“When does the committee meet next?” Lucy asked.
“On Monday.”
“Oh, Tommy …” Lucy called to him, in an exaggeratedly sweet voice.
“I hate it when you use that tone. This can’t be good news,” he said as he walked over.
She handed him the agenda, pointing to Melissa’s name.
“Damn,” was all he said. Lucy knew what the problem was: it was almost ten P.M. For the second time in a week, they’d have to scramble to get anything for tomorrow’s newspaper.
While Tommy was making phone calls, she finished editing an article about road construction on the interstate. It was the last story she had to read for the night. Unless Tommy found out what Melissa Baca’s name was doing on that agenda.
There was already a Melissa Baca story for tomorrow’s newspaper. Tommy had written it, and Lucy had looked it over and sent it to the copy desk for its final edit more than two hours ago. The story was slated for the local section, not the front page. It was a short story, only ten inches. Lucy had wanted the story on the front page. The first paragraph read: “Melissa Baca, a seventh-grade teacher whose body was discovered below the Taos Gorge Bridge Tuesday, did not have drugs in her system, according to a report by the Office of the Medical Investigator. However, the state police said they still consider drugs a factor in her death despite the toxicology results.” Lucy had thought that maybe, if the story was on the front page, the readers would question whether Melissa Baca really had done drugs. But John Lopez had voted Lucy down; there were too many other breaking-news stories that deserved the five front-page slots. And Lopez knew the real reason why Lucy wanted it on the front page: she wanted to absolve herself. It was her chance at redemption, her way to make up for yet another error in judgment. If only she had asked Tommy about his confidential sources. If only she hadn’t talked about Scanner Lady in a room full of cops. If only.
Lucy went over to the copy desk to tell the assistant copy-desk chief that the road-construction story was ready to be edited. The editor said, “About time,” before calling it up on her screen. Lucy was watching her edit the story when Tommy came over.
“We’ve got a problem, boss,” he said. “The chairman of the police advisory committee says he’s never heard of Melissa Baca. He said the secretary who makes the agenda might know something about it. I called her three times, but she didn’t answer and there was no answering machine.”
“What do the state police say?” Lucy asked.
“I paged Lieutenant Pollack twice, but he hasn’t called back. I even called his house and left a message.” Pollack was their snitch, so he would call back. Eventually.
“Anybody else at the state police we can try?”
“I called some officers I know who are part of the investigation, but they gave me that ‘the only person who can comment is Pollack’ crap. I guess since we ran our story with the anonymous sources in it, the state police are cracking down on any officer who talks to the press besides Pollack.”
“Which is pretty damn funny, considering the circumstances,” Lucy said. Pollack was the leak, after all. Tommy looked nervous that she had alluded to it in the open newsroom.
“Any other ideas?” she asked him.
“Not a one.”
Lucy thought about calling Gil, but hesitated. She didn’t want to take advantage of their friendship. Is that what it was? A friendship? She didn’t know. But she was pretty sure that he would think less of her for calling him. Not that he would tell her anything anyway. He wasn’t that kind of cop.
“Okay, Tommy, let’s give it a little more time. Maybe somebody will call you back. And keep trying that secretary. While you’re waiting for calls, write up what you have and add it to the Melissa Baca story.”
The assistant copy-desk chief, who had been listening to their conversation, asked, “You’re calling the Baca story back?”
“Yeah. We’ll just add to it.”
“Do you want to move it to the front page?” the editor asked.
Lucy thought for a second. She was being handed exactly what she had argued for with Lopez. But, truth be told, the story still didn’t warrant the front page. If they could say why Melissa had been about to go to the police advisory committee, maybe Lucy could justify moving it. She looked at the clock. It was almost ten thirty P.M. It was becoming extremely unlikely that they were going to get any calls back.
They could sit on the information, wait until they had time to check it out, and then run the story in the next day’s newspaper. But the Santa Fe Times got the agendas just like the Capital Tribune did. Somebody might have been typing those agendas in and, just as Stacy had, noticed Melissa Baca’s name. It was too chancy.
