Escapes Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  “Quinto couldn’t let that happen.”

  “There was scuttlebutt—Quinto had friends in Santa Fe and even bigger friends in Washington. If he could grab the state Senate seat that year, serve a couple of terms and pass some flashy legislation, the powers-that-be would see to it that he had funding for the national race, enough money so no one else would have a prayer of catching up.”

  “So, getting this Rory McNab out of the way was pretty important all around. I bet Quinto was livid when he didn’t actually do the prison time.”

  “Not that I could tell. He accomplished his goal either way—McNab’s reputation and political career were shot the moment the gavel came down with the verdict—guilty.”

  True enough. So, why did Rory go to such lengths to move as far away as he possibly could? He could have followed the appeals process if he thought his lawyer hadn’t adequately defended him, could have used an investigator to dig up the truth from the jurors or some dirt on the judge, unless … There had to be more.

  Mike glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s almost time to get back.” He stood up and drained the rest of his coffee in one long swig. “You coming?”

  “I’ll be along in a minute.” I’d nearly forgotten my plan to watch Blackman in action this morning, so I stopped in the ladies room on the way. I couldn’t very well quiz Mike Farmer during the proceedings, and I really didn’t want him to infer anything if I sat with him. This way, I could take a seat near the back and duck out at my convenience.

  It wasn’t exactly a standing-room-only crowd and I found a place on a back row that gave me a clear view to the judge’s bench. I discovered it didn’t much matter that I’d missed the morning’s statements—quickly enough I realized it was a case of a punk-looking young man accused of drug trafficking, caught bringing a carload that he’d likely obtained in Mexico or somewhere near the border.

  Shades of Damian Baca, all over again. I briefly wondered how many times a day, a week, or a year this scenario played out somewhere in this state. Attempts to curb the problem seemed extremely frustrating, and I could see boredom on the faces of nearly everyone, from the attorneys to the jurors. The only person in the room who didn’t seem bored was the judge. His attention kept meandering toward the court reporter, a pretty woman with long dark hair. She kept her hands on the keys of her stenotype machine, but I occasionally caught a shared glance between them. Interesting.

  Chapter 19

  Witnesses came and went. Apparently the prosecution had presented most of its case during the earlier sessions, essentially the testimony of the officers who had caught the suspect and confiscated the bags of cocaine from his vehicle. The defense, predictably, trotted out the poor, misunderstood lad’s grandmother, his priest, and an older sister whose demeanor said she was tired of little brother being a problem. But she said all the right words. The judge told the prosecutor to wrap up his closing arguments, as the court had something else on the agenda this afternoon. The defense would give its wrap-up Monday morning.

  Beside me, a young woman grumbled. I’d noticed her when I took my seat—college age, neatly dressed in jeans, a button-down white shirt, a trendy blazer, and short-topped boots. From the way she appeared to be studying the proceedings and making notes, I assumed she was a student in law or journalism. At her muttered comment, I turned a questioning glance her way. She flipped her notepad over and wrote across the cardboard backing: He always does that.

  I raised both palms in a hands-up, what? gesture. She mouthed one word—Later.

  Hm, interesting. I started to pay closer attention, trying to figure out what she’d been talking about. When court recessed thirty minutes later, I decided to stick with my new acquaintance and see what she had to say. We walked side by side down the corridor and past the security station.

  “I swear, my professor was right. You really can learn a lot about how a case will go by watching the judge,” she finally said, once we were in an open part of the lobby, clear of most others who’d been in the courtroom.

  “Judge Blackman?” I prompted.

  “He’s one of the easiest to read. That move of having the prosecution close one day and the defense another day—I’ve noticed he always does that when he wants the defendant to get off. The jury will go into deliberations with the case against the guy, in their minds, as yesterday’s news, while all the glowing things the defense attorney says will be fresh in their heads. In a way, it’s the way the system works to favor a defendant anyway—innocent until proven guilty—but Blackman uses it, I mean actually uses it.”

