“Not.”
“Did you see who shot you?”
“Uh-hunh.”
* * *
Romero wound his way through the hospital entry, which might have been the set of a television soap opera. An orderly directed him to a woman who stood at a long oval counter, shuffling papers and explaining to a patient that he could not leave until formally dismissed.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Romero said.
“Sorry, you’ll have to wait your turn.”
Romero flashed his badge.
“Well, how was I to know?” she snapped.
“You’re not wearing a uniform. Is Tommy Hilfiger now on the Sheriff’s payroll? Talk to that woman over there.” She pointed to the nurse making notes on the patient board.
The nurse’s name tag identified her as Priscilla Garcia, RN. He approached her, badge in hand.
“How can I help you?”
“Estoy buscando un paciente—”
“Don’t you speak English?”
Romero blushed in irritation. Seemed like nobody spoke Spanish anymore, or were too embarrassed. “I’m looking for a patient brought into the ER within the last hour. Bullet wound in his chest.”
“Could that be Timothy McCabe? I believe he’s undergoing emergency surgery,” she said, turning back to the board.
“Do you know if his family has been notified?” Romero asked.
“We’re checking records for a phone number.” She pointed toward a room at the end of the hallway. “You can wait there, Officer. Help yourself to the coffee.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted.”
Romero checked his cell phone and sat down in the waiting room. He had missed a number of calls. He returned the most recent, figuring the earlier ones were no longer important. Two hours later the nurse came to find him, a grim look on her face.
Chapter 4
Laura McCabe paced the floor between her den and the kitchen of their Santa Fe home. She was far too anal retentive, but she could not stand it when Tim deviated from a tight schedule, involving himself in his damned ruins and losing all sense of time.
Where in Heaven’s name was he and why hadn’t he called? The cat was clawing the Navajo rugs on the floor in the living room and had its eye on the woven red and black Chief’s Blanket that hung on the wall. The silly thing had been known to scale right up the blanket in chase of a gecko lizard. She screamed, “Tiger, stop that!” but of course it paid her no attention. She shook her turquoise bracelets at Tiger, which usually irritated him and caused him to run under the bed. Not this time.
She stopped at the nineteenth century wooden Santo on the long Parsons table in the hall and ran her fingers over the polychromed carving. Her cleaning woman, Rosa, swore by these saints, claiming they calmed her nerves. She would whisper, “Calma me, Dios, Calm me, God,” as she walked around the house with a feather duster in her hand. The saints offered little comfort to Laura.
Late again. Up to his neck in dust. Totally unaware of the time of the day. Now she needed to call her friends and arrange to meet at La Fonda for cocktails instead of sending the limo driver to pick them up.
Perhaps Tim had run into a fellow dealer and purchased something that he needed to carry to the gallery. God knows their three-car garage was already full of relics. She drove the six blocks to Canyon Road and parked at the side of the building. As usual, Canyon Road bustled with tourists wandering in and out of the gift shops, galleries and clothing boutiques. At Wind Medicine, the gallery lights were off; they did not stay open late, preferring in general to work by appointment.
Laura entered through the side door. She reached to press the alarm code into the keypad then realized it hadn’t gone on when she unlocked the door. That was odd.
Daylight streamed through the skylights, although dusk was only minutes away. She flipped the light switch in Tim’s office and glanced at the desk calendar. Nothing to indicate that he would be anywhere but digging at the ruins. What the hell could be the reason for his delay? Her annoyance escalated. It wasn’t like Tim to blow off something this socially important.
She decided she might as well make herself useful by going over the inventory sheets as she waited for his call on her cell. She heard a loud thump in one of the back rooms. It wasn’t unusual for birds to fly into the glass windows; there were so many around this year, snowbirds from somewhere up north, like turistas.
