by Susan Slater
Ben ignored the jab. “He’s been trying to belong, all his life, to find the heritage that would give his life definition. His only regret is that he didn’t tell his mother he’d take part in a bone marrow transplant. He’s convinced he could have saved her life.”
“Easy to say after the fact. You really think he would have offered?”
“I have no doubt.”
“I’m telling you your business, doc, but I think something set him off. I think there’s something we don’t know—something we missed, maybe. I think the anger on his part could have been there.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see it.”
“You gonna be in earshot if I need to touch base after my chat with our boy?”
“You’ve got my cell number.”
+ + +
The cold air blasted him with a mixture of ice particles and rain. Why did they keep government buildings so warm? Ben pulled up his collar and buttoned the sheepskin jacket’s top button before shoving his hands into pockets lined with shearling. He didn’t feel like going to work and he still needed to get lunch. He should probably just grab a sub and head back. Walking away and leaving Robby incarcerated was eating him up. He felt like he’d failed the young man, but he should have known he couldn’t hide Robby forever. But interrogation? He had no idea how Robby would handle it.
At two forty-five, there were no lines at the sandwich shop. Had meatballs and melted Swiss ever smelled so good? Chips and a drink and he was headed to work. He picked up the combination for the storage unit from Gloria along with a stack of mail, unlocked his office and, trying not to tip his soft drink, put his lunch on the desk. He’d ignore the blinking light on his phone until after he’d eaten. But after busting open the bag of salt and vinegar chips, he picked up the receiver and punched in his code.
“Ben, I’m worried sick about Robby. Maybe I can’t do anything, but I’d rather be there with you. I called Dad and he’s meeting Mom at the Inn of the Mountain Gods after the service. I think that relieves me of any babysitting duties. I’ll pick up a rental in Ruidoso and come on back tonight. Should get there by five-thirty or six. See you at the hotel. Love you.”
That was the best news he’d had all day. Only another couple hours. He could finish a few evaluations he owed Gallup IHS, check the paper for a movie, and have the offer of a fun evening all planned.
But it didn’t turn out that way. And he should have known, the minute he shared that Arnold Baxter had left the combination to a storage unit holding more of Connie’s things, the cat and curiosity collided.
“I’m sure it won’t take us too long. Maybe we could catch a late movie?”
“Yeah, maybe. But it means not reading everything, and, God forbid, not organizing.” Ben laughed and pulled her to him. “I’ve never thought of you as a cheap date. Have things changed?”
“Aren’t you curious at all? We both know the family. We need to do this—take a first look before we call them. For Robby’s sake, at least. There might be family things—pictures of Connie—he would want.” She pecked him on the cheek and stood back. “After all, we are the executors. That comes with some responsibility. It’ll be fun.”
A lot of things struck him as possibly being more fun—a stick in the eye or a pie in the face. But Ben did have to admit, his interest was piqued. He didn’t have his hopes up that there would be anything of value, but one never knew. And value was in the eye of the beholder. Julie had made a good point about keeping Robby in mind when they looked through things. It served him right for telling her right away—he could have waited.
The salad bar at the hotel was fantastic. It quickly cleared his conscience of any lingering regret over the meatball sub. And Julie ate like the condemned. After her third helping of pickled beets, Ben was hoping he didn’t need to be worrying about birth control, or the lack thereof. They were being careful—maybe it was possible a person could just love pickled beets. He watched the beet juice tint the dollop of cottage cheese at the edge of her plate. Pink food. Not an Indian thing. But it was great to see her looking so healthy and back to her old self. As much as he might have wanted to see a movie and relax, watching her get so excited was worth it. This was therapeutic. A movie could wait.
Chapter Twenty-four
Temperature control, track lighting on a rheostat, indoor/outdoor carpet—he had a number of patients who didn’t live in anything half as nice as this storage unit. He supposed the estate was picking up the tab but then, why not? There were funds for incidentals. Ben was surprised anything had been salvaged from the house. A lot of the boxes were water-stained and the air, though purified he imagined, was still tainted with the acrid hint of smoke. It would be difficult to know where to begin.
