“You sound pretty low.”
“I guess I am. I miss her, Dale. No woman has ever meant as much to me.”
“I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you say that. You need a woman in you life, Kerney, and Sara’s the cream of the crop.”
“What should I do?”
“Ride it out. She probably just needs some breathing room. Women are like that.”
“I hope so.”
“I’m telling you the gospel truth.”
“I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“So let’s change the subject,” Dale said. “I still think we can put a partnership together.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Jesus, cheer up. She’ll be back.”
“Yeah.” Kerney hung up and headed for the bedroom, hoping he could push Sara out of his mind and get a few hours sleep.
• • •
Kerney arrived at Horse Canyon Ranch as the morning sun washed the deep purple off the mountains. He eyed the headquarters as he drove down the paved ranch road, thinking that sooner or later one of those trendy, glossy magazines would undoubtedly feature Alicia Bingham and her marvelous hacienda in an issue on living the good life in northern New Mexico.
It would be a gross distortion of how the local people in the valley lived in their mobile homes, ramshackle farms, and subdivision-type stick houses plunked down in the middle of five-and ten-acre tracts. But it would sell copies, and have people from coast to coast dreaming of piñon logs crackling in a kiva fireplace, sweeping vistas of mountain ranges, and private trophy homes nestled near the wilderness.
His quick and dirty background check on Alicia Bingham had revealed that the woman was an English citizen, part of the Hollywood film scene, divorced, wealthy, and a member of several international horse breeder and riding competition organizations.
He rang the doorbell at the hacienda and waited, wondering what, other than a love of horses, had drawn Alicia Bingham to New Mexico.
Alicia Bingham opened the door and studied the man standing under the portal at her front door. Tall, with wide, square shoulders, brown hair touched with gray at the sideburns, and keen, deep blue eyes, he was quite good looking.
She took the business card from his hand and glanced at the policeman’s badge held up for her inspection.
“Griffin said you might be stopping by for a chat,” Alicia said. “Do come in, Chief Kerney.”
Kerney stepped inside the vestibule. Along one wall stood a large flowered vase used for umbrella storage. A pair of Wellingtons sat under a coat rack that held an assortment of rain gear, jackets, and barn coats. A three-legged occasional table opposite the coat rack contained fresh-cut flowers in a blue-and-white milk pitcher, a ceramic table lamp, and an assortment of family photographs in gold frames.
He followed Alicia Bingham into the living room. Oriental rugs were scattered around the floor, family portraits and photographs filled the walls, and chintz curtains in a spring flower print draped the long windows. Deep sofas and chairs, separated by an oversize ottoman used to hold an array of books and magazines, occupied the space in front of a large fireplace. Somehow, the very English decor blended nicely with the clean lines of the double adobe house.
“Join me in the conservatory,” Alicia said as she led the way through the room.
Never having seen a conservatory before, Kerney followed along curiously. It turned out to be a sun room used for dining that took full advantage of the morning light. The round gate leg table centered in the middle of the room was antique oak with matching high ladder back chairs. On an exposed adobe wall hung a nineteenth-century sampler made by Marjorie Higgins, age ten. Below an elaborate alphabet and numbers, young Marjorie had embroidered a three-story Georgian mansion surrounded by lush grounds.
“Would you care for some coffee or tea?” Alicia asked as she sat.
“No thank you,” Kerney replied, joining her at the table. He made Bingham to be somewhere in her early forties. Dressed in a gray-striped cashmere sweater and designer blue jeans, she had perfect teeth, wide set brown eyes, and short, light brown hair that covered her ears.
“I shouldn’t like to rush you, but please ask your questions straight away. I have a very busy morning ahead of me.”
“Emmet Griffin said you might know why Luiza left her position.”
Alicia Bingham smiled. “I’m afraid during Luiza’s time with us I was frantically engaged in so many different projects, I didn’t give her very much attention.”
“She gave you no reason for leaving?”
“Homesickness certainly was an issue for her. I don’t believe she realized that she would be viewed by the local Hispanics more as an Indian than a Latina.”
“She felt shunned?”
“I would say so. The locals pride themselves on their Spanish heritage. Many view Mexicans with disdain.”
“She made these feelings clear to you?”
“Yes. Luiza spoke passable English. She attended a Baptist missionary school in Chiapas for several years. I was sorry to lose her. She was a very capable housekeeper.”
“Did she complain of any inappropriate attention from your male employees?”
“The men flitted around her for a time until I put a stop to it. She was quite an exotic-looking creature.”
“She made no complaints about anyone specifically?”
Alicia shook her head. “She simply asked me to keep the men from interrupting her at work.”
“Was she more agreeable to their attentions on her free time?”
“Insofar as I could tell, no. She rarely left the ranch when I was here.”
“You don’t live here full-time?”
“Heavens, no. My ex-husband and I own and operate a special effects studio in Los Angeles. I divide my time between here and California.”
“So, you can’t say for certain what Luiza did during your absences.”
