by Joseph Badal
Within another two minutes, Race accessed the appraisal company’s entire accounting records, including its customer list, its accounts receivable ledger for the years 1999 to the present date, and every appraisal it had prepared since 1953.
A review of the accounts receivable ledger showed that every coin collector murdered by the home invasion gang had been a customer of Holmsby Rare Coin Valuations, Inc. Race jotted down the dates of the appraisals the firm had done for those collectors and then compared those dates to the dates of the home invasions. By the time he’d compared the first three appraisal dates against the incident dates, he knew he had discovered the link between the firm and the crimes. He had to concentrate on breathing; he was so stunned that his heart seemed to have stopped and his lungs felt paralyzed. When he’d finished his analysis, he’d discovered that the average period of time between the completion of an appraisal and the murder of the collector for whom the appraisal had been done was sixty-three days. The longest period of time differential was ninety-one days; the shortest was twenty-three.
Then Race had a thought. He went to the appraisals themselves and looked for the names of the company employees who had done the appraisal work. In every instance, the appraiser was shown as: Sylvan Tauber. Race stared at the man’s name on his computer screen and collapsed back into his chair. He remembered Tauber. The man had appraised his collection, too. He was renowned as one of the premier rare coin appraisers in the world. Even four years ago, when he’d appraised Race’s collection, Tauber had been elderly: his hair snowy-white; slightly stooped; gnarled fingers. His blue eyes had an almost milky hue to them, and his right eye had a permanent squint that he’d laughingly told Race was from using a magnifier loupe to examine coins.
Race felt heat rise from inside himself. Tauber had been a genteel man who’d interacted well with Mary, Sara, and Elizabeth. He’d joined them all for dinner the evening he’d finished appraising Race’s collection. If he’d been forced to come up with the name of someone responsible for the deaths of his wife and daughters, Sylvan Tauber would not have come to mind.
Another search of the appraisal firm’s website showed that Tauber was still employed there, but was no longer in the home office in Stamford, Connecticut. He now worked out of the company’s Hermosa Beach, California, satellite location.
Race had never believed in coincidences. Two murder victims who had used Holmsby’s services might have been a coincidence. Thirteen were staggering.
His computer screen showed it was now 8:27 p.m. He hadn’t eaten all day and suddenly felt weak. He found a list of local restaurants on the dresser in his motel room and called a pizza place that offered delivery. After he’d placed an order, Race went back to his computer, but, after twenty minutes, couldn’t concentrate. He turned on the television. A local station broadcast some inane reality show. He was about to change the channel when a “Breaking News” streamer scrolled across the bottom of the screen. After a few seconds, the show segued to a live reporter seated behind a desk in a news room.
“This just in,” the reporter said. “The body of Heather Katz, the wife of the Albuquerque Symphony Orchestra conductor, was discovered near Cuba, New Mexico. Initial reports are that she had been shot at least once. Mrs. Katz’s vehicle was involved in an accident near Bloomfield earlier today, and Channel 9 has just received video captured by a service station security camera in Socorro. We will show that video momentarily. The New Mexico State Police ask that if anyone recognizes the man in the video, please contact your local law enforcement or the state police immediately.”
As depressed and angry as Race felt, the fact that someone had murdered a woman ratcheted his emotions to another level. He watched the screen as the security video came up. His heart ached when he saw the woman seated in her SUV, fixing her make-up. She didn’t seem to be alert to her surroundings. Always a mistake, he thought.
Then Race became even angrier. His pulse beat like a metronome on steroids. A man suddenly appeared on the video and quick-walked—predator-like—around the SUV. He wore a baseball cap, jeans, and a dark-colored insulated jacket.
Race wanted to scream out to the woman, to warn her.
The man looked somehow familiar. The way he was dressed. The way he moved on the balls of his feet. Race moved closer to the TV screen and watched as the station replayed the video. Then the station returned to its regular programming.