One wall was lined with hat boxes, handbags and shoe racks—a sorry mix of mismatched and mangled leather. Another held boxes of kitchen implements, mixers, coffee makers. Then came rows of file boxes—the kind you put important papers in—and lastly, the center of the room was packed with furnishings—broken, twisted lamp stands, what was once an ornate desk, a display case with not one bit of glass intact, a stained glass shade, huge and a quarter of it missing. But if it was a Tiffany, would it be worth repair? Ben guessed so.
His first reaction was “what a mess.” But Julie was amazed so much had been saved. As he pointed out, “saved” was the questionable word here. He stood back, reluctant to get started—what actually were they supposed to do? Julie, with pen and pad, headed toward the personal articles. His cue, he guessed, to start on the file boxes.
“I can’t understand this. This is the fourth hat box I’ve opened only to find it empty. Are you sure we’re the first to look through these things?”
“Yeah. I think Arnold hired some muscle to move everything here and then had to go back to Denver.”
“Well, someone’s gone through things. There’s no way Connie would have stored a bunch of empty boxes.”
“You haven’t met Arnold, but it’s really difficult for me to imagine him popping open a few hatboxes to maybe confiscate some wispy confection with sequins or feathers.”
“Well, someone did.”
“Why are you assuming it happened after the explosion?”
“Oh my God, I never thought—” Had there been time for someone to go through Connie’s things between the time she died and the explosion? Hadn’t Julie been there most of that time? And guards had been hired afterward to oversee the house—the house in ruins. Supposedly, there hadn’t been a time it had been exposed, open to vandals. Other than the couple hours when she had left to make copies. The person she’d seen—she thought might have been Robby—had that person been in the house long enough to take things?
“Maybe the boxes were just tossed around and Arnold put the tops back on.”
“Not exactly a manly thing to do—I can’t see some guy picking through the rubble to match up tops and bottoms to hat boxes.”
“Me, either.” Ben didn’t say anything, but the first file box he opened had been picked over. Files were out of order unless the alphabet started with M and zigzagged back and forth from O to B back to N.
“Ben, look.” Julie was holding a locket dangling from a heavy gold chain. “If this is what I think it is, it will have been worth coming out here for.” The locket was large, an inch and a half in diameter and made of heavy gold. The flowery initials interspersed with diamonds were CB & JRM. Inside, a smiling Connie and beaming Professor Mondragon snuggled for the camera. Beautiful people caught in time. They looked perfect together—both dark, both incredibly handsome. Julie turned the locket over and opened the back compartment—a lock of hair less than an inch in length, very fine, dark—unmistakably baby hair. “It was in an envelope in the lining of this makeup case.”
“This will mean a lot to Robby.” Ben stood looking at Connie with Robby’s father. Happiness could be so fleeting. Time borrowed but not paid back. Stolen, really. He wanted Robby’s life to be different. He thought it would be if th
ey could just connect him with relatives on the reservation.
“Look at all these picture albums. They’re hardly scratched.” Julie held up a leather bound book about three inches thick and eight-and-a-half by eleven. There appeared to be three boxes holding identical albums. “They must have been in the garage. I hope there are pictures of Connie. Mom shared an album of school pictures with Robby—I think he really appreciated it.” Julie dragged a chair cushion missing the chair over next to the box, adjusted the lighting, and sat down. “I hope I’m not wasting my time. I can’t imagine any of Skip’s children interested in pictures of their stepmother.”
Julie leafed through the first album. Skip as a boy, Skip in uniform, Skip with mother and father … Julie put the album to one side. The second seemed to pick up with Skip and the mother of his children. According to the labels, Helen was homecoming queen, a cheerleader, and president of her college class. Then Helen married, had several wedding showers, got pregnant, had several baby showers, delivered three children and took pictures of them in wagons, on tricycles, in tree houses … ad nauseam. None of this was what Julie was looking for. Then with the next to last album—paydirt!
