Dead or Alive
Page 5
A row of mailboxes stood at the front of a gravel walkway that led to the apartments, and the front yard was packed dirt used as parking spaces that butted up to the porch. Cooper’s apartment, an end unit, had a privacy fence that enclosed a small patio at the back. Using her flashlight, Ramona checked the patio, the front door, and the exterior windows for any visible signs of forced entry and found none.
Inside the apartment, Jeannie Cooper’s body was sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, mouth open, one arm dangling over the side of the couch, the other positioned on the armrest above her head. Ramona looked at the fresh bruises and marks on the face, the red strangulation marks around the neck, and the discoloration at the corners of the mouth that suggested the woman’s mouth had been forced open. She bent over and gently opened the mouth and saw several pills at the back of the throat.
She stepped back, keyed her handheld radio, advised the shift captain on duty of the ten-zero-one—her fifth homicide of the year—and called out the crime scene unit, her two on-duty detectives, and the medical investigator.
Back outside, Officer Gavin waited at his unit with Sally Newcomb. He gave Ramona the microcassette containing Newcomb’s tape-recorded witness statement.
Ramona pocketed the cassette and asked Newcomb to stay with Officer Gavin until the detectives arrived and they could ask her about Jeannie Cooper’s personal life.
Newcomb’s expression turned somber. “Do you think she was murdered?”
“We have to look at all the possibilities.”
“I saw the marks on her face, but I just thought that Jeannie had mutilated herself again,” Newcomb said. “She always does that when she gets depressed. And besides, as far as a personal life goes she hasn’t had one since she started her own landscaping company in the spring.”
Ramona smiled. “That’s exactly the kind of information that could be very helpful to us.”
Radio traffic on her handheld told Ramona that the detectives and crime scene unit were five minutes out. She used the time to start questioning the residents in the other apartments. Two hours later, she had a homicide with no witnesses, no apparent motive, and no suspects. She huddled with her two detectives, Beatty and Olivas, while the MI and crime scene techs finished up inside the apartment.
“We could expand the canvass,” Beatty said, “but I don’t think it would do any good.”
“Agreed,” Ramona said, “although I think come morning we should talk to the business owners in the neighborhood to find out if they saw anyone hanging around in the late afternoon.”
“I’ll do it,” Olivas said, sounding dour, which was more his prevailing outlook on life than an attitude in need of adjustment.
“Okay.” Ramona handed Beatty a notebook she’d found in Cooper’s truck. “There’s a list of her clients and jobs in there. Make some calls and talk to the people she has been working for.”
Beatty, a thick-set, middle-aged man who suffered from serious allergies, sniffled and nodded. “Sally Newcomb told me who Cooper used to work for.” He consulted his notes. “His name is Daniel Peck. Owns a company called Milagro Landscaping. I found his home phone number and address in the telephone directory.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Ramona said.
Beatty rattled off Peck’s phone number and address.
Ramona wrote them on her notepad. “Did Newcomb know if Cooper was seeing anyone six months to a year ago?”
Beatty put his finger to his nose and sniffled. “She doesn’t think there was anybody special, and she couldn’t give me any names of who Cooper had seen in the past. But then, I got the feeling from Newcomb that she may have been interested in reeling Cooper in for herself.”
“Interesting,” Ramona said. “Note that in your narrative, so we can follow up on it if need be.” She nodded toward the apartment. “This homicide has some wrinkles, but by the way the murder was committed, I don’t think jealousy or lust was the motive. The perp forced the pills down Cooper’s throat, which suggests he was angry at her for some reason.”
“Are you thinking the perp is male?” Beatty asked.
“The bruise marks on Cooper’s neck suggest that,” Ramona replied.
“For a female, Newcomb has large hands,” Beatty noted.
“I’m not ruling her out,” Ramona said. “The sloppy attempt made to mask the killing as a suicide tells me that the killer knew the victim. I’d like both of you to take another look inside the apartment. Find me something that will link the victim to a suspect—a romantic entanglement, an illicit relationship, a conflict with a neighbor, former colleague, or ex-lover—whatever. You know the routine.”
“Maybe we’ll find some love letters or a diary containing revealing and damaging tidbits,” Olivas said as he started toward the apartment.
“You really think so?” Beatty asked with sarcastic enthusiasm as he caught up with his partner.
“Nah,” Olivas grumbled. “Nothing is that easy.”
Pino flipped open her cell phone, dialed Daniel Peck’s number, and got his answering machine. She left a message, went to her unit, and drove to Peck’s residence, a post-World War Two pueblo-style house in the Casa Solana neighborhood, which had been the site of a Japanese-American internment camp during the war.
Lights were on inside the house, so Ramona parked and rang the bell. A deeply tanned man in his early fifties with short-cut gray hair answered. He wore a short-sleeved V-neck undershirt that revealed a Marine Corps tattoo on his left forearm. He had pleasant features and crinkly blue eyes.
Ramona flashed her shield and ID. “Daniel Peck?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Lieutenant Pino and I need to ask you some questions about Jeannie Cooper.”
“I haven’t seen her since she quit working for me to start her own business. Did she overdose and get taken to the emergency room again?”
