Which didn’t sit well with Ms. Merritt. As with so many parents of teens, she lost control—”

  “A control that had been drug-induced for six-plus years. Was she more upset that he apparently chose the male gender or was just a problem teen? It would be interesting to know what part of Robby’s gender conundrum was natural and how much was due to the power of suggestion. Or out and out control.”

  Sandy paused, “What an interesting question. Funny, it didn’t dawn on me when I was reading his records. Les couldn’t have said it better; there’s a lot to be said for a new set of eyes.”

  “There’s always been something not quite believable about Robby’s gender crisis.”

  “How so?”

  “He was always so … not sure how to put this … over the top. And I realize that can sometimes be a part of the profile of transgender behavior but with Robby it was an act. I’m almost sure of it.”

  “Then why continue the act here? It would seem New Mexico could have offered him a fresh start. Become a part of his tribe, establish roots, learn to know his mother—”

  “And maybe that was it. The only mother he’d known had, perhaps, made her love a condition of gender. Could he have thought this mother might also? He’s still a teenager with marked chemically induced, arrested, emotional development. We can’t rule that out.”

  “It could play into some deep-seated anger … possibly give a motive for the murder of his adoptive mother. A bizarre type of sexual abuse, perpetuated over several years, only to have the subject retaliate.”

  Sandy was s
ilent. Then, “He must have jumped at the chance to meet his biological mother, to reconnect with his people, get out of a situation in a small town that must have been intolerable.” Sandy sighed. “And then to find out his mother was dying. His life was crumbling. Would he have felt cheated? Abandoned, again? Was this just one more disappointment out of his control? Would the anger make him do something rash—?”

  “I need to find him. I don’t think he’s acting or reacting rationally but I don’t want to judge him prematurely. And I don’t want him found first by the cops.”

  “Keep me informed. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  + + +

  Five o’clock. He could just make the six p.m. Jell-O run at University Hospital if he hurried, and still get the truck in for a window replacement. He’d have a rental dropped off at the hotel and catch a ride from the garage. But wasn’t he supposed to bring food? Damn. Was this a Lotaburger night? Or Powdrell’s Barbeque? He’d gotten so caught up in Robby’s history that he’d blanked on supper. No, it was definitely Lotaburger. With fries. And don’t forget the ketchup.

  He ducked into his office, gave a credit card number and used the “doctor” moniker to have a blue Ford Taurus delivered to the Doubletree—keys left with the concierge. Always nice to have a degree come in handy. He rifled through a stack of files in the first drawer of a gray, prison-issue, file cabinet and pulled out Robby’s paperwork. No phone, but a downtown Albuquerque address. He copied the info onto a sticky note and put it in his billfold. He didn’t hold out hope that Robby was there—still, a place to start.

  He quickly locked up and then delivered the truck to Monty’s Glass: Repair or Replace. The shop was on Lomas just a few blocks from the hospital. Easy for pickup the next day. He made it before they closed and caught a ride downtown with one of Monty’s techs. There was the Taurus under the Doubletree’s front canopy. He was impressed. He still had time to grab a couple Lotaburgers and get to the hospital, almost on time.

  He knew, the minute he walked into her room with the distinctive red and blue sack, the choice had been the right one.

  “I was beginning to think I’d goofed in turning down the green stuff,” she joked.

  “Never give up on me.”

  He spread out the feast on the ubiquitous wheeled hospital tray and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You just missed Mom and Dad.”

  “How are they?” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “Keeping busy. Helping me with Connie’s funeral plans. She left instructions for a reception, a celebration of her life to be held at her home. Obviously out of the question now, but Mom and I thought the Pueblo Indian Cultural Center might be a good choice or somewhere on UNM’s campus. What do you think?”

  “I like the Cultural Center idea. I would guess a reception would be well-attended. What’s the timeframe?”

  “Mom and I both feel it’s too close to Christmas to do something now; the Center is booked until mid-January. But that might be a good time. Get past the holidays.”

  “Where will she be buried?”

  “Connie requested her body be sent ahead to the Mescalero reservation. The body will be released tomorrow. Gloria helped me contact the right people. But Connie had already written to the tribal leaders of her wishes—probably accompanied by a handsome gift. I’ve set up transport and Mom and I will accompany her. The docs here have given me the okay to travel.”

  “That’s probably not a bad plan. You won’t have protection, but I’ll feel better if you’re with a group.” Even though the cop was still on duty at the door, Ben had a feeling Julie was no longer the killer or killers’ object. If Julie hadn’t told Lieutenant Samuels anything in two days that had sent the cops their way—whoever they might be—then her assailants probably figured she didn’t know anything. Not knowing was often the best guarantee of safety.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes before Julie spoke. “Ben, let’s get married. I’ve had time to do some thinking and Connie’s right. There won’t ever be a good time. Certainly not according to my mother. We can put it off and put it off and gain nothing. Originally we’d said Christmas. Let’s stick with our plan.”

  “I have approximately a month to get cold feet.” Ben grinned. “I like the idea. Might be the right thing to involve your mother in the planning.”

