The sound of his assistant’s tapping on his door made him jump. Clarissa handed him a sheaf of papers and four new case files.
“Why, Detective Romero, I must say you have a special glow about you,” she said. “And is that a new pair of Justin boots you’re wearing?”
He had known Clarissa for the better part of ten years. A friend of his sister’s, she’d worked for the Department since high school. A petite woman, she knew how to push buttons, and the detectives respected her. When she heard he was going to head the Cerrillos satellite office, she volunteered to get things set up. She was still with him.
“Well, my newest pair of boots,” he said.
“Listen, sweetie. You’ve got that faraway look in your eyes. Don’t think I’ve ever seen that. You meet someone special?”
“None of your business.”
“Can’t get her out of your mind, huh?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Professional woman, I would guess.”
“Guess all you want.”
“Divorced, three kids, makes twice what you do.”
“No.”
“No to which?”
“No kids.”
“She’s in law enforcement. Not supposed to date fellow employees.”
“If you have to know, she’s a shrink.
Specializes in criminal behavior.”
“Looking into your dating practices? Those could be pretty criminal.”
“Oh for god’s sake, Clarissa, can we forget my love life?”
“Well, I can, but I’m not sure about you. You’re still carrying a torch for your first wife. What does that make, seven years?”
“I’m getting over it.”
The phone rang.
Clarissa laughed. “Saved by the bell. That woman who discovered McCabe after he was shot, right? The one that the Sheriff hired a while back as a forensic specialist?”
“Yep, that’s the one. Sexy, too, rides a horse like a real cowgirl.”
“So, you asked her for a date?”
“Working on it.”
“No guts. You gonna answer the phone?”
His meeting with the boss turned out to be the usual waste of time. They talked about the same-old same-old. He didn’t have anything to report and was glad Sheriff Medrano didn’t have time to grill him. Romero knew these meetings were the Sheriff’s way of taking the heat off himself with the elected officials and the press, who took advantage of every opportunity they could find to nail him to the cross.
Some shitty day this had been. He was sulking about Jemimah treating him like dirt, blowing up over every little thing he said. Well, she would soon be history. Yeah, he would still have to work with her, but it would be strictly business. He was sick of trying to get something going.
And now, he was going over to McCabe’s to try to pull a rabbit out of a hat. He hadn’t accomplished much lately and the Sheriff was on his ass. McCabe was the Sheriff’s friend, Jemimah’s friend too. Damn, maybe he should have just gone out and had a few drinks, but he had already scheduled the appointment.
Chapter 11
Just in case the owner decided to travel all the way from Atlanta and show up unexpectedly, Charlie methodically cleaned up the ranch premises, task by task. He shoveled a three-month supply of manure from the paddocks and hid the moldy hay he had purchased behind a couple of fresh bales. He made a note to gather up the few cattle that wandered around the fifteen hundred acres.
There was an old nag wandering about the barnyard, her main enterprise being the swatting of flies with her tail. He returned her to the paddock and dug the curry comb out from under the cat’s litter box. He reminded himself to get her reshod. The second corral was empty, except for the gray Manx that had given birth to a litter in a cardboard box blown into a corner. The horse tolerated the mewing as long as Charlie slipped her a few oats. When old lady Crawford was alive, the nag had been a racehorse with a personal groomer. Hazel Crawford had co-owned the horse with an unscrupulous District Judge, and for a few years they had traveled the New Mexico circuit. The horse came in first place several times at Santa Fe Downs. Then the jockeys started fixing the races and dragged everyone down.
Hazel Crawford had owned the ranch in its glory days. The surrounding land was sparsely populated, there being more coyotes than people. A crack shot with a rifle, she hated trespassers. Without warning, she was apt to wing one their way to shoo them off. One time the old lady shot a man for running naked through her property. Hazel was less than five feet tall and didn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, as tough a cowgirl as Annie Oakley. Previously, she ran a brothel in Santa Fe and a popular bar called La Taverna. At the latter, she introduced country music. It was rumored she maintained another brothel in the town of Golden, a little ways up Highway 14, in two trailers behind the local tavern. On weekends she returned to the ranch to catch up on chores and help the mares deliver foals. She rode her horse with the best of them, pulling off the saddle like it weighed nothing.
If she’d had her way, Hazel Crawford would have left this earth fighting. She never believed in doctors, preferring to cure ailments with country medicine and the Two B’s—bed rest and Budweiser, followed by a Jim Beam chaser. But old Bud and Jim couldn’t cure this one. Cancer caught her at seventy-nine and by eighty had taken her down. To the end, every morning she woke up and reached for her pack of Pall Malls.
Charlie assumed that the detectives who’d interviewed him were done with him. But there was that scuttlebutt about the lady shrink and he figured she’d eventually come around for some reason or other. He had his alibi down pat about McCabe. Not so much about Bart. Good thing his on-again, off-again girlfriend Brenda hadn’t been around for a while. She never could keep a story straight.
