At eight o’clock, I fed Otis and then sent out for a large pizza. Meatball and pepperoni, nothing comparable to my starry-eyed dinner with Carmen two nights before.
My first drink of the day came an hour later. Amid sips, I took out my cellphone and dialed Carmen’s number. I wanted to say goodnight.
“It’s Gabe. I’ve got everything set for Saturday.”
“Great. How are you?”
“Bought a new car today, a Land Cruiser, and my stuff arrived from New York.”
“You’re definitely not going back east then?”
“I’ve decided to stay.”
“Wonderful. You know, I had a lovely evening on Tuesday. Let’s go there again when we return from our trip.”
“But your husband—”
“Let me worry about him, okay?”
This made me uncomfortable enough to change the subject. “Any new developments on the case?”
“Yes. I was going to call you tomorrow. Archuleta wants you to ID Millie Singleton as the woman you met at the Ramos murder scene. Her body is in the Cibola County morgue in Grants, so it’s on our way to your land. Are you up for it?”
“Why not?” I said, though I felt queasy at the prospect. “If I don’t see my quota of dead bodies each week, I feel cheated. Hang on a min—”
The deeply shadowed face of a man with a hoodie peered in through my library window. He turned away as soon as I got up from my chair.
“Something the matter? Gabe?”
“Get over here right away.”
“I’m really not dressed. I was working out.”
“There’s a prowler outside.”
“On my way.”
I hurried to my desk, took my .38 out of the center drawer, and made sure it was still loaded. Leaving the outdoor yard lights off, I dashed out the front door to cut off his route to the street. With my .38 in a two-handed grip, I edged around the front corner of my house. Too late.
Two houses down, the ceiling light of a car that faced away from me flicked on. A hooded man opened the passenger door and slid inside. Momentary light inside the vehicle showed another person behind the wheel. They were too far away to see anything more. The door closed and the car sped away. The screech of its tires shattered the quiet of the evening.
“There goes your prowler.” Carmen suddenly appeared next to me. I hadn’t heard her approach. Light from the front window of my house illuminated her sports bra and shorts. She held a Smith & Wesson in her right hand, its dark muzzle pointed at the ground. “We better check your side yard just to be sure. You got any lights near the library window?”
“The closest one is the carport light. The switch to it is inside the back door.” I tucked my gun into my belt.
“Turn it on and meet me by the Cruiser. Bring a flashlight if you have one.”
I dashed through the house, flicked the carport light switch, and grabbed a flashlight from a kitchen drawer before I hurried out the back door. Carmen knelt and examined the ground next to the Cruiser.
“What kind of shoes did you have on when you parked this vehicle today?”
“Sneakers. Why?”
“Hand me that flashlight.” She aimed it at a boot print outside the passenger door. “Timberland, size twelve or thirteen,” she said. “Go get a camera, if you have one, or give me your cellphone.”
I took out my phone, turned on its flash camera, and handed it to her.
Carmen handed me back the flashlight. “Follow me around the vehicle and hold the light over the ground.” She photographed several more prints on all sides of the Cruiser.
“Same pair of boots?” I said.
“Looks like.” Carmen stood. “Now the doors.”
I handed the flashlight back and she examined each door in detail. The light began to flicker.
“Looks like I need to get some batteries. Sorry.”
“No attempted entry, as far as I can tell with this light.”
“I can take a closer look in the morning,” I said.
She handed the phone and flashlight back to me. “I doubt this has anything to do with your previous break-in.”
“Why not?”
“New vehicle. Parked in the open. Attempted auto theft is much more likely.”
“With my house lights on?”
“They were just casing you tonight. You have an alarm system on your house?”
I nodded.
“Maybe you need one for your SUV.”
“I’m going to renovate the barn into a garage for both my vehicles.” I tried not to stare at her skimpy attire. She caught me anyway.
“This is certainly more of me than you’ve ever seen before. Hope you’re not disappointed.”
