Dark Angel (Lassiter/Martinez Case Files #2)

by Joseph Badal

  The radio in True’s cruiser squawked and a message came over his shoulder mic. “Base to Unit 12, that vehicle you called in was reported in connection with a 10-28 and a 10-75. A Richard Katz reported his wife missing when she didn’t return to her Albuquerque home after a business trip to Las Cruces. She last called him from Socorro where she stopped for gas yesterday morning. Is the woman in the vehicle?”

  “No sign of her.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The Southwest Airlines flight from Phoenix landed at the Albuquerque Sunport just after 3 p.m. Barbara and Susan retrieved their Crown Victoria from long-term parking and drove to their downtown office. On the elevator up to their floor, Susan said, “If we’re lucky, Lieutenant Salas won’t be in today.”

  “Uh huh,” Barbara said. “Don’t count on it.”

  As the elevator door opened, they came face-to-face with Salas.

  “Well, well, look who’s back.” He waggled a finger at them. “I was on my way to drop something off for the sheriff, but I can’t wait to hear what you have to report from your gallivanting in Nevada and Arizona.”

  Salas turned around and marched toward his office.

  Susan shot Barbara a tight-lipped, wide-eyed look.

  Barbara nodded.

  Salas sat behind his desk but didn’t invite Barbara and Susan to sit. He looked over his reading glasses at each of them, in turn. “So-o-o?”

  “You want the good news or the bad news?” Susan said.

  Salas removed his glasses, lowered his head, and ran his hands through what was left of his hair. When he looked back up, Barbara thought he looked grim.

  “It’s that smart-ass attitude of yours, Martinez, which will prevent you from ever getting promoted again.” He turned to Barbara. “You got ten seconds to tell me if anything productive came from your trip.”

  “No, Lieutenant, nothing productive that we can take to court. We’re convinced that the people we met with paid a vigilante to take revenge for violent crimes committed against family members. But we can’t prove it.”

  “So, you wasted time and money?”

  Barbara shrugged. She could sense heat emanate from Susan and sent a silent prayer that her partner would control her emotions and her mouth until they were out of Salas’s office.

  “You got anything to add, Martinez?”

  “Not a damned thing . . . Lieutenant.”

  “I want a written report on my desk before you leave tonight. Now get out of here.”

  Barbara spun around and took a step toward the door. But Susan didn’t move. Barbara grabbed the sleeve of Susan’s jacket and jerked her out of the office. They had barely cleared the door when Salas shouted, “Get back in here.”

  “What now?” Barbara said under her breath.

  When they were back in front of Salas’s desk, the lieutenant held out a file. “This came in a few minutes ago. I planned to assign it to another team, but since you’ve been vacationing for the last two days, you might as well do some work. Missing person. Heather Katz. Wife of Richard Katz.”

  “The symphony conductor?” Barbara asked.

  “That’s the one. Her car was involved in an accident up in San Juan County, just outside Bloomfield.”

  “Is she okay?” Barbara asked.

  “She wasn’t in the vehicle. The last her husband heard from her she was getting gas in Socorro, on her way back to Albuquerque from Las Cruces.”

  “And the car was found in San Juan County? That can’t be good.”

  “Nope.”

  “You want us to do the report on our trip first?” Susan asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

  Salas smiled at her. “Oh, no, Detective Martinez. I want you to look into Mrs. Katz’s disappearance. Then you can do the report.”

  Susan looked at her watch.

  “Yeah, it’ll be a damn late night for both of you.” He smiled again. “Have fun, ladies.”

  The Katzs lived in the Four Hills neighborhood, nestled against the foothills of the mountains on Albuquerque’s southeast boundary. The area had once been one of the premier residential areas in the city, but had become a bit tired over the years. It was now experiencing revitalization. The Katz home sat in the middle of a block, atop a rise that offered a view all the way to the west side of the city.