Charlie finished his chores. The house was dark. He fumbled with the flashlight, looking for the switch to the generator. There was a loud hum and then the lights came on. He had a crazy premonition about the place. Maybe Hazel had come back to haunt him. Maybe the owner had sent a PI to spy on him. Maybe McCabe had friends who wanted to get even. He couldn’t put a finger on it. Last winter when he’d killed a deer on the Indian ruins, he had been dragging it back to the barn. It was dark as hell and he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He couldn’t drag that carcass fast enough.
Brenda had felt it too. When he turned the generator off at night, it was pitch black. Fine if there was a full moon, otherwise, so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. He couldn’t get Brenda to understand that this wasn’t the city, where there was electricity in the house and street lights on every corner. After a while he wised up and bought a case of votive candles. It gave the place a romantic feeling. Chicks liked that.
For the past couple of months, he’d been hearing some really strange noises in the middle of the night, like something being dragged across the yard. One time he even thought he saw light coming from the barn, but he knew the dog would have been barking like crazy if there was anyone around. And the next day, the dog wandered around like he’d been on an all-night toot.
Chapter 12
Chris Anaya was the Santa Fe County livestock Inspector. A short, pudgy Hispanic man with a military-style crew cut, he spent mornings listening to complaints about broken fences, cows grazing on private land and coyotes killing and eating pet ducks. He patiently took down the information and entered it on the requisite county forms. Afternoons, he visited the homes of the complainants and then the alleged offenders.
He was tough but fair. Most people hated to see him arrive. Chris was one year away from retirement and couldn’t wait. He had a section of the Pecos River all picked out to spend his days camping and fishing. Today he was headed to the Crawford Ranch to talk to Charlie Cooper about a complaint: his boss’s cattle had been grazing on neighboring land. Charlie said two o’clock was fine with him.
Anaya’s radio played Spanish music with guitars and accordions accompanying a si
nger belting out the lyrics. The old Rancheras were songs that epitomized the long-ago life of Mexican cowboys. Not much different than country western music, he mused. Someone’s always drunk, jilted or both.
As he soon as he stepped onto the Crawford Ranch, the mangy dog barked. Anaya carried a stash of dog biscuits in his pocket and tossed him one. Charlie greeted him at the door and invited him into the kitchen.
“Charlie, we got another complaint about your cows grazing on the Goodman Ranch. Crawford Lazy C brand on them. On the way over, I saw a section of fence down. Must be where they’re getting out. Need to get that fixed, otherwise I’ve got to issue a citation, and you know what a pain in the ass that can be.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’m on it,” said Charlie. “I’ve been fixing up the place, and mending fences is on my list.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t want to have to come all the way out here again,” he said. “Hey, can I use the John? I’ve been taking this medication and can’t stop the leaks.”
“No problem,” Charlie said. “Blue door on the right.”
He prayed under his breath that the generally nosy inspector couldn’t smell the residue from the load of weed he just cultivated. Charlie liked to imagine himself a cowboy right out of the old West. If these were old frontier times, I would kill the guy with one shot, Charlie thought. Anaya probably hadn’t noticed anything.
Charlie had picked up a gal named Jennifer at the bar earlier in the day. She sat at the kitchen table leafing through an old National Geographic, her sandaled feet propped up on a chair. Around twenty-two, she had delicate features with wide blue eyes, auburn hair pulled away from her face. She was decked out in white shorts and a blue tank top. She stood up as Anaya came out of the bathroom.
“Hey, listen Charlie,” she said. “Maybe I can just catch a ride back to town with this guy. How about it, Mister? I have a class at the community college, and I can’t miss another one.”
“Sorry,” Anaya said. “Against the rules to give citizens rides in county vehicles. I can’t tell you how sad that makes me.” What was wrong with him, anyway? Besides, she was an awfully pretty girl, a little young to hang around the likes of Charlie.
“Aw, who’s going to know the difference?” Jennifer asked. “I ain’t going to take an ad out in the papers that you gave a stranger a ride in your official vehicle.”
Charlie had a feeling he wasn’t the first law enforcement officer she’d talked out of something, or into something. He wasn’t sure he liked the way things were going. They’d smoked a little weed and did a turn in the sack, but for a gal that cute, Charlie could get it up three or four times. All he could think of to say was, “Hey.”
“Well, maybe it wouldn’t be too much of a problem,” Anaya said. He had a reputation himself for being a ladies’ man, but Charlie sure did have a knack for picking the lookers.
“Nah, that’s all right,” Charlie spoke up. Maybe he wasn’t through with her after all. He could tell by that shit-eating grin on Anaya’s face that he had plans for Jenny. “I can get you back in time. It’s only four.”
But Jennifer insisted. “No use you making a special trip when he’s going in that direction. Give you a chance to fix that fence, if you don’t have to carry me to town. Besides, this guy is going in that direction. Seems such a waste of gas.”
“Since it’s the end of my day, I guess it’d be okay.” Anaya was aware he was on thin ice with his superiors, but it was almost quitting time and besides, who was going to see him way out here in the sticks.
Charlie thought he would choke. “Sure, why not. Make sure she gets home in one piece.”
Anaya smiled and shook his hand. “Be sure to take care of that fence, Charlie. I don’t want to have to come all the way out here again.”
“Thanks anyway,” Jennifer said. “It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” she smiled and smoothed her tank top over her shorts.