“No. The story stays in the local section,” Lucy said. She wished that Lopez were there to witness her sacrifice.
“Why don’t you call up those confidential police sources who told you about the drugs and ask them about it?” the editor offered.
Tommy said, “Yeah, right” before walking away. Lucy just shook her head.
Gil was on his way home when he made a detour to Mrs. Baca’s. He didn’t plan on going inside. He was just driving by on the off chance that Ron might be back from the Pecos. Gil had called Mrs. Baca earlier to check on her but had gotten the answering machine. She hadn’t called back.
When he pulled up in front of the Baca house, all the lights, inside and outside, were on and the front door was wide open. Gil got out of his car, flipping the snap on his holster but not switching off the gun’s safety. He considered calling for backup, but the situation didn’t warrant it. Not yet. He went up to the house, calling for Mrs. Baca.
He found her in Melissa’s room, throwing clothes into boxes. The walls were bare; the picture of Melissa with her father was gone.
“Mrs. Baca, what’s going on?” Gil asked.
“These things need to be put away.”
Gil was starting to get mad at her relatives—it was like what people always said about the police: Never around when you need one.
“Mrs. Baca, let’s wait until tomorrow to do that.”
She looked up at him, considering, “Why?”
“It’s late.”
She seemed to accept that. She got up and fixed Melissa’s bedcovers, turned off the light, and closed the door.
In the hallway, she turned to look at him. “What are you doing here, Detective Montoya?” It was the first normal thing she had said to him in days.
“I’m looking for Ron.” She nodded.
Gil got an idea. “Mrs. Baca, did Ron call Monday night to tell you he was coming over to fix the washing machine?”
“Oh, yes. He called about an hour or so before he showed up.”
“Did Melissa answer the phone when he called?”
Mrs. Baca thought, then said, “She talked to him for a few minutes, then handed the phone to me.”
“Do you know what they talked about?” Gil thought that maybe Melissa had told him to meet her in Oñate Park to talk more about the Sandra Paine photos.
“I was in the kitchen. I couldn’t hear them.”
She was starting to fade. He didn’t want to leave her until she was safely in bed. He started going around the house, turning off lights. They got to her room. He looked around. It wasn’t very big; in fact, it was much smaller than Melissa’s room. Gil wondered why Melissa had had the master bedroom while Mrs. Baca stayed in a child’s bedroom. One entire wall of Mrs. Baca’s bedroom was taken up in a shrine with a large crucifix over it. An altar table had candles on it with an assortment of pictures—all of the same person in various stages of life. As a baby, as a boy, and then as a man. Gil guessed that it was Daniel. And he wondered where the shrine to her husband was.
He had Mrs. Baca lie down fully clothed in her tiny twin-size bed. He turned the light in her room off and cracked her door, leaving the hallway light on. Just as he did for his girls. To keep the boogeyman away. He didn’t want to leave Mrs. Baca like this. He
thought about calling Mrs. Cordova, but it was late. In the end, he wandered around the house, peeking in on Mrs. Baca until he was sure that she was asleep.
He went out and sat in his car, watching the house, not sure what else to do. He called his mother. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Mom, I’m not going to be able to make it over there tonight. I’ve got some work to finish up.”
“Whatever you think is best, hito,” she said. “Your work comes first.”
They hung up and he slouched down in the seat, knowing that he was going to be there for a while.
Lucy opened her front door quietly for the sake of her neighbors, then tripped on a stray shoe and fell to the floor with a loud crash. Damn. Hell. Great entrance. And she wasn’t even drunk. For a change.
The copy editors had invited her out again and she’d gone with them to the bar. She’d quietly sipped a Sprite while they got louder and louder on their beer. She had wanted to drink. Badly. There were a thousand things she wanted to forget. Time might heal all wounds, but alcohol makes you forget you have wounds. But she was strong. Hear me roar. She had worked out at the gym today and not had any alcohol. Being this healthy was bound to be bad for you.