“No, she’s dead.”
Peck looked stunned. “She finally went and did it.”
“No, she was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“It appears that way.”
“Poor Jeannie,” Peck said with a sigh. “She was such a gentle, lost soul, except when she got too manic or too down in the dumps. Then you must be looking for Craig Larson, right?”
“Why do you say that?” Pino asked.
“Because I’ve been watching the TV news story about his escape today from that prison guard he almost killed. My company did landscape and garden maintenance at the Bedford estate. Jeannie and Larson had a thing going right up to the time he went to trial for embezzling all that money.”
“You know that for a fact?”
Peck nodded. “I saw it with my own eyes, and Jeannie told me all about it.”
“What reason would he have to kill Jeannie?”
“You’ve got me,” Peck answered.
There was no way Peck could know about the murder of Riley Burke at Kevin Kerney’s ranch or the discovery of the abandoned pickup truck Larson had used to abduct Lenny Hampson from his Springer auto body repair shop. Ramona doubted he was deflecting suspicion from himself. Still, she needed to rule him out as a suspect.
“Can you account for your time since about four this afternoon, Mr. Peck?” she asked.
“You bet I can, Lieutenant. I kept a six-man crew working at a landscaping installation job until six-thirty and then went directly from there to a chapter meeting of Veterans for Peace.”
“I’ll probably want to talk to you again.”
“Maybe we can have that talk over a drink, Lieutenant.” Peck took out his wallet and gave Ramona a business card. “Once you’ve cleared me as a suspect, that is. I’ve been told that I clean up nicely. Best to call me on my cell phone.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Peck,” Ramona said stiffly.
She headed back to the Cooper crime scene. If Peck’s hunch about Craig Larson was right, he might still be in the city. By radio, Ramona put the word out to intensify the search for Larson.
“My, my, he’s been a busy boy today,” Russell said.
“It’s not confirmed that he’s the perp.”
“Did you find the red Jeep?”
“Negative,” Pino replied.
“Is your victim’s vehicle missing?” Thorpe asked.
“Negative.”
“Interesting,” Thorpe said. “Let’s debrief when you wrap up your preliminary.”
“Ten-four, your place or mine?”
“At Chief Baca’s ten-nineteen.”
“Affirmative.”
It was going to be a long night, and although Ramona stayed focused on the tasks ahead, she couldn’t help wonder if Daniel Peck’s unexpected come-on had been sincere or just a ration of BS.
Craig Larson spent a nervous couple of hours waiting for the last shuttle of the night to the Albuquerque airport. He killed the time in the small Santa Fe River Park that paralleled East Alameda, where he could keep an eye out for the arrival of the bus at the hotel across the street. When it showed up, he hurried across Old Santa Fe Trail and joined the half dozen tourists waiting to board. Once on board, he found a seat away from the rest of the passengers and pretended to sleep.
At the Albuquerque airport, Larson went inside, used the lavatory, went back outside, and took a courtesy bus to the airport parking lot on Yale Boulevard. After getting off at a row in the back of the lot, he waited until the driver left on another run to the terminal before slipping through the entrance gate when the attendant wasn’t looking.
He hoofed it along Yale Boulevard to Central Avenue, a good two-mile walk, tensing up when spurts of traffic passed him on the roadway, thinking for sure some gung-ho cop would stop and want to question him about walking along the street late at night. He made it to Central Avenue, where Yale dead-ended. At a nearby all-night drugstore, he bought a local paper, some snack food, and a drink, and walked up Central to the next city bus stop. A sign posted at the bus stop told him he’d arrived ten minutes before the last run of the night.
While he waited, he chewed on the snacks, washed them down with soda, and thought about what he would do after he checked into a cheap motel on East Central where nobody would remember his face or care what name he used as long as he paid cash and didn’t cause any trouble. First, take a hot shower to wash the grime off; second, get some sleep; third, find a good greasy spoon in the morning for a big breakfast; and finally, look in the newspaper for a car to buy from a private party.
That was as far as Larson wanted to take it for the night. It had been an exhausting day.
Chapter Three
At ten minutes after two in the morning, Russell Thorpe dropped Clayton off at the budget motel on Cerrillos Road where Grace had rented a room. Clayton got a key from a drowsy front desk clerk and quietly unlocked the door to find Wendell and Hannah asleep in one of the double beds and Grace fully dressed sitting wide awake in a chair at a small table by the window. Grace put a finger to her lips, picked up the keys to the sedan, and motioned for Clayton to join her outside.
They sat in the car with the windows open, cooled by a slight breeze. There was just enough illumination from the parking lot lights for Clayton to see that his wife wasn’t happy.
“Well?” Grace asked. She avoided looking at Clayton, her eyes glued on the door to their room.
“I’m not canceling our vacation, if that’s what you’re worried about. Sheriff Hewitt ordered me to have nothing more to do with the investigation after tonight, and that’s fine with me.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m due in class at the academy in a little under seven hours.”
“What took you so long tonight?”
“I had to break the news to Riley’s wife, Lynette, and his parents, brief the state police chief, call Kerney in London, give a statement to the investigating officers, and talk to a city detective about another homicide by the same perpetrator.”
