The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  “When was that?”

  Bodean consulted a day planner. “Six weeks to the day. Joe had seven admissions here during the last four or five years. A couple of times he discharged himself before completing the rehab program. About the best we could do for him was get him through detoxification. He got kicked out of every halfway house we placed him in for drinking.”

  “Did he make any friends here?”

  “He liked to hang out with a couple of guys.”

  “Can you give me names and addresses?”

  “Sure. One of them is here right now, going through rehab.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “No problem,” Bodean said.

  “Was Humphrey homeless?”

  “No, he was more like a transient. He always stayed at one of the motels on Central Avenue where whores take their tricks.”

  “He used prostitutes?”

  “Yep.”

  “Any one in particular?”

  “That I wouldn’t know.”

  “How did Humphrey get by financially?”

  Bodean opened a desk drawer, pulled out a file, and flipped some papers. “He had a VA disability pension that paid him six hundred a month. He used to get welfare until they changed the law. This isn’t the Betty Ford Clinic. We get the alcoholics who can’t pay, and if they have a few hundred bucks, they’ll hide it to avoid paying for treatment.”

  “Do you think Humphrey was like that?”

  “I always wondered how he was able to stay off the streets on six hundred a month. Even at twenty bucks a night, a motel room would eat up his whole check. And he always seemed to have cigarette and Coke money.”

  “Did he leave any personal belongings here?”

  “We don’t allow that.”

  “Did he get close to any of the female patients?”

  “We don’t allow that, either.”

  “It never happens?”

  Bodean shrugged. “We break it up when it does. But I never saw Joe put moves on any of the female patients. And believe me, I would’ve heard about it in group therapy if he had.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “Not that I know about. He wasn’t a mean drunk, or the argumentative type. He was a quiet boozer.”

  “Any personal stuff come out in treatment?”

  Bodean lifted a shoulder. “The usual: an abusive father who abandoned the family, a mother who drank.”

  “Personal, not family,” Clayton said.

  “After a tour in Nam he went to work as a helicopter mechanic. That was his military specialty. Had a busted marriage, no kids, both parents dead, no close ties with his siblings. He started traveling about ten years ago after getting fired because of his drinking. He spent winters in Arizona.”

  “Did he own a vehicle?”

  “An old Mercury,” Bodean said as he consulted his file. “Any client with a car has to park it and turn over the keys while in treatment.” He read off the license plate number.

  “Can you give me those names and addresses?” Clayton asked.

  Bodean pulled more files, read off the information, and got up from his desk chair. “Like I said, one of Joe’s buddies, Bennie, is back in treatment. I’ll go get him. You can talk here in my office.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Clayton spent twenty minutes with Bennie Olguin, a member of the Isleta Indian pueblo just south of Albuquerque. Stocky and round in the face, Olguin wore a tank-top undershirt that exposed his muscular arms. Clayton learned the name of the motel on Central Avenue where Humphrey stayed when he was in town, got a few more names of fellow drunks Humphrey hung out with, and discovered that Humphrey liked to gamble.

  “Did he ever get lucky?” Clayton asked.

  Olguin’s smile showed broken and missing teeth. “Once, with me, that I know of, down at the casino at Isleta. From the winnings, he paid for a grande binge we went on. We were borracho perdido for days.”

  “What did he like to play?”

  “Slots and blackjack. I heard he scored a week or so ago up at the new Sandia Pueblo casino. He was estar may pesudo, rolling in money. Couple of thousand, I heard.”

  “Who did you hear it from?”

  “Maybe Sparkle told me.”

  “Does Sparkle have a last name?”

  “I don’t know it. She’s a puta. Joey liked to buy her when he had the money.”

  “Where do I find her?”

  “She sometimes takes her tricks to the motel where Joey stayed when he was in town.”

  Clayton named the motel Bodean had mentioned.

  “That’s it,” Olguin said, as he studied Clayton’s face. “You’re Indian, right?”

  “Mescalero Apache,” Clayton said.

  Olguin grinned. “But maybe some white man snuck into your grandmother’s tepee, que no?”

  “Apaches don’t use tepees much anymore, and I bet your mouth gets you into a lot of fights,” Clayton said.

  Olguin rewarded Clayton’s observation with a smile. “Yeah, I like to brawl.”

  Clayton got a good description of Sparkle from Olguin and staked out the motel. It was one of those old 1950s motor courts along Central Avenue that had fallen onto hard times after Route 66 had been replaced by the interstate. The exterior stucco had been painted white and was peeling badly, holes had been punched in the wall of each guest room to accommodate small air conditioners, and the neon vacancy sign above the office door spelled out either VAC or CAN depending on which letters lit up or blinked off.

  The motel sign advertised low rates, free local calls, and, of course, air-conditioned comfort.

  There were only two cars in the asphalt lot, both parked in front of rooms, both totally broken down. Most of the motel guests Clayton watched as they came and went seemed to be without wheels. By eight o’clock at night, not one tourist had checked in, and the lodgers still out and about on foot were either drunk, stoned, or working up to it. But within the hour business picked up. One by one, four cars parked in front of the office and Clayton watched as guys rented rooms and then went inside with their dates, none of whom matched Sparkle’s description.

