The day was ending and Claire’s adrenaline was running out. She’d delivered and heard enough bad news for one day. “I need to get back to Albuquerque,” she said, handing him her card. “Could I have your number? The APD is investigating and they may want to get in touch with you.”
“Sure.” She handed him a pen and he wrote down his number on the back of one of her cards. He handed her the scrunched-up picture. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s all right. I have other copies. Would you like me to send you one?”
“No. I don’t want to be reminded.”
They said good-bye. Claire got in her truck and drove back across the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge.
Chapter Eighteen
SHE PASSED THROUGH THE VILLAGE OF TAOS, down the fast food strip that could have been anywhere USA, and across the mesa. The road snaked down to the level of the river. The sun hadn’t quite set yet, but the canyon was already in deep shadow. There were narrow places where she passed through roadside villages. Even narrower places where there was nothing but the river on one side of her and a slippery slope on the other. Boulders broke free from their moorings here and rolled down the talus slope, picking up rocks as they fell and occasionally crashing into vehicles. Claire remembered Bill’s hands crushing the picture of the dancing girls. He didn’t want to be reminded by this picture, yet he remained in Taos where he would always be reminded, as long as Damon was in town. Bill Hartley was smaller than Damon but he appeared quicker and more athletic. Bill was not getting a paunch. He seemed capable of winning a physical contest if it came to that, but he hadn’t taken that path. He’d internalized his anger and it was consuming him.
Claire thought his anger might be considered excessive, but she didn’t know his daughter. A sixteen-year-old girl could be very experienced these days or she might not. Apparently the law didn’t do much to protect sixteen-year-olds from consensual encounters, but it did protect girls who were twelve. Another father who had cause for lawful anger was Edward Girard. Claire would have to tell him what she had learned in Taos. She wished she could do it in person to see his reaction. Why had he told her he’d read that Veronica jumped off the bridge? Was that detail a lie, was it artistic license, or had he gotten the facts confused over the years? Claire knew now that Damon Fitzgerald had lied about June and was likely to do it again if he thought he could get away with it. It was also possible that Bill Hartley had been lying. It would be easy enough to find the newspaper article and get the facts about where Veronica had died. Easy, too, to call the Taos County DA and get the facts about June and Damon Fitzgerald.
Claire thought about men, lies, and anger as she drove through the narrow part of the canyon. The fact that she and June were both twelve when they were abused was one more link. Her thoughts took a switchback turn to her own unanswerable questions. What would her father have done if she’d told him about George Hogan? He would have been hurt and angry, but she doubted he would have physically attacked George; he was too civilized. If there was a bear inside her father, Claire had never seen it. The anger would have churned around inside him the way it was inside Bill Hartley. Her family had some legal recourse, which might have brought some resolution. Bill Hartley did not. He had to rely on others to file a complaint, and now there was one less girl to come forward.
It was tragic if his anger had been the straw that broke Maia/June’s fragile back. If Bill Hartley’s story was true, she’d had sex with her mother’s lover and sometime after the news came out her mother was found dead in the Rio Grande Gorge. What kind of a burden was that for a girl to carry around? If heroin was available, it would have been all too easy to take it to ease the pain.
Claire’s instinct was to believe Bill Hartley’s story. His pain seemed too raw and real to be manufactured. There was one benefit that might have come from Damon’s remaining in Taos. In a sense the tension between him and Bill had produced a stalemate. It was doubtful Damon would try to have sex with another young girl in Taos with the DA and Bill Hartley watching. But there was nothing to stop him from leaving Taos and doing it again. Sexual offenders were repeat offenders.
Darkness entered the gorge and Claire turned on her headlights. There had been no trial for George Hogan, no confrontation, no expressed anger, no punishment, which gave Claire her own backpack loaded with guilt to lug around. Her actions had protected her and her father but had left George Hogan free to molest again. Like the boulders that tumbled over the top of the gorge, picking up momentum as they fell, sexual abuse had repercussions until everybody in its path was flattened or dead. Claire, who would always regret she’d done nothing to stop George, thought of ways to prevent Damon from abusing again.
******
By the time she got home she was completely out of adrenaline. Ignoring the pleas of her cat, she fell into bed, slept through the night, and didn’t wake up till eight thirty in the morning. Claire was going to be late for work, but that wasn’t the first thing on her mind. She made a cup of coffee, sat down at her dining room table, and called Allana Bruno in Taos. First she spoke to the DA’s assistant, explained who she was, and said that she had information about June Reid. Claire waited until the DA herself came to the phone before she would reveal what the information was.
Allana Bruno’s manner was crisp and businesslike until Claire said that she believed the woman found dead in the library storage room was June Reid.
“Well, that’s terrible news,” Allana said, revealing a soft center beneath her crusty surface. “Terrible for June, terrible for me, terrible for everyone else. Can you tell me how and when she died?”
“It happened on Memorial Day weekend. The APD believes she died of a drug overdose.” Claire told Allana how to get in touch with Detective Owen.
“Are you positive the woman who died is June?”