  “But don’t the proceedings just flow according to … I don’t know … how it’s done?”

  “Okay, so today he says his schedule has something else on for this afternoon. What could be on a judge’s schedule that’s more important than the case he’s hearing right now? You know what it is? Golf. He plays golf at Tanoan and he never lets a case get in the way. And how do I know that? My dad often gets stuck playing right behind Blackman and his foursome. Dad says they act like they own the course. He played with them once, said the judge cheated like crazy, and—”

  “But—back to the judge’s calendar here today—how can he just … rearrange things?”

  “He’s the judge. He can do anything he wants.”

  Apparently. I thanked her. “I’m Charlie, by the way.”

  “Cat. Cat Brennaman.” We shook hands. “Nice talking with you. Gotta go—I’ve got a class in thirty minutes.”

  “Sure. Thanks for the quick lesson on court procedure.” And more information than you ever dreamed you were giving me. I left the downtown area, grabbed a quick burger at a drive-up lane, and headed to the far northeast heights and Tanoan Country Club. I figured a little time hanging around could probably net even more info on this judge with the bendable ethics. If I could take that angle and figure out how Blackman’s role might have played a part in Rory McNab’s conviction, we might be on the way toward getting a new lawyer to take the case and appeal it.

  The club was a bustling place this afternoon. I’d been here a few times and had a general idea of the layout. The large two-story building housed the main clubhouse and restaurant above, exercise rooms, locker rooms, and golf pro shop at ground level. The pool facilities lay to the west of the building, where during the summer months moms and kids would fill the lounge chairs and exchange whatever sort of country club gossip was going around. I couldn’t quite fathom what that would be—it’s definitely not my thing.

  I found a parking spot close enough to the entrance that I could watch the comings and goings, and was rewarded within fifteen minutes when I spotted Judge Blackman getting out of a silver SUV under the entry portico. His silver hair matched it almost exactly. He stood by while a valet pulled a huge set of golf clubs from the back and carried them to a waiting cart. Blackman handed the young man something, and the valet got into the SUV and drove it to a separate section of the lot.

  Meanwhile, the judge hopped onto his golf cart and zoomed down a path, which I recalled led toward the pro shop. I could catch up with him later. I saw where the SUV ended up—a good way, I’ve discovered, to keep tabs on my suspect’s comings and goings. Once the valet had locked up and headed at a jaunty pace back to his station, I strolled over to take a closer look at the vehicle.

  When you might end up tailing a vehicle that looks like a bunch of others in the city, it’s a good idea to note anything unusual about it. I memorized the tag number. Also, I noted a resident sticker in a corner of the front windshield from an upscale neighborhood called Sandia Heights. Planted in the foothills of the mountain, it’s an area that was hot property forty years ago and has since settled into mature homes of gentility, the kind of place where successful people live to get above the fray of the city traffic.

  With those two bits of information tucked away in my knowledge arsenal I followed the same route Blackman had taken down the sidewalk and found myself where the golfers gathered outside the pro shop. In my jeans I
didn’t exactly blend in, so I tried for an ‘I’m busily on my way somewhere’ attitude as I wove through the crowd.

  People who had completed their rounds were reliving the highlights, describing their brilliant strokes, and they were not the least bit interested in me. A voice over a speaker called the Blackman party. I pressed back against the building to watch as the judge and three other men hopped into two carts, laughing and joking as they apparently bet on how this would go.

  Interestingly, the man approaching the passenger side of Blackman’s cart was none other than Herman Quinto.

  I slid my phone from my back pocket and aimed it surreptitiously in their direction, snapping off a few quick shots. For what purpose, I wasn’t yet certain. It was probably no secret that a prominent Albuquerque judge and a Santa Fe legislator were social buddies.

