“Any of these women look familiar to you?” Martinez asked.
The manager shifted his feet. He continued to stack six-packs of beer into the cooler.
“Take a good look,” he repeated. “I’m collecting information on any of these women. Most of them have been missing for around six months.”
The manager glanced at his clerk and said nothing. Martinez was beginning to seethe.
“Do you speak English? Look, I’m not La Migra and I don’t care if you have a green card or not. That’s not what I’m here for. I need information on these women. But if you continue to act suspicious. I will take you in for questioning.”
The manager stopped stacking boxes and motioned Martinez into a small office next to the bathroom. Martinez spread the pictures out on a desk overflowing with papers. He flicked on a gooseneck lamp and looked at each photos carefully. After a while he pointed to two of the women.
“This one, maybe I know,” he said in broken English. “Come in with that tall guy that works rancho in Cerrillos. Buy gas here all the time. Maybe cerveza and maybe whiskey, I don’t ’member for sure.”
“What makes you remember her?” Martinez asked.
“Well, she was pretty. Muy Chiquita, and had big chi-chis, you know,” he motioned with his hands in front of his chest. “This guy always had pretty girls with him. And this one,” he pointed to one of the other photos, “she was wearing shorts and had real long legs.” He paused, still looking through the photos. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of the others.”
“Gracias,” said Martinez. “You’ve been a big help.”
The manager beamed and went back to restocking the coolers.
Martinez went out to his cruiser, removed his suit jacket and threw it over the passenger seat. He loosened his tie, sat for a few minutes and wrote down the notes of the interview. Then he headed toward Cerrillos. Maybe he could get some additional information there.
His first stop was at the ancient 1880s Wortley Hotel on Front Street, next to the Simoni Store. Hollywood producers loved Cerrillos as a backdrop for their cowboy movies. The ghost town was definitely a page out of the old West. He wondered if the hotel attracted many customers. It didn’t look as though the owners had added many modern conveniences.
Martinez introduced himself to the desk clerk, a Reggae-hippie type with matted dreadlocks, which appeared to be overdue for a good shampooing. A strong odor of pot permeated the room, but unless he needed to involve a little blackmail in case the guy was recalcitrant, he would ignore it.
“Hey.” The clerk turned and pulled the chain on an overhead fan so that it ramped up to top speed. “What can I do for you?”
“Detective Martinez of the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to show you some photos and see if you can identify any of the women.”
“Sure, whatever I can do,” said the clerk.
Martinez spread the photos out on the front desk. The clerk stared at them for several minutes. Finally, he pointed to one of the women.
“This one. I recognize her. She comes in here about once a month or so, or at least she used to. She and her male companion would spend a few hours in Room 214 and then leave,” he said.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Around Christmas; sometime around there. I know it was toward the end of December. It was snowing. Her friends had dropped her off, like they usually did, and then they took off. But the guy she normally met here didn’t show up that time. She waited awhile and then hitched a ride to Madrid, said she needed a drink. She was pretty pissed, as I recall.”
“Do you have any records, maybe the guy’s name?”
“Not really. Most of the people who spend only the afternoon here pay in cash. We don’t even bother filling out the information card. It’s usually all bogus anyway.”
Martinez thanked him and decided he’d pass on driving to the bar in Madrid until he was wearing more casual clothes. No use freaking everybody out by driving up in a police car. He didn’t expect to gather much information there anyway.
Chapter 18
A week after his confrontation with Charlie, Bart Wolfe was released from the hospital. Detective Clyde Martinez had been assigned to the case and wanted to talk to him before he left. Bart sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to pull on his boots but still too weak. An orderly came in to help.
“Hope you got a boot jack at home, Bart.”
The orderly smirked. “Otherwise you’re gonna have a heck of a time getting these damned boots off. You might want to switch to sneakers. Maybe a slip-on.”
“You mean them sissy shoes?” Bart laughed.
“No thanks! I’ll find me a pretty girl to help with ’em.”
The orderly leaned forward to help button his shirt. Bart pulled away.
“Thanks, but I can do this.”
“No problemo,” said the orderly. “Well, on to the next victim.”
Detective Martinez introduced himself and handed Bart his card.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
Bart eyed Martinez sideways. Deprived of drugs and alcohol for over a week, he was edgy and anxious to get out of this place.
“What do you remember about the events leading up to your getting shot?” said Martinez.
“You mean what happened before I got shot?”
Bart was impatient to get this unexpected visit over.
“Yeah,” said Martinez.
“Went over to the Crawford Ranch to see Charlie. Looking for my girlfriend Linda. I hadn’t seen her since she left the bar with him over a month ago. You know, it seems like she just disappeared out of the blue. Anyway, I figured she had hooked up with Charlie and they were playing house, you know what I mean. And I wanted to find out so I could pack up her crap and get it out of my house,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Where was Charlie at that time? Was he at the ranch?”
“When I was driving up to the ranch I thought I saw him walking across the field with his .22 rifle over his shoulder, so I drove onto the ruins instead,” Bart said.