  Richard Katz answered the door to Barbara’s knock. She was immediately struck by his haggard look—his face seemed to droop.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” she said after she and Susan introduced themselves.

  “Of course; please come in. Let’s go into the studio.”

  Katz led them through a living room and dining room and stopped in the kitchen. He introduced Barbara and Susan to his twin sons, who were doing homework. Then they all passed through the kitchen to a room that appeared to be a recent add-on to the back of the house. One wall was all windows. A grand piano took up a good part of the space.

  Katz closed the door between the studio and the kitchen and pointed at four chairs around a small table.

  “How old are your boys?” Barbara asked.

  “Eight. Next week.”

  “Do they know about their mother?”

  “No. I’m hoping for the best. No point in upsetting them over maybe nothing. I kept them out of school today.” He shrugged and looked from Barbara to Susan. “You know how kids talk.” He swallowed and added, “Have you heard anything?”

  “That’s why we came out, Mr. Katz. Your wife’s SUV was found near Bloomfield.”

  “Bloomfield? That’s way up by Farmington. How’s that possible?”

  “It was involved in an accident.”

  “Was Heather—?”

  “Your wife wasn’t in the vehicle. The driver was badly injured and is still unconscious. We hope he regains consciousness and can tell us something.”

  Katz’s features seemed to sag even more. He closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead, and breathed a long sigh that seemed to carry with it the worries of the world. “I don’t understand. She attended a legal conference in Las Cruces and called me yesterday morning from Socorro when she stopped for gas. How could—?”

  He apparently came up with an answer to his own question. “She could have been carjacked there, or somewhere else between Socorro and Albuquerque.”

  Barbara asked, “Did she plan to stop anywhere else?”

  “No. She told me she would drive all the way through after she gassed up.”

  Barbara glanced at Susan and received a sympathetic look back. There were tough questions that had to be asked.

  “Mr. Katz, I apologize in advance, but we need to exclude things in order to focus our investigation.”

  Katz nodded.

  “How’s your relationship with your wife?”

  A slip of a smile played on his lips, but quickly disappeared. “This will sound trite, but we’re as much in love today as the day we married.”

  “No other . . . relationships?”

  Katz’s face showed confusion for an instant, then his mouth made an “O.” He shook his head. “You’re asking if Heather or I have had affairs with other people. Absolutely not.”

  “Can you think of any enemies that you or your wife might have?” Susan asked.

  “Heather is a defense attorney. She has probably angered half the cops in New Mexico over the last eight years, since we moved here.”

  “Are you suggesting—?”

  “No, no. I have too much respect for the police to think they could be responsible for my wife’s disappearance.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “No. I just can’t imagine anyone would want to harm Heather. She’s the kindest person you would ever . . . want to . . . meet.” His voice broke and tears flooded his eyes.

  “One more question, sir,” Barbara said. “Would your wife have used a credit card to buy gas? If so, which one?”

  “She always uses her American Express card for business travel.”

  “If you have access to the card number and are a s
ignatory on her account, there’s something you could do.”

  “Anything,” he said as he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Go online and check the latest charges put on the card. Or call American Express.”

  Katz leaped from his chair. He looked energized to have something to do that might help. “Wait here, please,” he said, and fast-walked to the door. He disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with several sheets of paper.

  “This is her most recent statement. I can call the customer service number. I’m on her account.”

  “Please,” Susan said.

  Katz settled back into the chair and picked up a cordless receiver from a telephone console. He dialed a number, then hit the speaker button, and placed the receiver on the table between him and Barbara and Susan. Within two minutes, he had discovered the date and time of the last charge on Heather Katz’s card, and the name, address, and telephone number of the gas station in Socorro. Susan wrote down the information in her notebook as Katz recited it.

  CHAPTER 35

  In the Crown Victoria, on the way back to their office, Susan called the number in Socorro and asked to speak with the gas station manager.

  “Herb’s not available right now. Can I take a message?”

