Chapter 8
Captain Jeff Whitney, a twenty-year veteran of the New Mexico State Police, was exhilarated. He had just returned to Santa Fe from a four week vacation, where he had attended a forensics update. The lecturer for one seminar had been a hot gal named Jemimah Something, who seemed to get off on talking about perverts and sadistic killers. The other two weeks, while fishing the Florida Keys in a dollar-an-hour rent-a-boat, he tried not to think about her. Not much success—either with the fish or the forgetting.
Work was no siren call for him. He wasn’t anxious to return, but on the other hand, there wasn’t much that could spoil his day. He still enjoyed the relaxation of walking the beach and breathing in the salty, ocean air.
He had cleared his desk the day before he left, but it now overflowed with case files both new and old. A manila envelope from the Chief caught his eye—a long-closed cold case involving the accidental death of a police officer’s wife, that officer being his partner of several years. The memo indicated that the coroner had ruled the cause of death as “auto accident.” Nothing to indicate otherwise. The Chief attached a note telling him to contact Jemimah Hodge, the new forensics investigator for the County, who might be able to give him some insight into the case.
Whitney’s mind traveled back to Florida. Nah, this couldn’t be the same Jemimah. Too coincidental. He pulled her card out of his wallet and felt like dancing a jig. “I’ll be damned.”
He shoved everything on his desk to the side and reached for the phone. As he dialed her number, he rehearsed what he was going to say. After a few rings the County Operator intercepted and directed him to voicemail. Whitney left a message and got back to work. Naw, he’d just go on over there. You can never tell about that voice-mail stuff. Didn’t mean she wasn’t there. Just not in the mood to answer the phone.
* * *
Jemimah sat at her desk in a corner office at the end of a long corridor, coffee mug in one hand, phone in the other.
Whitney stood at the door and watched her. She was wearing a honey-colored shirt with a dark blue skirt. Her legs looked great. The shoes looked a little matronly but he figured she was required to dress like the detectives in the Sheriff’s Department. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but her professional status seemed to indicate otherwise. Didn’t really matter that much. He wondered if she was single. He’d dated married women before, but he had learned early on to first make sure their husbands weren’t on the force.
Jem pointed a finger at him. “Officer Whitney? Florida, right? You followed me all the way from the Sunshine State?”
“These are my stomping grounds, ma’am.”
She gave her head that little twist that shook her ponytail in a delightful manner. For some reason, it made him picture her on a horse. Then he saw the photograph.
“I see you have a picture of an Appaloosa on your desk. Somehow I didn’t figure you for a ranch woman.”
“That’s Mandy. A horse is a necessary evil in this god-forsaken country.” She reached out to shake his hand. “Seminar on Internet sex offenders, right?”
“Yes, I found your talk really compelling.” A bit of flattery would certainly do no harm. One should never miss an opportunity to flatter a pretty girl. You could never tell what it might lead to. “And please call me Jeff.”
When she took his hand, she noticed how firm and warm his hands were. She gazed at him a moment longer than she intended. Oh shit, he was going to think she was desperate for a date. “Take a seat.”
Whitney pulled a wooden folding-chair up to her desk and handed her the manila envelope he’d found on his desk earlier that morning.
“And this is what?”
“A cold case I could use your help on.”
Oh great, Jem thought. Pulling out these old cases so he could get next to her. Well, she knew how to handle that kind of Casanova. All business-like. Stay cool. But still, he was on the handsome side.
“Coffee?”
He grinned. He didn’t intend to, but something strange was quarterbacking his hormones. “Got any Kahlua?”
“Just ran out, but there’s a lounge down the street,” she answered back. “Let me see what you have.”
She took a few minutes to review the file, asking questions as she did so. “Did you know the victim, Rosa Ilfeld?”
“Rose. Her husband was my partner. He was also the only suspect. Her family’s pushing the Department to reopen the investigation.”