“Griffin would have advised me of any concerns or issues. There were none as far as I know.”
“Did Luiza leave suddenly?”
“Yes, but that’s not uncommon with immigrant workers. They tend to come and go without much warning.”
“Did she have a green card?”
“Yes. I follow the immigration rules carefully, Chief Kerney. As an Englishwoman, I certainly do not wish to violate any American laws that would jeopardize my permanent resident status.”
“You have documentation?”
“In my files.”
“Did Luiza leave any personal belongings behind?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. A box of clothing, most of which I had passed along to her. We were almost the same size. I still have them stored in the garage. I expected that she would write to have the box sent along by post, but I never heard from her.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Of course.”
“And the immigration forms for Luiza, if it’s no bother.”
“I’ll get them for you.” Alicia rose, left the room, and returned with a slim folder.
Kerney read through it quickly. It looked to be in order. “May I borrow this for a day or two?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t think it too personal, may I ask what brought you to New Mexico?”
Alicia smiled. “When I was a young girl, I had a darling great-uncle who was in his nineties. He was my absolute favorite member of the family. He was the youngest son of a minor peer who struck out for America early in the century. Quite a few of the lads without hopes of inheriting did so during the waning years of the empire. He came to New Mexico and worked on a cattle ranch before World War I. He told such glorious stories of his adventures, I just knew someday I would have to live here.”
“And now here you are,” Kerney noted.
“Exactly. And loving it. Now, Chief Kerney, you must tell me something. What is this interest you have in Luiza?”
“She may have been raped and murdered.”
/> “May have been?”
“Yes. We’re still trying to identify a victim.”
Alicia nodded. “Is this about the skeleton that was found last weekend?”
“Yes.”
Alicia’s expression turned serious. “I do hope your assumption about Luiza is wrong. It’s chilling just to think about it.”
“Do you have a photograph of Luiza?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Alicia held up a finger. “On second thought, perhaps I do. Not a photograph, actually. Come along with me.”
She led Kerney out of the conservatory, through the living room, and into a media room equipped with comfortable chairs for a dozen people, a large-screen television, and expensive video camera equipment.
“We videotape our horses as part of the training program,” she said, opening a cabinet. Inside were dozens of cassettes neatly stacked on shelves. “Sometimes Luiza would watch. I believe there are one or two tapes that show her clearly.”
She searched through the cassettes, pulled one out, put it in a playback machine, and turned on the TV.
“Yes, this is the one,” Alicia said, as she fast-forwarded through a dressage exercise with a gray gelding. “That’s Highland Boy. He’ll compete in the next summer Olympics.”
She pressed the remote control and the motion returned to normal speed. Luiza quickly came into view as the rider finished up with Highland Boy and turned him toward the paddock gate.
Alicia froze the frame. “Quite a lovely face.”
Kerney nodded in agreement. Luiza had long jet-black hair, thick eyelashes, and delicate, almost Eurasian features. From the neck down her figure was full, with a tiny waist and wide, inviting hips. “May I borrow the tape?”
“Surely.” She popped it out of the machine and handed it to Kerney. “Griffin told me that you asked him about the Barela grazing rights to the Fergurson property.”
“I did.”
“Are you both a policeman and a rancher?”
“In a small way. I understand you may be interested in buying the property.”
“I would love to protect this side of the valley from the encroachment of subdivisions and summer homes. I’m sure Great-Uncle Howard would approve.”
“I’m sure he would,” Kerney said as he stood.
“Let me show you where Luiza’s possessions are stored,” Alicia said as she checked her wristwatch. “And then I must fly away.”
She escorted Kerney to the garage, pointed out the box, and left him to search though its contents. He took it off the shelf, placed it on the hood of a green Jaguar sedan, and cut the packing tape with his pocketknife. Inside there was nothing but clothes. He checked all the pockets and found only a hairpin and a crumpled chewing gum wrapper.
Disappointed, he closed the box, put it away, and looked around the three bay garage. It was finished, insulated, heated, and at least twice the size of his apartment. Along with the Jaguar, Bingham owned a top of the line Range Rover and a four-wheel-drive pickup truck, all in cherry condition.
He walked to his vehicle and saw Alicia Bingham leading a fine-looking saddled mare into a training paddock.
She waved to him cheerily, closed the gate, mounted the mare, and guided the horse over a series of fences and a water jump. She rode beautifully.
Emmet Griffin wandered out of the horse barn, threw a foot up on the fence, and watched his boss put the mare through her paces. Kerney joined him.
“Are you making any progress?” Griffin asked. He opened a tin of chewing tobacco and put a pinch in his mouth.
“It’s hard to say. Did Luiza give notice before she quit?”
“Nope. She just left.”
“How did she leave?”
“She walked away.”
“Didn’t you think that was unusual?”
“Not at the time. She didn’t know how to drive, and most evenings, if the weather was nice, she’d go for a walk. She liked to walk.”
“Was she carrying anything when she left?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Where would she walk to?”