Where had he seen this guy before? He tried to dredge up the memory, but it just wouldn’t come. He was too tired to think clearly. Then there was a knock on his door. He parted the curtains and looked out on the pathway in front of the room. A kid stood there with a pizza box in hand. Race opened the door, paid for the delivery, and tipped the kid. He closed the door and dropped the box on the dresser. The smell of the pizza seemed to push everything from his mind. He took a slice, sat at the table, took a large bite, and sighed. About to take another bite, a sudden thought struck. He pulled up the television station’s website and looked for the video they had just shown. Once he brought it up, he focused on the man in the video. He hoped something there would jangle his synapses enough to remember what it was about the man that seemed familiar.
Race accessed the Brownell video on YouTube and compared it against the service station video. He put the two videos up on split-screen and watched the man in each one. There was no question the two men walked similarly, and they dressed alike. But baseball caps, jeans, and short, insulated jackets were ubiquitous in New Mexico. There was something else that Race felt he had missed, but whatever that something else was just didn’t come to mind. Even after looking at the screen dozens of times, there just wasn’t enough there for him to conclude the men in the two videos were one and the same.
CHAPTER 38
“Clarence, I want you to stay at the San Juan Regional Medical Center in Farmington and keep me informed about Begay.”
“Really, Chief?”
Bloomfield Police Chief Randall Cummings said, “Yeah. This is no longer a traffic accident, or even grand theft auto. That wrecked SUV was carjacked in Socorro by a man who apparently murdered the vehicle’s owner and dumped her body near Cuba. We need to question Begay about that.”
“Begay’s a loser, Chief. But he’s smalltime. No way he’d carjack a woman and then kill her. While I’m sitting on my ass at the hospital, the real killer could be putting a lot of distance between us.”
“That might be so, but I want you there if he regains consciousness. You understand?”
“Sonofabitch,” Reese McCall screamed at the television in his motel room. “That damned Indian.” He imagined the heat the cops would bring down in the Farmington area if they learned from Begay that he’d swapped vehicles with him. They’d have his description and a description of the pickup he’d gotten in the trade. The only good news at this point, McCall thought, was that Begay was unconscious in a hospital according to the news.
It was 10:15 p.m. He’d planned to break into the target’s house after midnight, but now wondered if he ought to go in earlier, and then get the hell out of Farmington. Maybe cross into Colorado and haul ass north. But he knew the earlier he went in, the more likely it would be that he might be seen by a neighbor or that the target would be awake.
“Haven’t you seen enough of that video?” Barbara asked.
Susan took her eyes off her computer screen and stretched her neck and shoulders. “There’s something there, Babs, that’s setting off sirens inside my head.”
Barbara stood and walked around her desk to Susan’s. “Like what?”
Susan turned back to the screen and pointed. “Like the guy there seems familiar.”
Barbara looked over Susan’s shoulder. “Looks like half the men in New Mexico. Boots, jeans, ski jacket, and ball cap.”
“Something else.”
“You think you’ve seen him before?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean, in person.”
“Maybe.”
“
How many men do we see on any given day, let alone a week or a month?” Barbara huffed, then added, “Maybe you saw him in a photo.”
“Nah. The guy’s face doesn’t show in the video. It’s the way he moves, or his clothes.” She shrugged. “There’s something familiar about the guy.”
“What about videos?”
Susan shrugged. “Could be.”
“What videos have you looked at recently?”
“I’ll be damned. Maybe that’s it. Besides this video, the only other one I’ve seen lately was the security video from the home invasion in Flagstaff.”
“Pull it up and watch it again.”
Susan shook her head. “That can’t be it. I mean, what are the odds that a guy caught by a camera in Flagstaff would be filmed in Socorro a short time later. It’s probably just my imagination. Are you finished with the report for Salas?”
“Yeah. I’ll email it to you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Barbara went back to her desk, but before she returned to the report for Salas, she said, “Susan, do yourself a favor and watch that Flagstaff video one more time. Otherwise, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking about it.”
Susan waved her arms in exasperation. “You are such a nag.”
She pulled up the Flagstaff video of the Three Ghouls. The camera had captured the three men as they entered the Brownell home. The first man in line obscured the camera’s view of the two other men behind him. There was nothing about that first man that reminded her of the guy in the Socorro video. Besides, that guy was dead.