I gulped. “Coffee?”
“No thanks, it would keep me up. I’m going to bed soon.” She was like a fisherman with an extensive collection of lures. “How many sleeping bags you figure we need this weekend?”
“Huh?”
She burst out laughing; I joined in, just so I didn’t feel left out.
“Relax, Gabe. Call me tomorrow night and we’ll make sure we haven’t forgotten anything. You’re okay here now. E-mail me the pictures of those boot prints. But I won’t call this in unless you want me to.”
“Don’t bother.”
She strolled back to her house. I stood there until her front door closed and the porch light went out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
April 12
My cellphone rang as I stepped out of the shower. It was eight-thirty and the sunshine streaming through the bedroom window promised another great New Mexico spring day.
I checked caller ID and recognized O’Connor’s law firm number. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a great day after all. The guy just rubbed me the wrong way.
“Hello.”
“McKenna, Richard O’Connor here. Have some great news.”
“Define great.” I poured a cup from my programmable coffee maker and sat down.
“Found another buyer interested in your Catron County property.”
“Is that so?” Otis was attempting to destroy his scratching post next to his half-empty food bowl. “I’m going down there tomorrow to look things over.”
“Fine. No, that’s better than fine. You can look around and consider his offer at the same time. And Gabe,” he whispered, like he was about to share the secret of the Great Pyramids with me, “he’s ready to go seven figures on this deal. We’re talking millions here, Professor.”
“I know how much seven figures is. Look, Mr. O’Connor—”
“Richard.”
“This isn’t a matter of money. It’s personal. That land’s been in my family for nearly a century. I don’t want to sell it now. At some later date, if things change, I might consider it. Not right now.”
He either didn’t hear me or chose to ignore me.
“Let’s talk next week. I’ll put him off until you get back.”
“You do that.”
“You enjoying that fancy pen I gave you?”
“Sure am. It’s right there on my desk where you put it. Goodbye.”
Idiot.
I brought my coffee to the bathroom medicine cabinet and used it to wash down a couple of aspirin. In the world of headaches, O’Connor was a carrier.
My mid-day trip to Sportsman’s Warehouse put me in a better mood. I came home with enough camping and sleeping gear, coolers, tools, electronics, binoculars and other accessories, to make my Cruiser a self-sufficient base of operations.
The weather was changing. The sunshine was gone and dark clouds obliterated most of the usual blue sky.
My phone rang as I pulled into the carport. No caller ID.
“McKenna?”
“Speaking.”
“I’ve got your cop girlfriend. If you care about her, be at the gazebo in Old Town Plaza at three o’clock. Go to the police and she dies.”
“Who is this? What do you want?” I turned off the engine and looked over at Carmen’s house.
No car in her driveway. The place was dark.
“If you think I’m kidding, check outside your front door. And McKenna—”
“What?”
“Remember, no cops or she dies.”
The line went dead. His voice had been muffled, but the caller sounded young, maybe in his twenties or thirties. I closed my eyes and tried to remember if I’d heard it before, but drew a blank.
I dialed Carmen’s cellphone number. No answer.
It was now two-twenty. I rushed to my front door and picked up a small package sitting there; no address, no shipping label. I opened it with care. A ring fell to the ground. I picked it up and read its inscription: To Carmen from Dick. All my love. 7-17-2001. Two other objects alarmed me even more: a lock of hair the same color as Carmen’s, and a silver and blue A.P.D. badge with the Great Seal of New Mexico in its center and the number 684 at the bottom. Carmen’s badge.
I ran next door and rang the bell a couple of times. Nothing. I hustled back to my front door and shoved the package inside on the floor. A clap of thunder startled me as I hustled back into the Cruiser.
Calling 411, I asked for the number of Detective Lieutenant Sam Archuleta. I dialed him as rain began to fall.
“Archuleta.”
“Lieutenant, this is Gabriel McKenna.” I tried to sound calm.