“Hard to keep an open mind under those circumstances, I would imagine.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I had a great deal of respect for Captain Ilfeld—still do. Known him a lot of years. But he told several people she was suffering from a disease when she really wasn’t. Nonetheless, I don’t see anything in the file to indicate that it was anything but an accident. Don’t know why the powers that be want to dredge this whole thing up again.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Jemimah said. “If he had access to a police cruiser, he would have taken her to the ER in that, lights flashing and all.”
“He chose to take her Corvette instead. Nothing wrong with that,” he said.
Jemimah had the distinct impression Whitney wasn’t interested in pursuing any kind of investigation. Maybe he was just using this case as an excuse to come on to her. “Oh my god!” she said. “Did you realize it’s already five o’clock? Can I take this file home with me?”
Whitney feigned a distraught look. “Sorry, but it’s our only file and I don’t want to be responsible for it out of my sight. You would not believe how easily notes and other evidence can disappear from a file.
Jemimah smiled. He looked damned cute when he was upset. “Listen, Whitney, how about I buy you a drink at Los Angelos. We can talk about the case some more.”
He grinned. “I’d much rather listen to good stories about pervert criminals or sadistic killers. You think it’s too early for dinner?”
Los Angelos was a trendy Mexican restaurant on a side road in downtown Santa Fe which catered mostly to attorneys and white collar workers from state offices and the District Courthouse nearby. The polished cherry wood bar was filled to capacity. They sat in a circular booth near the window.
The waitress brought their order, Jalapeno poppers and Margaritas, followed by the evening special. Whitney moved the yellow scratch pad and file folder over to make room for the steaming plates, half-listening to the server’s admonishment about the dishes being too hot, don’t touch. He was thinking about something other than fajitas covered with guacamole, beans, and grilled chicken that would certainly be hot to the touch. The sound of Jemimah’s ringing cell phone brought him back. Most men would be embarrassed at having romantic thoughts about a woman he barely knew. Not Whitney. He considered himself quite a ladies’ man and she was fair game.
Jemimah answered the phone and excused herself from the table. It was Lt. Rick Romero.
“Hey, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling your office. And why aren’t you answering your cell?”
“I answered. What’s your beef? I’m working a case right now.” She almost added that he didn’t sign her weekly paycheck, but held her tongue.
“At cocktail time? You looking to get a raise?”
“Actually no. Jeff Whitney, a State Policeman, brought over a case he wanted my advice on.”
“Jeff Whitney? Jeez, girl. Watch yourself. This guy’s bad news. He’s got more girlfriends than a monkey has fleas.”
“Hey, I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.”
She hung up the phone, wondering who the hell Rick thought he was, checking up on her like that. Next he would want to hire on as chaperone.
Chapter 9
Pre-summer temperatures around Santa Fe vacillated between warm days and cool nights along with clear, star-filled skies. Nowhere in the United States were the skies bluer or wider.
The county was surrounded by high mountain ranges, flat mesas, and hills populated by rocky outcroppings—a painter’s
paradise, an artisan’s treasure trove. Potters who traveled south down La Bajada Hill on I-25 toward Albuquerque and ventured just off the road could gather clay in various shades of color. Also along Highway 14, which runs parallel to I-25, but they had to look a little harder.
This was true Indian Country, shrouded in mystery. Several early Indian tribes settled in the foothills of the Ortiz Mountains near Cerrillos and Madrid, on the stretch of land encircled by the Galisteo Basin. Popular theory claims that the Anasazi cultures collapsed due to severe drought. Survivors migrated to the Rio Grande Valley and became assimilated into today’s modern pueblos.
There were two primary pueblo ruins in this area, the smaller one, San Marcos and the larger, San Lazaro. San Lazaro Pueblo was about eighteen miles southeast of Santa Fe, sixty acres of rolling hills sprinkled with junipers and piñons. Spiny cholla cactus outcropped the surface of sandy hills.
The historic ruins of the Tano Indian pueblo nestled along the Del Chorro Creek, where the stream trickled along, minding its own business, perfectly capable of becoming a raging deluge during the monsoon season. At various junctures, the stream went underground. High canyon walls lined the perimeter for a short distance and the terrain flattened into gently rolling hills.