The camera had stopped after the men entered the Brownell home. Then, about two hours later, when the three men exited the home, it went into action again. The first man out appeared to be the one who had entered the home last. Susan concentrated on him as he walked down the steps to the driveway. She gasped and said, “I’ll be damned.”
Barbara stood and came around behind Susan again. “What is it?”
Susan tapped the computer screen. “Watch the way this guy moves.” Susan booted up the Socorro video. “Now watch the man here.”
“I think you’re right,” Barbara said. “Play them again.”
After they’d looked at both videos again, Barbara said, “There’s something else. Look at his boots. The chains.”
“I’ll be damned,” Susan said. “I’ll be damned to hell.”
Barbara used her cell phone to call Sophia Otero-Hansen’s cell.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Agent Otero-Hansen’s phone,” a man answered.
“Please put Agent Otero-Hansen on,” Barbara said.
“She’s away from her desk. I heard her cell ring as I passed her office.”
“Who am I speaking with?” Barbara asked, wondering if it was FBI custom to answer one another’s cell phones.
“Special Agent Bruce Lucas; who’s calling?”
The man’s voice irritated Barbara. It was shrill and officious at the same time.
“When will Agent Otero-Hansen return?”
“I asked you a question, ma’am. Who’s calling?”
Barbara was about to tell the man she’d call back, when Lucas must have seen her name on Otero-Hansen’s cell phone screen.
“Oh, it’s you, Detective Lassiter. In what wild goose chase do you now want to involve Agent Otero-Hansen?”
Barbara hesitated a moment to decide how she wanted to handle Lucas. She didn’t want to do anything that would cause him to retaliate against Sophia. Finally, she said, “I have some information that I am certain Agent Otero-Hansen would like to have.”
“Is that so?”
Barbara felt her self-control about to break loose. “She has my number; please have her call me.”
“It’ll be a cold day in hell—”
So much for self-control, Barbara thought. “Listen, asshole, I have information about the surviving Three Ghouls killer. If you aren’t interested, I’ll just call a friend in the Denver office. I’m certain she’ll be thrilled to take credit.” She terminated the call.
“What in God’s name did you say to my boss?” Sophia Otero-Hansen asked, sixty seconds later.
“Well, I called him an asshole.”
“Ha. Good for you. What’s this about the Three Ghouls?”
Barbara put her phone on speaker and moved to Susan’s desk. “We’re working the Heather Katz homicide. Susan may have tied the remaining Three Ghouls killer to the murder of Mrs. Katz.” Barbara waved at Susan to continue the story. When she had done so, Otero-Hansen was silent for a long few seconds.
“You still there?” Barbara asked.
“Yeah. Sorry. So what you noticed was the way the guy walked and his clothes?”
“At first,” Susan said. “But then I noticed the chains on the back of the guy’s boots. Same walk, same clothes, and same chains in both videos.”
“Let me look at the two videos and I’ll get back to you.”
CHAPTER 39
Police Officer Clarence True called his chief and tried to maintain professional calm while he waited to be put through. When Cummings came on the line, True’s voice broke. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and started again. “Begay’s conscious. He told me how he got the Infiniti SUV.”
“Are you going to share it with me or do I have to ask?”
“Oh, sorry, Chief. He swapped a stolen pickup for the SUV with a guy in Aztec. He gave me a description of the truck and of the guy he gave it to. I just emailed the descriptions to you.”
“Good job, True. Damned good job.”
Lieutenant Maggie Carter had called an emergency presser at APD headquarters for 10:30 p.m. Such a late press conference was highly unusual, but so was the murder of a prominent Albuquerque citizen that now involved law enforcement in four different counties: Bernalillo, Sandoval, Socorro, and San Juan; and the FBI. At 10 p.m., she took the elevator down to the press room and checked to make certain the lights and the audio/visual system were in working order. She found Betsy Jaramillo, the New Mexico Herald-Tribune’s Crime Desk reporter, seated in the first row, while her cameraman set up his equipment on the floor below the dais.
“Hey, Betsy. What’s up?”