“At last we meet.” He hacked a smoker’s cough. “Sorry. Spring allergies. What’s up?”
“Is Officer Carmen Flores there with you? I need to speak to her.”
“Just a minute.” Archuleta called out to someone, but then covered his phone. I couldn’t hear anything until he coughed his way back on the line. “She’s off-duty today. What’s this all about?”
I remembered the caller’s warning. “Nothing. Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant.”
There was a sound like a pit bull vomiting on his end of the line, followed by a click.
It was now two-thirty—barely time enough to get to Old Town by three. I sped south down I-25 from the Paseo del Norte entrance.
Albuquerque’s Old Town, the city’s original area, is a collection of one- and two-story adobe buildings surrounding an old, beautiful Catholic church, and a central plaza. Narrow one-way streets form a grid that extends out several blocks in each direction.
I tried to find a parking spot near the plaza without any luck and had to pull into a vacant space on Romero Street, two blocks north.
In my haste, I’d neglected to bring an umbrella. What had begun as a shower was now a steady downpour. By the time I hustled from my car to the plaza, the rain had soaked through my shirt. I hurried up the five steps onto an old wooden gazebo, an octagonal landmark that had graced this spot for more than a hundred years. The wind sheeted the rain diagonally, as if reaching in beneath the gazebo’s roof to slice my flesh.
Five minutes to three. Tourists had long since taken shelter. Native craftsmen huddled by their jewelry beneath an overhang at La Placita, an adobe building that stretches along the entire east side of the plaza. No one else was around.
I stood alone in cold, wind-blown rain. North of the plaza, the door of San Felipe de Neri Church stood open. It offered shelter from the rain and a clear view of the gazebo. It was the best option I had.
I clambered down the gazebo steps, ran across the street, passed under an adobe arch, and skidded into the church. I shook myself like a wet hound and peered into the dark interior.
Two elderly ladies, their heads covered, knelt in pews on opposite sides of the center aisle. A dim light shone on the crucified Christ to the right of the main altar, while another light to the left of the altar illuminated a statue of San Felipe. He gazed down upon a stand of votive candles.
It felt strange. This was my first time in any church since Holly died.
Church bells tolled three o’clock. At their second ring, I turned toward the gazebo. The structure exploded in a sudden flash of light. Pieces of wood and metal flew in every direction. The concussion from the blast knocked me against the vestibule wall; my head thumped against a holy water font. Circulars and Sunday bulletins flew into the air and rained down upon me. A scream came from somewhere across the plaza. An alarm sounded. The remaining stump of the gazebo burned so fiercely I had to shield my eyes.
I struggled upright and shook my head, hoping to quell the ringing in my ears. Blood dribbled from my nose; I wiped it away with my sleeve. I couldn’t clear my head. I left the church and staggered carelessly toward the blaze. Its heat stopped me in the middle of the street.
A large, black vehicle bore down on me from my left. The driver hit his horn, swerved, and came to a stop about two feet away. I stood still and blinked at him.
“What the fuck do you—Gabe? Is that you?”
I knew this voice. My eyes slowly focused on the driver. “C.J.? What…what are you doing here?”
“Gonna ask you the same thing.”
“Get me out of here…please.”
He leaned over to push open the passenger-side door. “Get in.”
I did. By now, sirens blared from all directions. The gazebo’s flames and crackling sparks swirled higher into the plaza’s treetops. Only the steady rain held back a broader conflagration.
“Just go!” I yelled.
C.J. headed toward Central, as fire trucks and squad cars raced past. As he turned right onto what had once been Route 66, an ambulance passed us headed in the opposite direction.
“Stop!” I grabbed C.J.’s right arm.
“Make up your mind, will you?”
“Wait here. That ambulance could be on its way to pick up Carmen for all I know. Let me borrow your jacket.” I pointed at his gray slicker. “I don’t want anybody to see the blood on my shirt.”
“Carmen? Your cop friend? What’s going on?”