  Quinto had apparently forgotten something, hopping out of the cart to rush toward the pro shop. Blackman’s jovial expression went dark. When the senator returned, staring at the screen of a cell phone, the judge spoke up a little too loudly.

  “Hey, none of that on the course!” He probably meant it teasingly, but it didn’t come across that way.

  Quinto froze in his tracks. I sensed a showdown in the making. Would a state senator outrank a senior judge? Especially in what was seemingly only a matter of etiquette? Several other people were staring, alerted by the tone of Blackman’s voice.

  Quinto stepped over to the cart and leaned in close, saying something low. My little camera was snapping away. Blackman adopted conciliatory body language, although I couldn’t hear his words. It appeared to be along the lines of, Hey, just reminding you …

  As the voice on the speaker called their group to the first tee box, Quinto called out to one of the others.

  “Dan! Come ride over here.”

  The passenger in the other cart gave a startled look but got out and switched places with Quinto. The senator pointedly stared at his cell phone as he walked over and took his seat in the other cart. Both drivers roared away from the pro shop, cresting a low hill and disappearing from my sight. Okay, that was interesting.

  “May I help you?” The voice near my elbow startled me. It belonged to a young man in the Tanoan Club uniform. “Are you waiting for your golfing party?” This said with an obvious glance at my inappropriate attire.

  “Oh! No, actually.” I batted my eyes and put on a fake British accent. “Just gathering a few bits of information for my employer. Mr. McCartney is visiting Albuquerque next month and wanted to know of a nice, fairly private place to play some golf.”

  I received a blank look in return. Probably should have used the name of a younger rock star to impress this one.

  “I believe I’ve learned what I needed to know,” I said with as bright a smile as I could muster. “Thank you.”

  My phone rang just then, saving me from further conversation. I walked toward the front of the building as I took the call.

  It was the hospital.

  “Mrs. Higgins is ready to be transferred this afternoon,” said the polite female voice. “We have it on our records that you wished to go with her over to Sunrise and help her get settled into her new room.”

  Was that today? I couldn’t believe in my zeal to pursue our new case I’d completely forgotten one of the most important people in my life.

  Chapter 20

  I practically dashed through the parking lot and was in my Jeep before the hospital woman had hung up. She assured me Ron was there and would drive Elsa to her new residence. But knowing my brother, he would simply drop her bag on the nearest table and make sure a health care provider was there to get her settled. He would find it very awkward to actually tuck our grandmotherly neighbor into bed.

  By the time I arrived at Sunrise Rehab, what I’d envisioned was pretty much what had happened. I found Elsa in the competent care of a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Delilah. Ron was holding the tote bag from the hospital with Elsa’s few toiletries and nightgowns; he was looking around the room with his investigator eye. He looked more like the handrail inspector than a family member.

  Delilah and I took over, showing our patient the way to her private bathroom and introducing her to the layout of the room and the facility. I put her clothes in a drawer and her toiletries in the bathroom. Some of the flowers from the hospital were still fresh enough to display. Ron brought them in and we set those in view on the dresser, along with the dozens of get-well cards from her church friends. By the time Elsa and her escort returned from the nurses’ station, we had the place looking a tiny bit homey.

  “This is nice,” Elsa exclaimed, looking at the cards and flowers.

  I showed her where I’d stashed her personal things.

  “But I’ll only be here until Monday,” she said. “No sense spreading out.”

  My smile must have looked a little uneasy; she picked up on my hesitation. Fortunately, Delilah was used to this scenario and she took over.

  “Mrs. Higgins, we just want you to be comfortable here, no matter whether your stay is a day or a month or more.”

  “More than a month! No way!”

  I was afraid we’d have a wrestling match on our hands, but the caregiver had neatly steered Elsa toward the bed while giving her assurances. By the time of the little outburst, our patient was already sitting.

  “Well, the doctor’s going to be here later and he can give you some more information on that,” Delilah said, deftly removing Elsa’s slippers and lifting her feet to tuck them under the covers. “Meanwhile, you must be tired from the move. How about a little nap before dinner?”