“What happened when you got to the ruins?” asked Martinez. Getting information from Bart was like pulling teeth.
“Charlie told me to get the hell out of there. Claimed he ain’t seen Linda. Things got a little heated and next thing you know I was in the hospital,” said Bart.
“Are you willing to file a complaint against Mr. Cooper at this time?” Martinez asked.
“Don’t see any point in it. You guys going to arrest him or just pussy-foot around like you usually do?” Bart asked. He didn’t want to get involved. Charlie was going to say Bart came at him with his knife, and they would both get locked up. It was his word against Charlie’s. He could handle this thing himself. Get even with Charlie for taking his girl. Son of a bitch had no right to go around stealing a guy’s woman. Heck, he was crazy about Linda. Where the hell was she, anyway?
“Well, I’m going to arrest Charlie in the morning,” Martinez said. “So you better get your story straight.”
Chapter 19
Early the next morning, accompanied by a young deputy, Detective Martinez drove to the Crawford Ranch. He and his deputy waited at the door for Charlie to answer it. Charlie did not appear too happy to see guests showing up so early in the day. He leaned against the door frame. His boxer shorts looked like they’d never been laundered, although he had on a pair of clean white tube socks.
“You Charlie Cooper?” Martinez asked.
“Yeah, what do you want?” Charlie stifled a yawn and scratched his behind.
“I’m arresting you for assault with a deadly weapon against one Bart Wolfe. You’re going to have to come with us.”
“Give me a chance to throw some clothes on,” said Charlie.
The deputy read Charlie his rights, handcuffed him and led him out to the car. Charlie asked if he could make a phone call, so the deputy handed him his cell. He dialed Brenda’s number.
“Hello.
” Brenda sounded half asleep.
“Listen to me. I’ve only got a minute,”
Charlie barked.
“Hey, Charlie. Something wrong—what’s going on?” she asked.
“Can’t talk now. I need you to get in touch with Joe Snead. His number’s in the Yellow Pages. Tell him to meet me at the County Detention Center on Highway 14 as soon as he can get there. I’ll explain later.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Just do it, Brenda. I gotta go,” he snapped.
Detective Martinez held Charlie’s head down and the deputy helped guide him into the back seat of the cruiser. Martinez opened the front door and got in. The deputy followed after securing Charlie’s door. An iron mesh screen separated the back seat from the front.
Although mad as hell at being arrested, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief that the cops hadn’t searched his place. The deputy had grabbed his rifle from the kitchen table, but nothing else. Charlie decided he would be very cooperative.
The Santa Fe County Adult Detention Center building was a long two-story split level brick and cement building. Arriving at the complex, the cruiser stopped at a metal gate at the end of a long driveway next to a chain link fence. The deputy punched in a code and the gate slid open.
Martinez parked and the deputy assisted Charlie out of the car and nudged him to the door. They entered through automatic sliding doors. Martinez handed the arresting documents to the jailer and removed the handcuffs from Charlie’s wrists. Charlie was then hustled into the booking room and given over to a clerk named Martha.
Charlie stood silent as he was photographed and fingerprinted. Snead should have been here by now, he thought. Where the hell was he?
His stomach growled as he automatically answered their stupid questions. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. Brenda would be hysterical by now, wondering what was going on. He removed his watch and a turquoise ring and handed them to the booking clerk, emptied his pockets, and placed his wallet and some coins on the counter, along with a silver money clip with a few bills, which the clerk counted out and noted on the envelope.
“Is that it?” Martha the clerk popped her gum with a loud crack. If there was anything sexy about her, it escaped Charlie’s generally keen eye. She was on the portly side, with a bit more makeup than Charlie cared for. The almost black lipstick lining her lips matched the dark color on her fingertips, and she looked older than the twenty-five years she probably was. While processing Charlie’s belongings, she carried on a conversation with the guard standing next to him, fluttering her long feathery eyelashes while she rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her Farrah Fawcett hairdo. The guard ate it all up. I could walk out the door while those two play footsie, Charlie thought. He kept his eye on the door. No sign of Snead yet.
Finally, Martinez directed him into the interrogation room. He motioned for Charlie to sit, offered him a cigarette and a light. Charlie declined and Martinez fired up one for himself. Charlie slumped in the chair.
“Charlie, just to get the record straight and give you the opportunity to make your statement a part of the record, I need to ask you a couple of questions,” said Martinez.
“I’ll wait for Snead,” Charlie said.
“Just a few vanilla questions,” Martinez said.
‘Like what?” Charlie rubbed his wrists.
“Tell me what happened when you had the run-in with Bart,” Martinez said. “You told Detective Romero you weren’t around that afternoon, but we know different, don’t we? So tell me what happened.”
“Vanilla, huh? You call that vanilla? I’ll wait for Snead.”
Martinez snuffed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “Why do you want to waste your money on that two-bit shyster?”
“What are you booking me for?” Charlie asked.
“Attempted murder of Bart Wolfe.”
“Yeah, that sounds real vanilla.” Charlie swatted at a pesky fly that was buzzing his neck.
“Well, just give me a little basic information.”