“I met Edward Girard, who believes he is June’s father, in Colorado. He told me June had lived in the Cave Commune. I showed a painting of the woman who died to a woman named Maureen there. Later I met Bill Hartley. She and Bill both identified the woman in the painting as June Reid.”
“Was the woman you talked to Maureen Prescott?”
“I didn’t get her last name.”
“Young, streetwise woman with a baby?”
“That’s her.”
“Did you tell Bill that June was dead?”
“Yes.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He was tense and angry. He said he had spoken to her about contacting you. He told me that Damon Fitzgerald had sex with June, with Bill’s daughter, and with other young girls in Taos and at the commune. That June’s mother apparently killed herself by jumping into the Rio Grande Gorge from Buffalo Point. Is that true?”
“Veronica Reid’s body was found on the riverbank below Buffalo Point,” was all that Allana was willing to admit. “I have information that Damon Fitzgerald had sex with underage girls, but I can’t prosecute unless one of the younger ones is willing to come forward and testify. In northern New Mexico having sex with a willing sixteen-year-old is not a prosecutable crime. I was hoping June would testify. Since she was only twelve when the act took place, that makes it a first-degree felony and there is no statute of limitations for first-degree felonies. June made an appointment to see me. She didn’t show up. Now I know why.”
“Is Sophie Roybal a possibility?”
Allana’s voice turned guarded again. “How do you know about Sophie?”
“She’s in the painting and was identified, too.”
“I’d like to have a copy of that painting.”
“I’ll fax you one.”
“Things could change, but at the moment I would have to say that Sophie Roybal is not a possibility. I’ll get in touch with Detective Owen.”
Claire had the sense that the clock was ticking for Allana Bruno. Time would not be money as it was for a lawyer in private practice but it was still valuable.
“Thank you for calling,” Allana said. “I appr
eciate your help.”
Claire finished her coffee, picked up the phone, took it into the living room, and sat down on the sofa. Now that Damon’s abuse of Edward Girard’s daughter had been confirmed, she had to tell Edward. This was a far more difficult call to make. She stared out the window and watched cloud shadows climb the Sandia Mountains before she dialed the number.
“Spiral Rocks,” a woman answered. “This is Jennifer Rule.”
Claire gave her name and said, “I met you on Sunday.” Was it possible that was only yesterday? she asked herself. So much had happened since yesterday morning.
“I met a lot of people over the weekend,” Jennifer replied. “Could you refresh my memory?”
“I was talking to Edward in the kitchen in the morning.”
“Oh. You’re the woman from Albuquerque who brought the painting of the girls. Right?”
“Right.”
“Edward’s working. He hates to be interrupted. Is there something I could help you with?” Jennifer was acting like the guardian at Edward’s gate whose role was to keep the intruders away when he wanted to work.
“It’s about his daughter,” Claire said. “Tell Edward I have information about his daughter.”
“I can pass it on,” Jennifer said.
Claire was determined to get her information to Edward himself. “I need to talk to him,” she insisted.
Jennifer gave in, sighed, and said, “One moment.”
Many shadows climbed the mountain before Edward picked up the phone and said “Yes?” with a this-better-be-worth-the-interruption tone.
Claire told him all she had learned on her visit to Taos.
“You’re telling me that Damon Fitzgerald screwed my lover, then my daughter?” was his response.
“Apparently.” Was it the ultimate insult from one man to another to sleep with his mate or to abuse his daughter? Claire wondered. In this case Damon had done both. On the other hand Edward had done little to protect them.
“That bastard is still living in Taos?” he asked.
“He left the commune and is living in town with a woman named Sharon Miller.”
Edward’s laugh was a short, rough bark. “I suppose he thinks he resembles Frank Lloyd Wright in more ways than one. Wright also thought he could screw anybody he wanted to. How old was my daughter when this happened?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve years old. Christ! She was just a child.”
“She was young enough for it to be a first-degree felony. Apparently there were other young girls, too. I found some who were also represented in the painting. Allana Bruno, the DA in Taos, wants to prosecute, but she needs a young victim to get a conviction.”
“Can you imagine the attention prosecuting Damon would get? It probably wouldn’t hurt him—scandal never hurt Frank Lloyd Wright, either—but it would be a nightmare for the girls and for their parents. I suppose that’s why Veronica jumped off the bridge.”
“Are you sure she jumped off the …. bridge?”
“That’s what it said in the article I got. If someone was trying to warn me about Damon when they sent me that, the warning was too subtle. I didn’t get it.”
“The information I got was that Veronica wasn’t near the bridge, that her body was found south of there below Buffalo Point.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a newspaper got something wrong, would it? There’s going to be an article in the Denver Post next weekend about the Maximum Moon celebration. They’ll probably get something wrong, too.”
Claire had decided it would be easier to find the Taos article herself than to wait for it to come from Edward. She continued her account. “Prodded by Bill Hartley, the father of another girl involved with Damon, June made an appointment to talk to Allana Bruno, but she died before she could keep it.”