  “When will Herb be available?”

  “After he finishes his dinner. He’s on break.”

  Susan opened her mouth and took in a long, slow breath. She saw Barbara’s questioning look and held up a finger to hold her off. She said to the woman on the other end of the line, “My name is Susan Martinez. I am a detective with the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Office. I need to speak with Herb right now.”

  “I’m not supposed to bother Herb when he’s on break.”

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Mary Beth.”

  “Okay, Mary Beth, let’s do it this way. If you don’t put Herb on the phone in exactly five seconds, I’m going to call my cousin with the Socorro Police Department and ask him to arrest you for interfering with an investigation, obstruction of justice, and aiding and abetting a violent crime.”

  Barbara’s eyebrows rose. She whispered, “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

  Susan smiled back at her when a man came on the line. “This is Herb Watson. How may I help you?”

  “Mr. Watson, this is Detective Susan Martinez with the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Office. We are conducting a missing person’s investigation. We have information that a missing woman fueled up yesterday morning at your station.” Susan crossed her fingers and closed her eyes as she then asked, “Do you have a video camera at your location?”

  “Yes, we do. Both inside and outside our building.”

  “If I gave you the time that the missing woman used her charge card at your station, would you be able to provide me with a copy of the video from your cameras for, say, fifteen minutes on either side of that time?”

  “Absolutely. I would be happy to help.”

  “Bless you, Mr. Watson. Please do me a favor and do not erase or tape over the contents of that tape. We may need it as evidence down the road.”

  Susan gave Watson her email address and thanked him.

  “One question, Detective. What did you say to Mary Beth? She looks scared to death.”

  “Gee, I can’t imagine, Mr. Watson.”

  Back at BCSD headquarters, Barbara and Susan pulled up the video from Socorro on Barbara’s computer and cycled through it.

  “Stop,” Susan said, ten minutes into their viewing. “I think I saw something.”

  Barbara paused the video and backed it up to the point where an Infiniti SUV pulled up to a pump and stopped. The camera’s orientation was from an elevated position that may have been on a pole. The near-left side of the picture showed the corner of a building.

  “Must be the convenience store or restaurant at the station,” Barbara suggested. She ran a finger across the screen. “There are two gas pump islands on the far side of the property, and two between there and the building. What looks like the Katz vehicle is at the near-right pump.”

  Barbara played the video again, but this time in slow motion. A woman slid down to the ground from the SUV’s driver’s side and turned her back to the camera.

  “Probably putting her credit card in the machine,” Susan said.

  “Yep. Look at the time on the bottom of the video. It’s nearly identical to the time the card was used, according to the card company.”

  They watched Heather Katz turn and put the fuel nozzle into the gas port and then climb back into her vehicle. She leaned forward in her seat and appeared to be touching up her make-up.

  “What was the time of her call to her husband?” Barbara asked.

  Susan consulted her notebook and said, “9:10, according to Richard Katz’s cell phone. He said she called him as she exited the interstate.”

  Barbara tapped the screen. “That’s about right.”

  Almost four minutes passed before Heather Katz again slid down off the driver’s seat to replace the gas hose.

  “Sonofa—” Susan blurted as a man suddenly showed on the video, circled the back of the SUV, and moved up against Katz. The SUV blocked most of the view of the woman and the man, but there was just enough of a shot through the vehicle’s windows to see that the woman seemed unsettled.

  They continued to watch as she climbed back into the Infiniti and crawled over the center console into the passenger seat. The man shrugged out of a backpack, opened the left side back door, and tossed the pack onto the seat. For a flash of an instant, Barbara thought she saw something in the man’s hand before he stepped up behind the wheel and drove out of camera coverage.

  “Play it again,” Susan said.