The very first picture was of a gangly Connie hugging the neck of a spotted pony. From there, the pictures graduated to Connie as barrel racer, roper, State Fair Queen and Miss Indian America. Someone looking at the young Connie and Robby would never question the family tie. It was amazing. Julie carefully set that album to the side.
The last album was entirely Skip’s children. The pictures continued with them after high school. Byron as valedictorian of his college class. Cherie receiving some kind of award—Julie couldn’t tell exactly what, and Jonathan at boot camp. She was getting ready to put it back in the box when a caption caught her attention. Jonathan, it seemed, had been an EOD Specialist—Explosive Ordnance Disposal. Explosives. Coincidence?
Julie read the citations. Decorated for his work and there was a picture of his squadron. Julie ran down the list of names and glanced at their pictures. All gung-ho young men from some twenty-odd years ago. Then a name stopped her. McNamara, Arthur N. The same name as the caretaker. The man who had been killed by explosives. If it was the same man, then an EOD Specialist had been killed by a letter bomb. The very kind of thing he’d been taught to disassemble. Some sort of poetic justice? Or just not possible? Would someone trained in the field reach into a mailbox to extract a bulky, maybe suspicious, package? Doubtful. Even if he was expecting it?
She sat up a little straighter, leaned over and ran her index finger across the group picture until she reached Private McNamara, but the tiny and now fuzzy full-front photo was of little help—there were no really distinguishing features. If she could trust his standing in the back row to indicate height, then he was at least six foot three or four. And thin. Lean long face—a string-bean frame that hadn’t filled out at nineteen or twenty. But on the next page was a photo of Jonathan and Art together. Buds standing in front of a bus, duffle bags at their feet, in a couple king-of-the-mountain poses that shouted, ‘don’t mess with us.’ Testosterone on the prowl. Art was a good four inches taller than his pal and she knew Jonathan was six foot.
She felt the shiver of excitement that meant she’d found something important … really important. If her hunch was right, Art McNamara was very much alive and Stan Devon very dead. And possibly, just maybe, his long time buddy, Jonathan CdeBaca was an accomplice—not in the letter bomb but the explosion that leveled Connie’s house.
Lieutenant Samuels should be interested in two munitions experts, both with stakes in the CdeBaca fortune.
“Ben, if an investigation is still underway, will the OMI keep a body—not dispose of it?”
“Not sure, but I think they have to. Why?”
She explained her suspicion and showed him the pictures. “Is there anyone we can call?”
“Probably not tonight but first thing in the morning.”
They spent another three hours opening boxes, cataloging contents, organizing what was left by useable versus non-useable—one pile against the north wall, one the south. It was ten forty-five before they were finished and Julie was beat. But she had a locket tucked away in her purse and a picture album that just might explain some things. Were they closer to naming Connie’s murderer? Just maybe.
+ + +
Alarm? No, phone. Ben checked his watch. Nine o’clock. Shit. They’d slept in. But if he could use getting his bones jumped as an excuse—it had been worth it! He grabbed the receiver over Julie’s shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Just thought you’d want to know your boy made bail. Called his lawyer and walked.” Lieutenant Samuels sounded far from happy.
“He doesn’t have a lawyer.”
“Well, he did this morning. That family lawyer—the one that loves you.”
“Wayne?” Now Ben sat up and saw that he had Julie’s attention, too. She’d rolled on her side propped up on an elbow.
“When?”
“About a half hour ago.”
“No idea where they were going?”
“None. But I want to know if he gets in touch.” The click of the disconnect seemed loud, Ben thought, or just final.
“Our pal Wayne just got Robby out on bail.”