“No one likes to think his child could end up a heroin addict, even when the mother could never stay away from drugs, but I can understand why June might prefer heroin to standing up in court and saying she had sex with her mother’s lover. How could her mother have been so stupid as to let that happen?”
The corollary to that question was how could her father have been so distant as not to know it was happening? But Claire kept that thought to herself.
“Tell your police detective that I’ll do the DNA test,” Edward said. “If it proves June is my daughter, I’d like to bring her back here and give her a proper burial, at least.”
“I’ll pass that on,” Claire said. “Damon Fitzgerald told me Veronica stayed in touch with you and sent you pictures of June.”
“Damon Fitzgerald is a liar. You can’t believe anything he says.”
“He also said June told him she contacted you after Veronica died.”
“Maybe she’s the one who sent me the article. If so, she didn’t identify herself. Anything else? I need to get back to work.”
The rocks and the sky were waiting, Claire thought. “That’s all,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
WHEN SHE GOT TO THE CENTER, Claire called Detective Owen but she wasn’t in. She left a message, then walked down the hall to see Celia, who was wearing an embroidered Guatemalan huipil today. It would have made Claire feel like a macaw, but it looked great on Celia.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” Claire said.
Celia took this, as Claire knew she would, as a signal there was something that needed to be discussed outside the office. “All right,” she said. “Where?”
“Book Ends.”
They walked out to the cart near the main entrance, bought some coffee, and sat down at one of the tiny wrought iron tables.
“How was Spiral Rocks?” Celia asked, stirring sugar into her coffee.
“Amazing,” Claire said. “The Maximum Moon came up right between the rocks just like it was supposed to. Edward Girard acted like he was conducting a performance.”
Celia laughed. “The full moon rising between two penis rocks. Imagine the significance of that! What was Edward like?”
“Remote. Devoted to his work, which is magnificent. He’s building an observatory that will last through the ages. He believes that Maia is his daughter.”
Celia stopped stirring her coffee and put down her spoon. “Oh, my God. Edward Girard’s daughter. Well, that explains why she had the illustration.”
“Edward says he hasn’t seen her since she was an infant. The mother, Veronica Reid, took her to Taos to live in the Cave Commune. She and Damon Fitzgerald were lovers. Maia’s real name is June Reid.”
“The mother likes artistic types, doesn’t she?”
“Do you know Damon Fitzgerald?”
“Only by reputation, which is that he is very impressed with himself.”
Claire put her coffee cup down on the table. “Did you know that he molested underage girls? One of them was Maia.”
“That pig. He slept with both the mother and the daughter? No wonder Maia OD’d on heroin. That’s a hell of a thing to do to your mother.”
“Veronica may have killed herself, too.” Claire told Celia about her encounter with Bill Hartley at the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge.
“Whoever would have thought that all that stuff was going on in Taos? It’s such a beautiful place.”
“It has been kept under wraps until a young enough girl could be found to testify. If it ever came to trial there would be plenty of publicity, which makes it even more difficult for the victims to come forward. Bill Hartley told me he met with Maia in Albuquerque and she agreed to tell the DA her story, but then she died in the storage room. He’s very angry.”
“You can’t blame a father for being angry, can you?”
“No, you can’t, but his daughter was sixteen at the time. Sex with a willing sixteen-year-old isn’t considered much of a crime.” Retelling Bill Hartley’s story had created an opening, a crack in the door of Claire’s past, a chance to tell her own story. The wrought iron table was too public a place, but it was the place Claire had chosen for
this conversation. “I have to get back to work,” she said, finishing her coffee.
“Before you go, I’m curious about one thing,” Celia responded. “From what you told me it sounds like Edward Girard put his work before the people in his life. Is the work worth it?”
Claire might live to be a hundred and never be able to answer that question. “The deaths are horrible. The work is magnificent. That’s all I can say.”
******
While she waited for the detective to return her call, Claire worried that Owen would think she’d intruded on the APD’s turf. Her previous attitude had been territorial. She’d made it clear she considered damaged books to be Claire’ s only legitimate involvement. But Maia’s death was the only death Claire had to think about. She cared more than the APD did. Detective Owen ought to be pleased, at least, that she’d identified the victim.
Owen surprised Claire by showing up at her office without bothering to announce her presence at the information desk. Claire was engrossed in a computer search when she looked up and saw the detective standing in the doorway. Her hair seemed to be pulled up even tighter than usual, exaggerating the slant of her feral eyes.
“Am I interrupting you?” Owen asked. “I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“No,” Claire replied, thinking Owen might have been deliberately trying to catch her off guard.
“Mind if I sit?” Owen sat without waiting for a reply. “I’ve had calls from Edward Girard and Allana Bruno, and she referred me to Bill Hartley. You were busy. Now I’ve been busy.”
Claire couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was annoyed or amused or grateful that Claire had gotten involved. “I went to the celebration at Spiral Rocks, trying to learn more about the place. I showed Edward a photocopy of the painting and told him what I knew about Maia. One thing led to another,” she said. “I called you as soon as I got back.”
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