  “Maybe a short one. But you make sure I’m awake when that doctor comes. I’ll want to have a talk with him.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will absolutely do that.”

  I stepped forward and took Elsa’s chilly hands in mine. “Tuck in now. If I don’t make it back by bedtime, I’ll be here tomorrow.” I pulled the sheet and blanket up to her shoulders and landed a tender little kiss on her forehead.

  “Back by bedtime?” Ron asked once we were out in the hallway, well away from Elsa’s room. “I thought you were going to that fundraiser thing.”

  “Oh shit—I’d forgotten that.”

  “It’s all right,” Delilah piped up. “Their first day is always a little stressful and doc likes to see that they sleep through the night so they cope well with their new routine in the morning. He’ll give her a little something and she’ll never know you weren’t here. In fact, she might very well have a dream and believe that you were right at her side.”

  That only made me feel a tiny bit better.

  Ron and I parted outside the facility and he assured me I should go ahead with my plans. If there was a need, he and Victoria were only ten minutes away. Truthfully, I was curious to look through the photos I’d taken this afternoon and to make some notes about the interviews at the courthouse before I forgot names and data.

  I arrived home in time to take Freckles for a quick walk to the park before sundown, and when we got back Drake’s truck was in the driveway.

  “Hey, how was the Fish and Game job?” I asked, unclipping the leash from a wildly ecstatic dog.

  “Good. But long. I really need a shower.”

  When I moved into his embrace and got a whiff of his flight suit, which smelled of jet fuel and sweat, I had to agree.

  “I got us tickets to a dinner. All the champagne you want and, for the price, probably a decent cut of beef.”

  “I’m exhausted, baby. But let’s talk about it in the shower,” he said with a leer.

  It turned out he wasn’t too exhausted for a proper greeting for the wife he hadn’t seen in three days, and the shower session ended up in a tangle of covers on our king-size bed. After that, however, he really was exhausted. He sat back with a completely relaxed grin on his face.

  “You go ahead to the dinner,” he said. “I’ll be happy with a microwaved frozen thing, really.”

  “I don’t want to
go—”

  “It’s up to you, but you said it might be important to your new case. And I don’t mind. I will be deep in dreamland within an hour anyway.”

  That much was true.

  I assured him I wouldn’t stay late. Since I wasn’t dressing to be belle of the ball, I settled on a pair of dressy black slacks and top, a silver pendant with a sizeable chunk of turquoise in it, and a Southwestern print silk jacket. If it turned out all the other ladies were in floor-length gowns, well, too bad.

  The drive to the Marriott ballroom took me through a clog of freeway traffic but I used the time to review what I’d learned and observed today. Judge Blackman’s subtle glances toward the court reporter, his flashy arrival at the country club and condescending manner toward the employees there, the argument with Quinto—all were interesting glimpses of the man, but I couldn’t think of any way I could tie them meaningfully to the McNab case. Tonight, I would have to be extra diligent in keeping my eyes and ears open.

  The fundraiser was set up along the same lines as others I’d attended in the past, although I’m saying right here that I’m not normally involved in this part of Albuquerque’s social scene. I walked in, feeling properly invisible.

  One of the large ballrooms had been set up with dozens of round tables, each seating eight or ten. Probably because the theater group was involved, the decorations and backdrop behind the podium were very over-the-top, with set pieces from some of the more famous shows they’d presented. I recognized the chandelier from Phantom of the Opera, and a yellow brick road pathway had been created leading to the side room with the auction items.

  According to the program I received, there would be a live auction after dinner with famous memorabilia, said to include two of Bernadette Peters’ gowns from famous roles and the ruby slippers Stephanie Mills had worn in the Broadway Wizard of Oz. How an Albuquerque group had managed to snag those, I couldn’t begin to guess. Previews of the auction items were offered to Platinum Level donors.