“Try me.”
“What were you doing at the ruins on—uh—two weeks ago on Friday around five-thirty in the afternoon? You told Lt. Romero you were at the vet all day, but we know you got home in the middle of the afternoon.”
“You know, McCabe pays me to keep an eye on them and chase away the riffraff that show up periodically. That’s what I was doing, chasing away the riffraff.” Charlie was getting suspicious. “You sure Snead hasn’t showed up and you’re making him wait in your anteroom?”
“No sign of the esteemed gentleman.” Martinez scribbled doodles on the pad in front of him.
Charlie thought he was trying to make up for the crap earlier when he called Snead a two-bit shyster. “Well, I think I’d better wait for him.”
“Bart showed up that afternoon, didn’t he?” Martinez plunged ahead. “He the kind of riffraff you try to keep away?” He stood up, walked around the chair and flexed his fingers.
“You got that one right,” Charlie said. “Mark one up for the super-duper detective. Here’s another tidbit for you. Bart was drunk out of his mind. Or high. Or both. He started getting belligerent. Claimed I owed him twenty bucks. And that I was screwing his girlfriend.”
“So you shot him?”
“So he pulled a knife out and lunged at me. Then he grabbed for my rifle and wanted to shoot me with it. I got mad and jerked back. It went off when he tripped and fell toward me. I didn’t intend to kill him. Heck, I didn’t even intend to shoot him. I always carry my .22 with me in case I see a rattler.”
Charlie was just getting started.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yeah?” Martinez asked.
The clerk stepped in. “Detective, Mr. Snead is in the waiting room,” she said.
“All right, we’re done here. You can show him in,” said Martinez.
Snead wore a dark pinstriped two-piece suit, a pink silk shirt and a tie. His skin was tanned and his hair combed back into a neat ponytail. “Detective Martinez, we meet again.” He gave Martinez an oily smile.
“How’s it going, there, counselor?” Martinez gave him a weak smile.
“Great, can’t complain,” said Snead.
“I’ll leave so you can talk to your client,” Martinez said, but instead sat down to make some notations in the file.
John Snead was a well known fixture among legal circles in Northern New Mexico. He was in his sixties and had been a criminal attorney for most of his career. It was a lucrative profession, from the looks of the pricey jet black BMW X6 out in the parking lot. His great-grandfather was an old Santa Fe politician who it was rumored bilked native Santa Fe Hispanos out of land on upper Canyon Road, sold it to his Anglo cronies and kept a big chunk for himself. Cozy little deal, Martinez thought. Provided a pot of gold for Snead and his two brothers.
“About time you got here,” Charlie said.
Snead pulled out a chair, dusted it with his handkerchief, and sat down. He didn’t bother to shake Charlie’s hand.
“First things first, Charlie. Relax. I’ll enter a plea on your behalf and you don’t have to say anything. The DA will ask for bail to be denied and that you be held without bond. I’ll argue that it was an accidental shooting. If the Judge won’t agree to a cash bond, you’re here until the preliminary hearing. I’ve already called the bondsman. You’ll be out of here in a couple of hours. Everything’s fine, so just relax.”
The room went quiet for a moment. Martinez was scribbling on his pad. Charlie crossed his arms. Snead looked at him.
“What?” Charlie asked.
“When the bail bondsman releases you, Charlie, bring me five big ones.”
Charlie wasn’t sure whether he meant bills or bricks. “What’s that for?”
“Retainer,” Snead smiled.
“Yeah, yeah. Bring you a bundle of your favorite green stuff on Monday,” Charlie smirked.
The guard took Charlie down a long hallway. A buzzer sou
nded and an electronic lock opened the door to a large warehouse-sized room divided into eight compartments. In each cell there was a concrete slab with a thin mattress and pillow, a steel sink with cold water, a stainless steel toilet and urinal. He could smell the stench coming from the wino in the next cell.
“This sure as hell ain’t no four-star establishment,” Charlie said to anyone within earshot. He was glad he was only going to be there a few hours.
But it was morning before he was released on bond. He called Brenda to pick him up in front of the complex, and told her to hurry it up.
Chapter 20
Every year in July tourists converged on Santa Fe like swallows returning to Capistrano. With warmer, longer days, it was easy to forget how long and harsh the winter had been. This had been the second year in a row that residents had awakened in February to a two-foot snowfall with four foot drifts, yet the hard times were easily forgotten once spring arrived and tulips and daffodils pushed their way up for warmth and sunshine. Summertime heat made everyone forget there had even been a winter.
Several events were scheduled in the coming weeks for both tourists and locals. In addition to the ethnographic art shows, there was an International Folk Art Market held on the museum grounds just around the corner from the McCabe residence. This event was attended by hordes of buyers looking for bargains from a country they would most likely never visit. On the final weekend was the Spanish Market, which took up the entire area surrounding the Plaza. It was the only time of year Native American vendors were not allowed to hawk their wares under the portal of the Palace of the Governors, their shiny silver jewelry, pottery and beadwork spread out on colorful rugs and blankets over the cold brick sidewalk.
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