She had been careful to sit a few seats away from the sports reporter she had kissed two nights ago. She was nice to him. Said “hi” and “how are you?” with true sincerity. But she didn’t want him to get the impression that she was overly interested. He kept giving her goofy drunken stares. Lord, help me. After an hour, she pretended to go to the bathroom and slipped out of the bar.
She picked herself up off the floor of her apartment and flipped on her answering machine. First message from Mom. Second one from Mom. Third one from Gerald Trujillo: “Lucy, I missed you at the fire station this afternoon.” She erased the rest of the message without listening to it. She sighed and plopped onto the couch.
She stretched her arms over her head to release some of the tension in her shoulders. She needed to talk to Gerald. To really talk to him. She needed to ease her guilt.
She turned the television on and started watching an old Cosby Show.
The phone rang. She looked at her watch. Just after two A.M. Who would be calling this late? She let the answering machine pick it up. It was the sports reporter she had been indecent with. Damn. “Hey, Lucy, you left the bar tonight without saying good-bye.” She went to bed without listening to the rest of the message.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Saturday Morning
L ucy tried to roll over in her sleep, but the movement made her back muscles cut with pain, jarring her awake. She had overdone it with the weights yesterday, a few too many reps—and too little previous gym time. She knew that her mother would say it was from stress: Lucy, you always hold your anger in your shoulders.
Sitting up stiffly, she looked at the clock—six thirty A.M. She groaned. It was her freaking day off, and she was awake and in pain before the sun was up. She tried to turn her neck from side to side to stretch it, but her shoulders wouldn’t give. She now had aspirin but no heating pad or ice packs.
She tried to swing out of bed without hurting herself. She pulled on a button-up shirt without putting on a bra, afraid that trying to hook the contraption might strain something. She tried to put on a pair of jeans but couldn’t bend over. She decided to wear the sweatpants—aka pajamas—that she had on. She then slipped on her tennis shoes without tying them.
She drove to Walgreens, the only twenty-four-hour store in Santa Fe, and cruised the aisles looking for pain-relief stuff. She was loading up with ice packs and Epsom salts when she noticed a toothbrush sitting in the vitamin rack.
She sighed and walked past the toothbrush, her aching back giving her an excuse to ignore her obsession for a day. But a second later she was back, picking up the toothbrush and detouring to the soap, shaving cream, and toothpaste aisle. The toothbrush deserved to go home. She walked up and down the aisle, staring at the shelves. Why weren’t the toothbrushes in this aisle? She walked the aisle again. Toothbrushes had to be in this aisle—it defied all shelf-stocking logic that they weren’t. Toothbrushes go next to toothpaste. Everyone knows that.
She looked for ten minutes more before finally giving up. She was too sore to keep up the search. She decided to buy the toothbrush—she couldn’t bring herself to throw it on any old shelf, and it was about time she got a new one anyway.
She was in the checkout line when she glanced over at a rack next to the register. Next to the batteries, in the impulse-buy area, was a display of toothbrushes.
When had the purchase of a toothbrush become an impulse buy? Who says as they stand in line with Pepsi and Doritos, “Gee, it’s been months since I brushed my teeth. Maybe I should get one.” Lucy slipped the toothbrush onto the rack, making sure that no one was looking. But there was no one else in the store.
She was back at home, toweling off from an Epsom salts bath, when the phone rang. It was Major Garcia.
“When we interviewed Mrs. Schoen the other day, she said that Mrs. Burke used to keep a log of the scanner calls she heard,” Garcia began. “The original inventory from the house didn’t show any log, so we searched it again, but no luck.” He was chewing on something and getting harder to understand. He swallowed and said, “I don’t suppose you saw a log near the scanner when you were first there? It was just an ordinary notebook.”
Lucy thought. She had been intent on Mrs. Burke’s body. She had no idea if there’d been a notebook nearby. She said so to Garcia.