“Shit,” Charlie said as they closed the door behind them. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Chapter 13
McCabe sat on a leather recliner, his feet propped up on the hassock. At almost six feet, he towered over his wife. His light brown hair was sun streaked to almost blond. His nose had a slight curve from a fracture when he was ten. Without warning, his sister had pushed the wooden swing back to him, knocking him unconscious.
No matter how much money he had in the bank, McCabe remained a blue-jeans kind of guy. He had grown up on a ranch near Kooskia, Idaho, where he spent his childhood riding around the plains helping the foreman gather horses and cattle. He was a cowboy at heart and, by the time he enlisted in the Navy, a seasoned rider. McCabe was pushing fifty-five. Aside from five or so of what he called burrito pounds, he was in good shape and spent time keeping fit.
His father had been the sheriff, judge and coroner of the small town in the middle of the Bitterroot Mountains of Idaho. His mother had been an elementary school teacher. Retired, they spent their summers fishing and camping. They came to Santa Fe for three months out of the year, staying in a small adobe casita McCabe added on to the back of the house. They would be arriving next week.
McCabe had followed in his father’s footsteps as County Sheriff in Idaho. He sorely missed his days in law enforcement but knew he would miss his wife more if he took it up again. He was content to accommodate the local Sheriff anytime he asked McCabe to sit in on an investigation. The present case, involving his own shooting, was a little too close to home.
Laura came from the kitchen in response to the ringing doorbell. Rick Romero stood on the veranda.
“Oh, Officer Romero, we’ve been expecting you. Tim’s in the living room.” She grasped his hand warmly.
Laura directed Romero into the large high-ceilinged room. McCabe got up to greet him, shook his hand, and pointed to the couch next to him. The room was the size of Romero’s entire house. Laura brought in a silver service on a large platter and served them coffee.
“Mr. McCabe,” Romero said as he balanced the expensive cup precariously on the small saucer. “It’s good to see you’ve recovered.”
“Doing just fine,” McCabe said. “Another few days and I’ll be like new. Anxious to get back to living. Any news on the fellow who took a potshot at me?”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here. How much do you know about the Crawford Ranch’s hired help, Charlie Cooper?” he asked.
“Charlie? Known him since I bought the Indian ruins next to that old ranch,” McCabe said. “So that’s about a year now. We haven’t had too much interaction. I spent the night in the bunkhouse on occasion when I couldn’t cross the Galisteo River. Then I hired him to keep an eye on the ruins. That’s pretty much it.”
“What is there on the Indian ruins that sparks everyone’s interest?” Romero asked.
“Well, up to this point I’ve just been doing some surface exploration. You know, going out there on weekends, digging around. Nothing serious. A few arrowheads here and there, pieces of pottery and the like. I’m waiting for the University archaeological team to come up in a few weeks, and then the serious work will begin. We’ve done all the grid work and preliminary preparations. I have a pretty good idea of what we’re going to find. This is a prehistoric pueblo, one of the few on private property. It’s also a rare opportunity to document progress on a dig from beginning to end.”
“This might sound like a dumb question, but any chance that there’s gold or uranium or something valuable out there?”
“Well, you know, in the late 1800s the hills around the Ortiz Mountains were filled with gold, sparking a horde of prospectors to converge on the area. That dried up a few years later. I’m not saying there’s not any gold out there, but it’s not enough to shoot someone over.”
“I wouldn’t think you could pan for gold on private property,” Romero said.
“If there was any gold, it would be governed by the individual property owner’s mineral rights. Sometimes the original owner sold the property and r
etained the rights. It’s all pretty mixed up out there,” McCabe said.
“I guess I’m grasping at straws,” Romero said. “So far we’ve hit a block wall on who shot you. At first we thought it might have been a stray bullet, but you mentioned you thought you heard someone nearby.”
“Pretty much what I recall. Sounded like a footstep, but hell, it might’ve been a coyote or a bird.” McCabe looked at Laura, who replenished their coffee. “And by the way, Lieutenant, while we’re on the subject of criminals. There’s something else I wanted to discuss with you.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Romero smiled.
“I’m pretty danged angry that nothing at all has been done about the gallery break-in that took place the same day I was shot. It just infuriates me that no arrests have been made.”
“That’s out of our jurisdiction, Tim. Anything within the city limits goes to the Santa Fe PD. It’s up to their investigators to come up with something.”
“Well maybe Sheriff Medrano can light a fire under them. Scared Laura half to death,” said McCabe, glancing at his wife.
Laura chimed in. “Yes, if it hadn’t been for those nice young men from the gallery next door, I don’t know what would have happened. They chased them off into the next block.”
“I’m sorry you had to experience that, Mrs. McCabe. I’ll be sure to mention it to Sheriff Medrano,” Romero said.
Twenty minutes later, Romero stood up, shook McCabe’s hand and thanked him for his time. Nothing they had talked about was going to be much help.
“Give my regards to the Sheriff,” McCabe said.
“I’ll do that,” said Romero. “Thank you both for your hospitality. I’ll be in touch.”
Shadows among the Ruins Page 4