Laura gave an approving look at the rows and rows of intricately painted Acoma Indian pottery they had gathered through the first ten years of their marriage. By the time they opened a gallery on Canyon Road near the historic plaza in Santa Fe, their reputation as knowledgeable dealers had grown. She was eternally grateful McCabe had never returned to law enforcement, although she knew he loved the challenge of solving a crime. Last month the Sheriff had dropped in unannounced to seek his advice. McCabe was in his element around law officers. He was never going to outgrow that.
She kept glancing at her watch as she made her way around the gallery. The minutes continued to tick away. Over an hour had passed. Still no call. By force of habit she checked her cell phone, just in case she had missed his call. Nothing. Well, at least she made some headway on the annual inventory. She walked back and placed it on the bookkeeper’s desk. That would be one less task she would have to do next week. Rummaging for her keys, she heard someone trying the door, and then another thump. “Who could that be,” she wondered. “The gallery’s been closed since last weekend.”
Laura started to reach for the doorknob, but changed her mind as someone started shoving on the door, trying to push it in. She ran over to the alarm module, punched the code in and set it off just as the door flew off its hinges. She screamed.
Chapter 5
Many afternoons, long before McCabe came to San Lazaro, Charlie Cooper had roamed the Indian ruins with his .22 rifle in hand. In the summertime, he restricted himself to the shade of Medicine Rock, digging for Indian relics he could sell. Nothing so major he’d have to explain where it came from. Usually beads and bones he strung into necklaces and passed off as antiquities. This kept him in nachos and Dos Equis.
A few days after McCabe was shot, Charlie heard the putt-putt-putt noise of an old Ford pickup rambling toward the ruins. He wondered who’d come this late in the day. Couldn’t be McCabe—he was probably still down for the count.
Someone shouted “Hello up there!” and strolled toward the gate. It was that son of a bitch Bart Wolfe, a short seedy-looking guy who hung out at the Mine Shaft Tavern, a few miles up the road from Cerrillos. Bart schlepped around in boot-cut jeans, engineer boots and a dirty white Grateful Dead T-shirt. A crumpled pack of Camels stuck out of his pocket. Keys dangled from a chain fastened to his belt loop.
Charlie had caught Bart powwowing at the bar with an exotic dancer named Linda, no mean piece of meat. That was a month ago and shortly thereafter, Charlie staked his own claim on the juicy Miss Starlight.
Charlie glanced at his .22 and decided it was more of a toy than a threat. Under the circumstances, he intended to play it cool. “Hey old man, how they hanging?”
The sun was directly behind Charlie, forcing Bart to shield his eyes with his hand. “Who is it?” Bart ambled to within a few feet of Charlie. “Oh. You.”
Charlie poked a finger in Bart’s chest and what came out of his mouth was not so cool. “You asshole. What the hell are you doing out here? You’re trespassing on private property.”
Bart did not seem greatly perturbed. “Hell, I was making my way over to the ranch to see you. I’m looking for Linda. Ain’t seen her since that night in Madrid you carried her off.”
“Can’t help you, man.” Charlie laughed a dirty snort. “Woman’s like a Vegas poker chip going from hand to hand. Went from me to a guy in the parking lot the next time I took her out for a drink. Never even made him buy her a Coke.”
Bart was floating like a feather in a dust bunny. High on something, Charlie thought. Another
good poke and the son-of-a-gun would go flat on the ground.
“Like to see for myself,” Bart said. “Mind if I go over to your house and check it out?”
“You calling me a liar? I told you Linda isn’t there. Besides, I’m busy. Get the fuck on back to your own place.”
“Ain’t no call to be so nasty.”
Charlie turned to walk away, but Bart grabbed his sleeve and pulled him off balance. “Come on, man. I gotta find her. She’s my woman.”
Charlie backed away. “Watch it, man. Don’t finger the merchandise.”
“Oh, you lookin’ to get into a little fracas?” Bart asked.
“I ain’t done nothing to you, but if you want to rumble, I’m always ready. He pulled out a knife and lunged at Charlie.