  After the fourth time through the video, Barbara was as frustrated as she’d ever been. “Nothing,” she said. “Other than the man’s back, we got nothing.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Alberto Baca was going stir crazy. Since the last snow storm that had hit Cuba, New Mexico, the temperature had stayed around twenty-eight degrees. The snow hadn’t melted; there was still about a foot of accumulation packed on top of ice. He’d hoped to have framed in the cabin he was constructing on the north side of Cuba, but all he’d accomplished so far was to put in the footings.

  “You’re drivin’ me crazy, hijo,” Consuela Baca said. “What with all your marchin’ around mi casa like an hombre loco.”

  “Mama, es la nieve. The damned snow won’t let me get to work on Juan Padilla’s new cabin. If I don’t get it done soon, he’ll fire mi culo.”

  Mrs. Baca shook a wooden spoon at her son. “You watch your language, boy. You’re not too big for me to knock you on your cabeza.”

  “Lo siento, Mama.”

  She moved to her son and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Why don’t you go up to the job site and check things out? That will give you something to do.”

  Although he didn’t see much point in going up to Juan Padilla’s cabin site, what with the weather and all, Alberto Baca figured he’d give his mother a break. He piled into his pickup truck and drove down out of the foothills on the east side of Cuba to the road that ran through town. He turned right and drove north toward the edge of town. Halfway through town, he saw his old high school classmate, Tomas Bustamante, parked in a vacant lot in his Cuba Police Department cruiser on the lookout for speeders. Travelers through Cuba who were headed for Albuquerque or the Four Corners area and who ignored the town’s speed limit were a major income source for Cuba. He honked and waved at Bustamante, who gave him a thumbs up.

  The ride to the job site took less than ten minutes. As he turned off Regina Road onto the driveway he’d plowed onto the site, he noticed fresh vehicle tracks in the snow.

  “Sonofabitch,” he cursed. “Some pendejo’s been screwing around up here.” The good news, he told himself, was that there were no tools or construction materials anyone could steal.

  On flat ground, at the top of the driveway, he ma
rveled, not for the first time, at the splendor of the site that Juan Padilla had picked. It was heavily wooded on the back end and two sides of the land. The cabin site was up against the rear tree line. He drove forward and then smashed his foot down on the brake pedal. The rear end of the truck slewed to the right as he cranked the steering wheel to the left.

  Despite the freezing temperatures, the sun was bright and the glare intensive. Baca wasn’t certain what he’d seen. Maybe a deer. He grabbed a .38 caliber revolver from the glove compartment and jumped out of the truck. He cautiously rounded the front of the vehicle and stopped by the right end of the front bumper. He gulped and knocked himself in the mouth with the pistol when he crossed himself with his right hand.

  “Madre de Dios,” he muttered. “Madre de Dios.”

  CHAPTER 37

  When Race returned to his motel room, he checked his computer. The Mac Book Pro still ran its password cracking software. The dictionary attack against the Holmsby Rare Coin Valuations accounting system had continued during his meeting with Jim Dunhill. But it had yet to come up with a system password. He thought he might be able to facilitate the process by performing tasks he hadn’t had time to do before he left to meet Dunhill. He accessed the appraisal company’s website and clicked on the “PERSONNEL” link. There he found the name of the company’s accounting manager: Clyde Zimmerman. He Googled Zimmerman and found a wealth of information about the man, including a bio on his high school alumni site. There he learned that Zimmerman was married to Anne Zimmerman, had two grown daughters—Louise and Eleanor—a college-bound son Alexander, and a dog named Scamp. Race then went to Facebook and found that Zimmerman, his wife, and their three children each had their own Facebook pages. He wrote down the birthdates that he found there.

  Race paused the cracking software. On the assumption that Zimmerman would have authored the appraisal firm’s accounting system’s password, Race included a series of teasers into the software’s instructions, including several dozen combinations of birthdates, family first names, and Scamp. Within two minutes of making these changes, the software hit the pot of gold with Louise9141962scamp. The password included Zimmerman’s oldest daughter’s name, his youngest daughter’s birth date, and his dog’s name.