“And that took you hours and hours?”
“Yes, sometimes it does,” Clayton replied. “I don’t want to argue with you about this at two in the morning.”
“What did Kerney say when you spoke to him?”
“He’s very angry and upset. He’s leaving for Santa Fe as soon as he can get a flight out. He wants us to stay at the ranch as planned.”
“Are Sara and Patrick coming with him?”
“No,” Clayton answered. “He’ll let me know later in the day when he’s due to arrive.” Grace still hadn’t looked at him—not a good sign. “How are the children doing?”
Grace sighed. “They were completely hyper until exhaustion set in and they couldn’t keep their eyes open for another second. I’m not sure I want to take them back to the ranch so soon after what they saw.”
“They didn’t see anything,” Clayton replied.
“They’re children,” Grace shot back.
“And the best thing we can do for them right now is not make a big deal about what happened at the ranch. If we stay away, it will only make them think that we fear this death, and that would be wrong for us to do. Riley Burke’s wife and family will help him travel from this world to the next, so there is no witchery or ghost sickness to worry about.”
Grace looked at her husband. He’d made a valid point. She’d been thinking purely as an Apache, which wasn’t completely necessary for her to do. After all, this was a situation where Mescalero rituals didn’t really apply.
“You’re right,” she said. “Have the police finished their work at the ranch?”
Clayton nodded. “Except for a broken patio door, everything has been put right. Chief Baca assigned a patrol officer to keep an eye on the place until we show up. I told him we’d be there around eight.”
“You were sure I’d go back?” Grace asked.
“Not really. But I figured if you did want to return to Mescalero with the children, I’d have to stay behind to complete the academy course, get the broken patio door fixed, and look after the place until Kerney arrived.”
“You’ll go with us to the ranch before you start your class?” Grace asked.
Clayton smiled. “Absolutely, but if I’m going to be worth a plugged nickel, I’d better get some shut-eye.”
Grace leaned over and kissed Clayton’s cheek. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Clayton said as he pulled her close for a hug.
Grace tucked her head against Clayton’s chest. “All of us should wear something black tomorrow.”
Clayton nodded. Black helped to protect the living from the dead who might want company on their journey. “Of course,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Kerney had gotten the call from Clayton at six A.M. London time just as he was rousing Patrick out of bed. The two of them had been on their own for the last two nights while Sara was at a Royal Army base in the Midlands.
The news of Riley Burke’s murder had stunned him into silence. He liked Riley immensely, trusted him completely, and had come to rely upon him as the driving force in their partnership to raise, train, and sell world-class competition cutting horses. He saw a good bit of his younger self in Riley. Both were ranch-raised, loved the land, and grew up dreaming of making a livelihood as ranchers like their parents and grandparents before them. Kerney’s parents had lost their ranch when the government took it over to expand White Sands Missile Range on the Tularosa Basin in south central New Mexico, while Riley’s parents had managed to hang on to most of their Galisteo Basin property in spite of the financial ups and downs of cattle ranching.
Kerney had worked side by side with Riley long enough to know that if Patrick grew up anything like him, he would be about as proud as a father could get.
As he fixed breakfast, Kerney didn’t say a word to Patrick about Riley’s death. Over the course of the last few months the family had been in Santa Fe, Riley had spent a lot of time at th
e ranch working with the horses, and Patrick had become quite fond of him, often tagging along at his heels asking endless questions that Riley handled graciously. During those months, Riley and his wife, Lynette, had come to dinner at the ranch several times and the friendship among all of them had deepened.
Breakfast over, Patrick washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and dressed for preschool. In the drizzle that seemed to be a permanent fixture of the London cityscape, Kerney walked with Patrick through the streets of Knightsbridge to the school, which was housed in a Georgian mansion.
Patrick was still adjusting to living in London, and Kerney wasn’t all that much ahead of him. The city was a marvelous place, vibrant, chock full of things to do and see, and they hadn’t even scratched the surface. But what father and son both loved best was those afternoons after school when they hurried to the Knightsbridge station, took the tube to Lancaster Gate, walked a few short blocks to Bathurst Mews, and rented horses to ride in Hyde Park.
Tucked on a cobblestone lane in an upscale neighborhood, the mews was a hidden-away combination of stables and small houses converted from stables. Before Kerney and Patrick were allowed to ride in the park without an escort, both had had to show that they were proficient on horseback, which they demonstrated with ease for the certified riding instructor, who’d voiced serious doubts about Patrick’s ability to handle the spirited pony he’d picked out.
At the school, Kerney gave Patrick a hug, turned him loose, and watched as he skirted the group of children who had already arrived in favor of a quiet corner where storybooks were arranged on a row of low shelves. According to the school’s director, Patrick had to be urged to join in group activities and play, and Kerney was beginning to worry some about his usually very gregarious son. When he turned four in a few months, he’d attend a nearby private junior school with an excellent reputation that charged a hefty quarterly tuition. His curriculum as a beginning student in what was called the Small School Department, for children ages four to six, would include English, mathematics, reading, and handwriting, along with exposure to history, geography, French, art, music, religious studies, and sports.