Sharing a common boundary with the San Lazaro Indian ruins, the Crawford Ranch lies hidden in the center of a small valley. At the top of the hill next to the entrance, a windmill stands sentry.
Known as the Turquoise Trail, the landscape along Highway 14 remained the same—adobe houses on several-acre plots, neighbors more than an arm’s length from each other. An old feed store converted part of its building to house a popular restaurant, the San Marcos Café. Tourists and locals alike traveled more than ten miles from Santa Fe to eat a roast beef burrito smothered with red chili or a plate of biscuits and gravy. Outside, turkeys, albino peacocks and chickens spread their wings with ease and mingled with the overgrown tabby, who eyed them with great interest, waiting for his chance.
Charlie Cooper lived at the Crawford Ranch, adjoining McCabe’s San Lazaro Indian ruins. Not cut out for ranch life and eager to return to the city, owner Gary Blake had dispensed with requesting references from Charlie, whose down-home country charm convinced Blake he was the one for the job. Charlie survived out there quite nicely. Not only did he receive a monthly check from Blake for caretaking, but his only expenses were food, beer and gasoline, not necessarily in that order. Charlie grew a hefty crop of marijuana, part of which he sold to the local druggies. The larger portion was sold to a contact in Albuquerque.
Every now and then, a pothead snooped around to see what he could steal. The ranch was surrounded by old Indian ruins, and these characters dug around to find something for a quick sale. Problem was, there was only one road in and one road out, and Charlie was always willing to give chase. Hell, he looked forward to it.
Old man Loomis at the general store in Cerrillos had a lot of relics on his shelves he knew came from the Crawford Ranch. He didn’t care where things originated—he always underpaid. The back of the store was filled with items bought from the derelicts who hung around outside, smoking their foul-smelling roll-your-owns and coming inside to take a piss in the employees’ bathroom. Loomis accommodated them. Otherwise they did their number outside in plain sight, which tended to discourage tourists who might be potential customers for his not-only-phony but overpriced goods.
Today, Charlie entered the unfinished basement on the sub-level of the house to begin harvesting his prized marijuana plants. The room had an earthen floor, perfect for a hidden garden. My ticket out of this hell-hole, he mused. Over the last six months he had stashed about $22,000 in hundred dollar bills. This next sale would serve to take him over his goal: fifty grand.
The room was a marijuana forest. The plants had reached their peak and the buds dried nicely. He spent a few hours pulling them all out and hanging them from hooks. The pungent pine-cone odor was unmistakable.
Charlie inspected each plant, almost amber in color. He spent two days trimming buds. Wearing plastic gloves, he cut each plant with care and spread the leaves out in paper grocery bags, which he carried over to the back of the barn and covered with hay. It would take at least a week for these to cure before he could form them into brick-sized portions, shrink-wrap and weigh them.
For the remainder of the week, Charlie dug up every telltale sign of his pot-growing venture, loaded it all up in black garbage bags and hauled them to the County Dump. Satisfied with what he had accomplished, he drove into Cerrillos and used the pay phone in front of the general store to call his contact.
Chapter 10
Since taking the helm of the satellite office in Cerrillos, Rick Romero spent little time at home. Many nights he stretched out on the office couch, too exhausted to drive back to Santa Fe. Off-duty, he drove a dark green Subaru, a vehicle his nephew called a preppie wagon, favored by WASP couples to drive kids to soccer scrimmage. Maybe it didn’t fit his persona, but Romero liked the car. He’d bought it at a police auction—low mileage and not a scratch on it.
Romero lived in the house where he grew up, a small two bedroom ’30s adobe on a side street in the South Capitol district of Santa Fe, a mile from the downtown Plaza. In recent years, he’d gutted the interior and replaced plumbing and electrical. He did not disturb his mother’s small shrine to El Santo Niño de Atocha, an image of the child Jesus dressed in pilgrim garb. When she was alive, she often prayed to the saint if Romero strayed off-track. He smiled as he recalled how often that became a necessity.