“That’s what I want to find out.” I slipped C.J.’s jacket over my shoulders. “You wouldn’t happen to have a hat?”
“Baseball cap. On the back seat.”
“Thanks.” I opened the back door, grabbed a sweat-stained, blue baseball cap and pulled it low over my eyes. I walked around to C.J.’s window. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, go home without me.”
“But Gabe—”
I didn’t stick around to argue. Twenty paces toward the plaza, I leaned against an old adobe building to catch my breath and steady my legs. Rain continued to pour. A chill ran the length of my body. A shake of my head helped my eyes to focus. I zipped up C.J.’s slicker and tried to ignore the pain in my side; apparently, the blast that knocked me against the church wall had reinjured my ribs.
An ambulance had come to a diagonal stop against the Plaza curb. Its back door stood open; its roof light beat a frightful red pulse that looked like a heart waiting to explode. A driver sat in the cab while an EMT and A.P.D. officer conferred behind the vehicle. Was Carmen inside? I tried to mask my pain, inching toward the vehicle. Stay cool, Gabe. Nice and easy.
I made for a small crowd gathered halfway down the Plaza curb, directly across from the smoldering gazebo. It was just a ruined pile of charred wood now, wet from the rain and fire hoses. Before I reached the crowd, another police car pulled up and a familiar figure emerged. The burly cop waved his arms and ordered those assembled to disburse straightaway. Sergeant Crawford and I had met only once before, but I dared not chance that he’d recognize me. I turned and made my way back to C.J. as fast as I could.
“Was your cop lady there?”
Peeling off his slicker, I tossed his hat into the back seat. “Couldn’t tell. The police moved in. Guy I know named Crawford. I couldn’t risk it.” The pain in my side flared as I settled into the front passenger seat. “Let’s go.”
C.J. drove east on Central. The rain had diminished to light drizzle.
“Tell me something. How in the hell did you show up here just as that bomb exploded?” I tried not to sound accusatory, but I needed an answer.
“Got this phone call half an hour ago. Didn’t recognize the voice,” he said. “Dude tel
ls me to meet you at the gazebo in Old Town at three o’clock sharp. Says if I don’t, he’s gonna kill you. I would’ve reached the plaza sooner, but a delivery truck sideswiped me in my own parking lot. Put a gash in my fender. Made me late. I don’t like to be late.” C.J. leaned toward me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Guess so,” I lied.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. His car swayed as C.J. made a couple of turns and stopped a few times. I opened my eyes, as he pulled off Central and swung into an alley next to the Kimo Theater. We parked in a rear lot and walked back out to the sidewalk. C.J. stopped at a storefront a couple of doors away from the Kimo.
“My home away from home,” he said.
A sign above our heads held real promise—Painkiller’s Pool Hall, Bar & Grill—burned onto a slat of wood that pitched back and forth in the wind. We left the gray mist and walked inside.
Red and blue neon trimmed a full-length mirror that stretched along a dark polished bar. A fair selection of booze was stacked behind the bar, its attraction doubled by its reflection. Six pool tables were all in play, mostly by neighborhood types and a few college students working on their life skills. Half a dozen booths hid in the dim light along a wall to our right. We slid into the only unoccupied booth, back near the bathrooms.
A young Latina waitress with bleached-blonde hair and dark roots came over. She snapped her gum as if keeping time to some song playing in her head.
“You guys look like you’ve had a rough day and it’s only afternoon,” she said, with a smirk. She glanced at my wet clothes and the blood I’d wiped off on my sleeve. The smirk disappeared. “Whoa! Sharknado III outside?”
“What?”
“You know, that movie about the tsunami where sharks fall from the skies? My boyfriend took me to it.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I replied. “Listen, we both need a drink.”
She tapped her order pad with a pencil. “What’ll it be?”
“CoorsLight,” C.J. said.
“Irish whiskey, neat. Make it a double.”
“How about Black Bush? It costs extra, but it’s the best.”
“You’re an angel,” I said.
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