Without thinking, Charlie hefted his rifle to keep Bart away. Bart grabbed the bore, stumbled back, and tripped on his own boots. The gun went off. The first shot hit Bart and the second shot barely missed a cow that stood by the fence enjoying a salt lick.
Bart looked like he was about to throw up before he collapsed.
“Oh, shit,” Charlie said.
Thinking Bart was dead, Charlie gathered his stuff and headed lickety-split toward the ranch. He kept repeating to himself, “It was an accident. It was an accident.”
An hour later, Bart picked himself up and started up the road in his noisy truck. He made it about five miles and then pulled over to the side of the road. Bleeding profusely from his right arm, he crawled out of his truck, stood upright for a moment, then crawled back in and passed out over the steering wheel.
A rancher herding a couple of cows saw him slumped over, the horn blaring, and punched numbers in his cell for an ambulance.
Chapter 6
On Wednesday of that week, Jemimah concluded her meeting with the personnel department. Hired as a forensic investigator for the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Department, she would spend much of her time not only working cases assigned to the main office but the Cerrillos substation as well. Her duties included profiling, conducting interviews, assisting in active investigations and resurrecting cold cases. Her skills on the shooting range needed to be honed. And after the fiasco with Tim McCabe, she decided to audit classes on CPR. The sheriff suggested she include seminars on police procedures and crime scene protocol.
As she strolled out of the complex toward her vehicle, Lieutenant Romero tapped his horn. She looked up and frowned. Keeping tabs on her again? He drove up next to her, reached over and pushed open the passenger door of his SUV.
“Hop in,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to buy you lunch to celebrate your new appointment.”
“Sorry, Rick, my day is filled with meetings and interviews. I’m trying to put together another forensic seminar, this time in Albuquerque.”
“Oh for god’s sake, Jem,” he said with exasperation. “You have to eat somewhere sometime. There’s a great new place just opened up on Alameda Road. I think it’s early enough we can beat the lunch crowd.”
“All right, you sold me.” Jemimah smiled, climbed into the passenger seat, and clipped the seat belt on. “I only had coffee for breakfast.” Who was she trying to convince? Herself or him?
Rick parked next to the curb in front of the building, got out and opened her door. The restaurant was busy, but they were seated quickly. The hostess led them to a corner booth.
“This is nice,” Jemimah said.
Hanging from the ceiling were colorfully painted bicycle wheels of various sizes. She was looking up at them trying to make the connection.
“The name of the place is Xyclo. They specialize in Vietnamese cooking. The name refers to the three wheeled bicycles used to transport passengers around Asian cities,” Romero said.
“Interesting,” she said.
“I’m glad we have this chance to catch up. I’ve wanted to ask you out to dinner.”
“Out, as in date?”
He smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Does the hierarchy frown on inter-departmental dating? I haven’t read the five-hundred page employee handbook.”
“Only with subordinates,” he said. “I think we’re on an equal plane here.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said.
“Is that a yes?”
“No, it’s a no. I think we’re treading water, Lieutenant. I’m still annoyed with you for—”
“For what? My persistence in wanting you?”
“Among other things.” She waved away the waiter who had come to take their order.
“What other things? That I might just treat you like a woman for a change?”
“More like a sex object. I don’t appreciate going around town with you sporting me like a trophy.”
“Sounds like you’re a bit caught up in yourself, Doctor.”
“Give me a call when you grow up to be a big boy. Anyway, Lieutenant Rick. Thanks for lunch.” She tossed her napkin on the table and headed for the door. Romero motioned the waiter to bring him a drink.
Chapter 7
The anonymous shooting of Tim McCabe caused most Santa Feans, who had no tolerance for crime, to stop buying the daily newspaper and watch sitcom reruns rather than expose themselves to the daily news, burying their heads in the sand like the proverbial ostrich. Others, like Anna Mali, slept with the lights on in every room.