“What do we do?” Julie slipped out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
“Wait ’til he calls or maybe try to contact Wayne. Do you have his number?”
“I think so. All the work-related numbers are programmed into my cell.” Julie rummaged through her purse, pulled out her phone and tossed it to Ben. “Give him a try while I shower.” Leaning back around the bathroom door, she added, “Don’t forget we need to get hold of someone at the OMI.”
Ben sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled through the numbers. There it was. He dialed using Julie’s cell thinking Wayne would be far more likely to pick up. Six rings and voicemail—a very business-sounding Wayne assured the caller he’d get back quickly. Odd. If he just sprang Robby why would he have his cell off? Or maybe he was one of those who hated being tied to a phone. But practicing law was competitive, why would he risk being out of touch?
Ben tossed the phone on the bed. He had other things he’d rather think of. If he dropped his clothes now, he just might have time to join one beautiful woman in the shower.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Next of kin?”
“No. Executors of the estate where this man was killed.” Ben wasn’t sure this was going to get him the information, but it was worth a try.
“Wait. Didn’t I see you at the site? With Ms. CdeBaca?” The lab tech turned to Julie. “I’d pulled bag duty that day and helped scrape this guy together.”
She flinched inwardly at his terminology. “Yes, I thought you looked familiar.”
“So, what is it you guys need to know?”
“General information. Height, weight, age—that sort of thing.” Ben breathed a small sigh of relief. He wasn’t certain how protected this kind of information might be.
“That’s easy enough. Want to sit over there?” The tech motioned to a desk and chairs to his left. “Give me a minute and I’ll bring up the info.” He turned on the computer and the three of them waited. Tough to make small talk in a place like this, Ben thought.
“Here we go. Let’s see. Identification was made by jewelry and clothing. Arthur McNamara, estate caretaker. Didn’t get a dental—guy took the blast in his face. General mass at weigh-in would indicate 200 to 210 pounds. One femur in pretty good shape used to estimate height at five-feet-eight inches. Age estimated somewhere in early fifties.”
Julie had scooted to the edge of her chair. “Are you positive about height? I mean you couldn’t be off by five or six inches? Or more?”
“I could be off an inch—more like three quarters, but not more.”
“Could you get prints?” Ben knew that a PI and an Army Specialist would have prints on file within easy access.
“Not available. T
here wasn’t a lot left. He leaned down, probably hands in front, reaching inside to get the package … guess you guys know the particulars. Surprising the ring survived intact.”
Not really, Julie thought. Not if it was planted later. The one bit of evidence that would prove to Connie the body was her caretaker.
“Thanks this really helps.” Ben looked at Julie, “Anything else?” She shook her head. “Guess that does it.” A couple quick handshakes and they were out the door.
“I knew it. This changes everything.” Julie hopped up into the truck’s cab and turned to face him. “We have to talk to Lieutenant Samuels.”
Ben agreed. But would the cop listen? Would he think he needed to broaden his search—expand the number of suspects? They’d know quickly enough.
“Why don’t you try Wayne again? I know we’re going to be asked if we’ve heard from them.”
Julie snapped open the case of her cell, rolled through her contact list and tapped Wayne’s number. Again, nothing. The sixth ring and voicemail. This time Julie left a message. “Wayne, there are some new developments I think you’d be interested in. Give me a call.” She left her cell number and hung up. “I wonder where he’s taken Robby?”
“Maybe to stay with him? But I don’t see that happening. I’m frankly surprised that Wayne met bail, was the one to go to all the trouble to get Robby out. I don’t feel any better about his safety.”
“Me, either.”
“You know, Lieutenant Samuels could be right—Robby could have called him. Used Connie’s connection. Maybe Wayne would have felt obligated to help a family member?”
“Or he was just curious. Or he was setting him up.”
“Hey, I don’t want to think that way. Let’s stay positive.” Ben wasn’t going to admit it but that’s exactly what he was thinking.