“All right. The son is sending up a videotape of his daughter’s birthday. Mrs. Burke’s voice is on there. We should have that today or tomorrow at the latest. I’ll call you when I get it so you can ID her voice. And another thing—at this point I’m going to involve the police investigating Melissa Baca’s murder, just to let them know that our two investigations might be connected. It seems suspicious that the only thing stolen was a notebook.”
He hung up before Lucy could say anything more. She stood naked in her bathroom. In a quick few sentences, Garcia had given her what she had been desperate for. Validation. With a capital V. Another human being actually believed she wasn’t crazy. But Garcia’s words didn’t affect her as she had expected. She’d thought she would feel happy. But instead, there was only cool determination.
Gil rubbed his eyes as he sat at his desk. He’d had only a few hours’ sleep since leaving Mrs. Baca’s last night. He had watched her house until he was hunched over from lack of sleep and then had driven home.
He had called his mother an hour ago but there had been no answer. She must still be at church, he thought.
Now, he was checking old reports to see if Melissa Baca had ever filed a complaint against the boyfriend who had slapped her, which, according to Judy Maes, had happened three years ago. He already knew that there was nothing. The first thing he had done after Melissa’s death was to check her record. She had never been arrested or filed a restraining order against anyone. There wasn’t even a parking ticket. Now, he was rechecking.
He also was looking at statutory-rape offenders to see if any of the men might have come in contact with Sandra Paine—someone like a teacher or a friend of her father.
At least those were the reasons he had given the officers who had asked why he was in the office just after sunrise.
He checked his watch again—seven A.M. He still had an hour until the morning shift came in. He was really checking the arrest records of Officers Ron Baca and Manny Cordova, something he couldn’t do in a room full of officers. He had spent the first hour just trying to get organized. He had looked over Ron Baca’s reports but found nothing unusual.
He was just getting started on checking Manny Cordova’s reports when someone called his name. He quickly blanked out the computer screen before looking up.
Officer Joe Phillips tossed a Capital Tribune onto Gil’s desk.
“I thought you might be interested in that story,” Phillips said, pointing to an article.
Gil started to read it. As he’d expected, it was about the toxicology results on Melissa Baca. When he got to the fifth paragraph, he realized why Phillips was showing him the paper: “According to an agenda released by the Citizens’ Police Advisory Review Committee, Melissa Baca was scheduled to go in front of the committee on Monday.” The story didn’t say why Melissa had been going to the meeting.
Gil thanked Phillips and went in search of Mrs. Sanchez, the police-station receptionist who compiled the agenda for the police advisory committee.
He found her making copies, the Xerox machine humming loudly. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun and she had on her usual brown skirt and blouse. On weekends she was part of the Motor Maids, a national group of women motorcycle riders. Last year, Mrs. Sanchez had ridden to Palm Coast, Florida, on her Honda Gold Wing for the Motor Maids national convention. Gil had a hard time thinking of Mrs. Sanchez as a leather-clad biker. He suspected that was on purpose. Gil wondered if she played the part of the grandmother at work so that her biker hobby would come as more of a shock. Her voice always had a strange pitch to it, as if she was quietly laughing at everyone.
“Detective Montoya,” she said, greeting him. The copies were flying quickly off the machine and into the holding tray.
“Mrs. Sanchez, did you put together the agenda for next week’s Citizens’ Police Advisory Review Committee?” he asked.
“Was there a typo?”
“No. I had a question about one of the items. Number five on the agenda.”
“Yes. The young woman who wanted to complain to the committee about a police officer.” Gil wondered how Mrs. Sanchez had remembered that without looking it up.
“Can you tell me about it?”
Mrs. Sanchez stopped the copy machine and looked at Gil over the rims of her glasses. “The young woman, a Miss Baca, I believe …” She stopped, considering for a second before saying, “Ahh, yes. Now I see where you’re going with this. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. But Baca is such a common last name in Santa Fe. I assume my Miss Baca is the same Miss Baca who died this week? Interesting.”
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