  “Already thought of that. Give her a chance to redeem herself if she sees it’s going to be a done deal.”

  “Pick a date and I’ll make sure we can get the chapel at the Tewa Pueblo.”

  “Mom can help me with a lot of things … invitations, reception. I think she’ll give in to the excitement. Besides, her best friend picked out my dress.” She quickly explained her find—the note, the jewelry, and the dress—probably several thousand dollars worth of vintage Chanel. Perfect for a Christmas wedding.

  Ben got up and kissed her on the mouth, lingering, ignoring the overriding taste and smell of ketchup. “I’m going to call it an early night. Seems like I remember both of us being up at the crack of dawn this morning. I’ll check with hotel security about my window and then hit the sack. I’ll be here for breakfast.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could bring me a burrito from Garcia’s?”

  Ben laughed, but nodded. He’d do anything for this woman, his almost wife—burrito delivery was the least of it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ben slid behind the Taurus’s steering wheel. He missed his truck already. He wasn’t a family sedan type, but he’d chosen it because of its anonymity. He’d just be another car on the road—hopefully, one that wouldn’t draw attention and would be difficult to remember. Just in case he was still of interest to whoever broke into his truck. But before he went to bed, he was going to run by the office of Stan Devon. It was past eight, but if luck was with him maybe the investigator would be working late.

  Traffic into Albuquerque’s North Valley was sparse. He drove through the edge of downtown, taking Lomas west to Fourth and then heading north. An older part of town and cheap land prices had encouraged the proliferation of junk stores and fast food chains. The fact that Mr. Devon’s office was in this neighborhood made prejudgment almost a given; Ben hadn’t needed Les Kaiser’s take on the man—the surroundings said it all.

  Ben waited at the light at Griegos and Fourth then pulled forward on the green and made an immediate left after the intersection, turning in beside a Lowe’s grocery and a two-story building which had seen better days. He scanned the directory, a wooden sign board that looked as old as the building. If 1A was any indication, Mr. Devon’s office would be on the first floor. Ben pulled into the first available space in front of a hand lettered notice with an arrow that announced an AA meeting was taking place on the second floor. Judging by the cars in the parking lot, it would seem well attended.

  And based on the fact that 3A was straight ahead of him, logic put 1A either to the right or left. Guessing right, he was surprised to see police tape across the door. Yeah, this was 1A—and it was absolutely empty. He stepped up to the plate glass entry and looked inside. An open safe at the back, a folding chair, metal desk, and that was it. Obviously, Stan Devon was long gone.

  “I swear Mr. Devon is just as popular now as he was before he disappeared. You another cop?”

  Ben turned to see what was probably a custodian/rent-a-cop combination leaning against the building to his left. No gun visible, but he did have a nightstick in a leather carrier strapped to his belt.

  “No, not a cop. I’m just looking for Stan Devon.” Ben leaned forward to take another look at the room.

  “You and about a dozen others. You a client?”

  “Nothing like that. I have a couple questions for Mr. Devon, that’s all.”

  “Well, he had some pretty hoity-toity clients. You know that senator’s wife? The one that just died? She came here. Lied to me about her name, but she sure was a looker. You think they got her age wrong in the paper?”

 
“Ms. CdeBaca?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one, only she said her name was Bev something or other. But it was the same woman—those big dark eyes, hair down to her ass. I’m not going to forget that.”

  Ben wasn’t going to get into a discussion of Connie’s beauty. Somehow the man made it seem tawdry.

  “Know what happened to Mr. Devon?”

  “Wish I did. He skipped out owing rent and never told anyone where he was going. He sure pissed off the landlord.”

  “I bet. But that doesn’t explain the police interest. What do they think he’s done?”

  “Well, for starters, murder.” The man took a conspiratorial step closer and lowered his voice. “The cops were around here matching up fingerprints. Seems he delivered a package to some unsuspecting fool up in the mountains, only it was a bomb. You know, a letter-bomb made to look like a package of money. Guess our man here played a little trick and instead of bills, the package held paper—cut to look like bills. He pocketed the real stuff. Now, get this, some of the papers had his letterhead, guess he thought they’d blow up or burn up once the bomb detonated. But no such luck for Mr. Devon. He led the cops right here to his office. Now that’s a reason for cutting out.”

  “Any idea how much cash Stan was delivering?”

  The man cleared his throat and took the time to look to his right and then the left. In even more hushed tones, “Judging by the couple trashed bills they found, the package was made to look like it held forty-eight more. Least that’s what I heard.” He straightened up and leaned back against the door frame.

  “Fifty thousand.” Ben said it more to himself. The package that had Connie’s prints on it. She had hired her PI to make a delivery to the caretaker at the old lodge. But, fifty thousand? That was hefty. A payoff? But why to the caretaker? Only to be double-crossed. In all likelihood, Stan knew she was dying. He’d been sent to ferret out her son. Would he have known why? Probably. So, pretty untraceable. Steal from the dying. He’d know that Connie wouldn’t be in a position to do anything about it. Especially if it was payoff money. Ben idly wondered where his source got his info but didn’t have to wait long.