Romero wasn’t particularly religious, though he had been brought up Catholic. The devastating effect crime had on families caused him to wonder what kind of God allowed such atrocities. He stopped attending church when a priest friend was arrested for an affair with a fifteen-year-old girl. Father John endeared himself to many Native American pueblos in northern New Mexico. He grew his black hair long and wore it in braids fastened with sterling silver feathers. Together he and Romero attended many of the pueblo feast day ceremonies.
Romero was part of the task force set up by the FBI to arrest the priest when he met the girl at a local restaurant. She was outfitted with a concealed tape recorder. Subsequently, several other teenage girls claimed the priest lured them into sexual liaisons. Romero was devastated to discover the dark side of Father John. Hell, he had played basketball and gone fishing with this guy. It was also a blow to his professional pride that he hadn’t picked up on the priest’s nefarious activities.
What an asshole, Romero thought. All that time he had hidden his smutty secrets. Last he heard, the priest was serving a long sentence in a California prison while the archdiocese settled—more correctly, tried to avoid settling—numerous lawsuits.
Nonetheless, in spite of his disillusionment, Romero bought a votive candle every week at Walgreen’s and lit it at his mother’s shrine. He didn’t need a church to exercise his faith or to show his mother he loved her.
It was already nine o’clock in the morning. He stopped by Dunkin’ Donuts and picked up a box of assorted donuts and sweet rolls. The Sheriff was coming to the Cerrillos substation for their monthly meeting. Romero drove the seventeen miles to the office, his mind on the McCabe case.
The ring of his cell phone startled him. It was Jemimah.
“Hey, you sound a little distracted; everything all right?” she asked.
“On my way to work. Meeting the boss in an hour to go over my cases. What’s up?”
“Do you have time later today? I have some theories I wanted to run by you on a cold case I’m working on. Maybe you can give me fresh perspective.”
“Fresh perspective? Why do you want my opinion? Is this about McCabe? Maybe you can give me fresh perspective.”
“No, not McCabe. But I need to run this by someone with experience.”
Sheesh, Rick thought. Is she coming on to me, now? This woman didn’t seem to know what she wanted.
“Hey, Jem, listen. I don’t have my appoint
ment book with me. Let me call you later and we can figure something out.” He wasn’t in the mood to play twenty questions. He said goodbye and flipped the cell phone closed. He made the turn into the driveway, gathered his files, and walked in the door.
The reception area was sparsely furnished with two battle-scarred desks that had come out of a warehouse in Santa Fe, two equally scarred Captain’s chairs, a phone, fax machine, two computers, and a coffeemaker. The coffeemaker was new, because he had personally picked it up at Wal-Mart. Three overflowing file cabinets sat in one corner, next to a small nicked-leather couch in the seating area. A jumble of cables dangled over the edge of a desk, uniting the office communication system in a tangle of knots. The walls were a dull army gray, the Sheriff’s idea of a suitable decorating scheme. In Romero’s office, there was little on the walls except framed certificates, various diplomas, and a retablo of San Miguel—the patron saint of detectives and law enforcement. It was painted by his sister who, before she married and moved to Arizona, was a local Santera of some renown and painter of religious icons. He felt badly for not keeping in closer touch and made a note to give her a call. She had never forgiven him for allowing their Aunt Rita to take her home after their mother died.
For the past ten years Romero had been a card-carrying member of Alcoholics Anonymous. His drinking escalated after his partner was killed in a motorcycle accident. Alcohol ruined his first marriage. By the time he went into treatment, it was too late to salvage what was left. Months and months of appointments with a therapist brought him to terms with his childhood, his culture, and his father’s own weakness for alcohol. About a year ago, after staying sober for ten years, Romero had slowly started drinking beer and the occasional cocktail, just to take the edge off. Better than Xanax, he thought.
His social drinking was starting to worry him a bit. If he ever got into another relationship with a woman, he would tell her right up front about his struggle. His father lost the battle after years of drinking, and his mother died some years later, probably from a broken heart. Romero was well aware how alcohol had ruined their lives. He sighed as he remembered how dark those days had been.
Shadows among the Ruins Page 3