“Mostly down to Ojitos Frios.”
“Was she visiting somebody in the village?”
“I don’t know.”
“How was she dressed that evening?”
Griffin shrugged. “Jeans, some sort of top, I think. That’s usually what she wore.”
“Did she ever hitch rides?”
“Only with people she knew from the ranch.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yeah. Couple of times I’d be on the road and see some guy in front of me trying to pick her up. She’d wave him off.”
“What exactly did she say to you before she left?”
“That she was going home. At the time I didn’t think she meant right that minute.”
“Who was here that day?”
“Me, my crew, and Richard, the boss’s son. The boss was in Los Angeles that week. Richard brought a friend from college with him for the weekend, a girl.”
“Tell me about Richard.”
“He goes to college down in Santa Fe. He comes up on weekends, when school is out, and during summer vacations. He’s twenty. A good kid.”
“Did Richard ever come on to Luiza?”
“Richard doesn’t like girls that way, if you get my drift.”
“When did Richard and his friend leave?”
“Soon after Luiza did.”
“What was his friend’s name?”
“Nancy something.”
“Does Richard live on campus?”
“No, Alicia bought him a condo in Santa Fe.”
“Do you have the address?”
“Yeah, but I’d rather you got that information from the boss. I’m sure she won’t mind telling you.”
• • •
Gabe arrived at the newspaper office promptly at eight in the morning and waited for Viola Fisher to show up for work. A big-boned woman with a round, cheerful face, Fisher entered her office at eight-fifteen.
“The receptionist said you were a policeman.”
Gabe had his badge case ready. Fisher took it and studied the credentials before giving it back.
“How can I help you?”
“I’d like information on Joaquin Santistevan. He attended some of your singles parties last year.”
“The name rings a bell.” Fisher turned to the file cabinet behind the desk, pulled out a stack of papers, and ran a finger down the pages. “Yes, here he is. He came to our Valentine’s Day event a year ago in February. That’s our most popular gathering.”
“Was that his first time?” Gabe asked.
“Yes.” Viola flipped through more papers. “Then he attended in March and April. After that, he stopped coming.”
“Do you know if he met somebody?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Viola replied. “We use a voice mailbox system. A customer places an ad, a voice mailbox number is assigned through our special telephone line, and each person records a brief message. If a caller likes what they hear, they leave a message in return.”
“Do you have records of those mailbox assignments?”
“Not unless they are still active. Once a party drops out or makes a connection, the mailbox is reassigned.”
“What kind of information do you collect from your customers?”
“Age, address, and phone number. Whatever else a person is looking for romantically is usually spelled out in their recorded message and weekly personal ad.”
“I’d like the telephone numbers and names of the women who attended the events from February through April of last year.”
“That information is strictly confidential.”
“One of those women may be able to help me solve a murder.”
“Our policy is very clear. We do not release that information.”
“What you’re telling me is that some guy can sign up for this dating service you run, rape and murder one of your female customers, and y
ou can’t help me because a policy forbids it.” Gabe got to his feet and played a bluff card. “Tell your boss I’ll get a court order.”
Viola looked startled. “Who was murdered?”
“I can’t release that information.”
Voila raised herself from her chair. “Let me speak to the city editor.”
“I’ll be happy to wait,” Gabe replied.
In five minutes, Viola Fisher returned looking a bit chagrined. “We’ll be glad to assist you, Sergeant Gonzales. All we need is your assurance that the information will be used with discretion. We don’t want to create any unnecessary anxiety among our customers.”
“I’ll handle the matter delicately.”
“Good,” Viola said as she started pulling files.
Gabe left the newspaper building with the names and phone numbers of sixty-eight women. At home, he called the phone company, read off the names and numbers, and asked to have them cross-checked with Santistevan’s home phone, the business phone at Buena Vista Lumber and Supply, and the telephone number of Joaquin’s uncle, Isaac Medina.
“Is that all?” the phone company supervisor asked sarcastically.
“If you get any hits, I’d like a record of the calls placed by the women, starting in February of last year.”
“This is going to take a while, Gabe,” the supervisor said.
“Mid-afternoon?” Gabe asked hopefully.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
• • •
Richard Bingham weighed in at no more than 150 pounds on a six-two frame. He had long, curly hair that fell over his forehead, and he was trying hard to grow a mustache. He sat on a chair with a day pack positioned between his knees, busily filling it with textbooks and papers.
He laughed when Kerney questioned him about Luiza.
“Didn’t Emmet tell you I’m gay?” he said as he zipped the pack shut.
Kerney didn’t respond.
“It’s no secret,” Richard said. He walked to the Murphy bed, folded it against the wall, and closed the doors that hid it from view.
Bingham lived in a studio condominium of no more than 800 square feet, yet given its location in downtown Santa Fe, Kerney figured it was worth a pretty penny.
“I gotta go,” Richard said. “I’ve got a class.”
“Give me a few more minutes,” Kerney replied, gesturing at the chair Richard had vacated.
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