Anna lived in a small apartment in the center of the historic Guadalupe District, a pre-1700s area of Santa Fe next to the equally old Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. Each time she heard a strange sound, she ran to the heavily curtained windows to peer out at the street. She was not averse to calling the cops if a wino set up shop on or near her doorstep. If a stranger knocked on her door, he was apt to stand there until accosted by the local federales. The cops who patrolled the Guadalupe beat nicknamed her Anxious Anna.
Anna wheeled a grocery basket to the checkout counter behind a tall, thirty-something guy purchasing cigarettes. She could not help but notice that he gave her an interested eye, and preened a little. She knew she was pretty. A little on the chubby side, but pretty nonetheless.
Her blond hair was pulled back in a tightly woven French braid, and she wore a pair of faded, too-snug jeans. She enjoyed a little anonymous attention, frequently misinterpreted by the interested parties. If they dared approach, she usually turned her back.
Anna engaged in some paltry banter with the checker, swiped her card on the machine, punched in her PIN numbers, and retrieved two plastic bags from the edge of the counter.
As she walked past him, the guy deliberately bumped into her. He started to apologize. Her friendly eye turned hostile. She straightened her back and quick-stepped through the automatic doors.
He went back to his truck, climbed in, smoked a cigarette, and watched Anna make her way across the parking lot.
Instead of entering a vehicle, Anna walked the sidewalk along the mall perimeter. As she strolled up a slight incline, she looked toward the cemetery across the road, white gravestones lined up in neat rows as far as the eye could see. She made a mental note to take flowers to her stepfather’s grave.
The stranger drove slowly out of the parking lot, watching as she lingered in front of a corner boutique. Moving to the intersection, Anna punched the Walk button. He trailed her as she walked by the Lotaburger and the tattoo parlor next door. The man in the car behind him honked loudly then sped off, sticking his hand out in an obscene gesture.
The stranger drove around the block.
Anna headed up the hill toward the big bronze statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe installed on the north grounds of the church. The cord from her I-Pod was plugged firmly into her ears, Los Lobos singing “Hotel California.” She crossed the street, pushed the iron gate open, and stopped to retrieve her mail from the mailboxes against the porch wall.
The stranger parked his truck next to the curb, exited his vehicle and reached the gate as she stood on the porch and rifled through her knapsack for a ring of keys. Still plugged into her I
-pod, she was oblivious to his presence behind her.
She opened the door to her house, picked up the bag of groceries and, before she could scream, he placed his big latex-gloved hand over her mouth and pushed her into the living room.
Two days later the 911 operator answered a call from Myra Mali, a distraught woman who said she hadn’t heard from her daughter for several days. The call was relayed to a patrol officer, who recognized the address of Anxious Anna. A small woman in her fifties stood on the porch of the residence. Still in black flannel pajamas, she reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
Myra Mali tossed her cigarette on the porch floor and scrunched it with her foot as the patrolmen approached.
“I’ve been knocking at the door for about an hour and there’s been no answer,” she said.
“What about her job, does she work somewhere?” he asked. The patrolman stepped back, as if overpowered by her scent.
Myra tried to look through the curtained front door. “Anna was off until a few days ago. She didn’t show up yesterday and wasn’t answering her cell.”
“Could she have gone somewhere for a few days?”
“No, she doesn’t drive. I don’t think she has a lot of friends. Look, I’m really worried. She’s not like other girls.” Myra scrunched up her face to hold back tears. “She doesn’t party or do drugs. Pretty much keeps to herself. It’s not like her not to keep in touch.”
The officer searched the windows and the front of the house for signs of forced entry. Finding none, he knocked loudly and then with little effort pushed the door open. There were obvious signs of a struggle. Groceries littered the floor near the hallway. Melted Haagen-Dazs dulce de leche ice cream trickled from an overturned tub across the dark walnut floor. The unmistakable, sweet odor of rotting flesh infiltrated the house.
Myra pushed past the officer, but he put up an arm to hold her back. She slumped to her knees, sobbing hysterically.
Shadows among the Ruins Page 2