“You tell me, Maggie. They dragged me out of bed and told me it sounded like something important was about to go down.”
“Be patient, Betsy. All things in their right time. By the way, I met Phillip Taylor recently, your new freelance guy. Seems like a nice fellow. But maybe a little overanxious.”
“Who?”
“Phillip Taylor. Said he works for you guys on the crime desk.”
“News to me, Maggie. Never heard of him.”
Carter was confused. She thought about Phillip Taylor as she went back up to her office, but quickly put him out of mind when her boss, the chief of police, came in and asked, “Is everything set?”
Race had a tingling sensation at the top of his spine as he watched the televised late night press conference. He recognized Lieutenant Maggie Carter behind the podium. Next to her was a guy with silver-colored hair, dressed in a bemedaled blue uniform. She introduced the man as the Albuquerque Chief of Police, then stepped aside as the chief spun a story that electrified Race’s nerve endings.
The presentation included video clips of the Brownell home invasion and the carjacking in Socorro. When the chief talked about the murder of Heather Katz and the discovery of her vehicle in San Juan County, in the Four Corners area, Race stood and paced in front of the television set and tried to identify an anomaly that seemed to be present in the presentation.
“We believe the man in this video recently invaded a home in Flagstaff with two other men and murdered the occupants,” the chief continued. “Those two other men were recently found shot to death in Milan. We assume the man in the video killed his associates and hitched a ride from Milan to Socorro, carjacked Mrs. Katz at a service station there, and drove to Cuba, where he murdered her. We know he then drove to Aztec where he traded the SUV for a pickup truc
k. Our assumption is that he is either still in San Juan County, or has left the state and gone into Utah, Colorado, or Arizona. Police checkpoints are being established on all roads that lead into those states from New Mexico.”
Something didn’t seem right to Race. Something was out of place. He was exasperated when he finally determined what it was, because it was so simple, so obvious. Why would the man in the video have gone from Flagstaff to Socorro, hijack Heather Katz, and drive all the way to San Juan County? He’s gone east, then south, then north, and finally northeast. For a moment, Race considered that the man had backtracked to throw off the authorities. But that didn’t seem right. If he wanted to get out of New Mexico, the smart thing for him to have done would have been to continue south from Socorro to Mexico.
Race could come up with only one logical conclusion: the guy had had a change of plans caused by something or someone. “What does the guy do?” Race asked out loud. He answered his own question: “He murders and steals valuable coin collections.” Then he asked, “What does he do with the collections?” Race suspected the coin robberies were performed by the home invader on behalf of someone else. “What if that someone else had called the killer and given him a new assignment? A new target?”
Race pulled up a map of the Farmington area on his laptop and located all the communities in the general area. In addition to Bloomfield, Aztec, and Farmington in New Mexico, he identified other towns like Chinle, Arizona; Silverton, Telluride, Cortez, and Pagosa Springs, Colorado; and Monticello, Utah. He shook his head out of frustration. The territory was huge.
Race groaned and wondered how he might be able to narrow the hunt. He looked at his computer. He had been an IT professional most of his life. Before that he’d been a combat soldier. The Army had trained him to improvise. That’s what he needed to do. And, in that instant, something seemed to go off like a grenade in his head. It was as though scar tissue had blocked an idea from surfacing, but had suddenly been excised. He went back to his hack of the Holmsby Rare Coin Valuations, Inc.’s accounting system and searched the appraisal file in chronological order. He keyed on appraisal firm clients who lived in the Four Corners area and who had appraisals conducted within the last ninety days. There were two. One in Farmington, New Mexico. Another in Monticello, Utah. He wrote down the clients’ names, addresses, and phone numbers. Then he accessed the appraisals prepared for the two clients. He was shocked at the extent of both collections. A collector in Utah had a massive number of rare coins. The total appraised value of the collection was a few dollars short of twenty million dollars. The Farmington, New Mexico collector had an incredible collection of Colonial and Post-Colonial coins. In fact, Race hadn’t known that such a collection even existed. The total appraised value of that collection had been set at thirty-two million dollars.