  Sparkle showed up at midnight with an overweight, middle-aged customer in tow who turned out to be a Mexican laborer. Clayton sent the john on his way and talked to Sparkle in front of her motel room. A junkie, she looked to be way older than her twenty-six years. About five two, she had a skinny teenager body that attracted certain men.

  “Joey won fifty-six hundred at blackjack,” Sparkle told Clayton. “He told me about it the next night when we got together for some fun.”

  “When was that?”

  “Seven days ago.”

  “Did you see him after that?”

  “Yeah, two or three times before he left town,” Sparkle said.

  “And?”

  “He said he wanted to have a big blowout before he got too sick to enjoy himself. He was going down to Mescalero to stay at that Indian resort, gamble, drink, and order room service until the money ran out.”

  “When did he leave town?”

  “I saw him two days ago. He was waiting for Felix to show up to go with him.”

  “Felix?”

  “Yeah, Felix Ulibarri.”

  “Where can I find Felix?” Clayton asked.

  “I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Do you know if he’s ever been arrested?” Clayton asked.

  “He did six months on a drunk driving conviction. He got out about a month ago.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why are you looking for Joey?” Sparkle asked.

  “I’m not,” Clayton answered. “I’m looking for his killer.”

  Chapter 3

  It took a while for the night supervisor at the Bernalillo County lockup to copy Felix Ulibarri’s arrest records. Clayton left the detention center with a last-known address, a photograph, and some pertinent information about the man. Over the years, aside from his DWI convictions, Ulibarri, age fo
rty-two, had been jailed for petty crimes and misdemeanors ranging from criminal trespass to shoplifting and disorderly conduct—all typical busts associated with garden-variety chronic alcoholics. He also had one fourth-degree felony assault charge stemming from a domestic disturbance involving a former live-in girlfriend.

  Not trusting Sparkle to be the most reliable of informants, Clayton drove to Ulibarri’s residence, a single-wide mobile home sandwiched between two small houses on a lane just off Second Street about two miles from downtown. He knocked at the front door unsuccessfully and was about to leave when a porch light flicked on at one of the nearby houses. An elderly woman in a housecoat stepped onto the porch.

  “Felix isn’t home,” she called out in Spanish. “Go away.”

  Clayton stepped quickly to her, showed his shield, and because his Spanish wasn’t the best, introduced himself in English. The woman’s name was Francis Ulibarri.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night,” he said. “But I need to speak to Felix. Are you a relative?”

  Mrs. Ulibarri’s face was heavily wrinkled and glum looking.

  “I’m his grandmother,” she said, pulling the housecoat tightly around her body. “What has he done now?”

  “Nothing. I have a few questions to ask him about one of his friends.”

  Sternly Ulibarri shook her head. “I do not allow Felix to bring his friends here. All they do is get borracho and then the police come.”

  “Did Felix mention plans to go out of town with a man named Joseph Humphrey?”

  “He tells me nothing. He comes, he goes. Sometimes he works for a paving company on jobs out of town.”

  “Is he working now?” Clayton asked.

  “Maybe, pero I think he’s otra vez la burra el trigo. Back to his old tricks, drinking again.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he stole money from me like he always does when he wants to get drunk. Fifty dollars.”

  “When was that?”

  She closed her eyes to think. It made her face look even more world-weary. “My memory is no bueno. Maybe three, four days ago.”

  “Is that when you last saw him?”

  “Si.” Ulibarri opened her eyes.

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “No nice woman would have him.”

  Clayton persisted. “But is there a woman he spends time with or sees regularly?”

  Ulibarri shook her head and answered in Spanish. “He knows only women who are sinful in the eyes of God.”

  Clayton translated her words as best he could. “I am sorry your grandson has brought you so much pain,” he replied. The comment won him a slight, approving nod. “Do you know the name of the company Felix does work for?”

  “JG Paving. He has no phone, so I take their messages.”

  “Have they called for Felix in the past week?”

  “No, pero sometimes he calls them looking for work when he needs the money.”

  “Did anyone else call for Felix in the last week?”

  “One man, on the day I last saw him,” Mrs. Ulibarri replied. “He said for Felix to meet him at a motel on Central Avenue. I don’t remember which one.”

  “My apologies for having woken you,” Clayton said.

  Mrs. Ulibarri forced a cheerless smile. “You did not wake me. I am old and sleep little. Soon, I will rest forever in the arms of Jesus.”

  Clayton left Mrs. Ulibarri and checked with the two nearby Indian casinos to see if Humphrey really had hit it rich at blackjack. The books at the second casino confirmed a fifty-six-hundred-dollar payout. He got a room at a franchise budget motel near the interstate. In the morning, he’d check with JG Paving, and if Felix wasn’t working, head back home to Lincoln County. Humphrey’s casino winnings were more than enough motive for murder, and Felix Ulibarri was starting to look like a strong suspect.

  Satisfied that his time in the city had been well spent, Clayton set the alarm for an early wake up and went to bed.

  In early March, after Kerney had arranged for a tour of two sections of land for sale in the Galisteo Basin and a meeting with a local architect he’d known for some years, Sara had flown in for the weekend. By the time she’d boarded a plane back to Fort Leavenworth, they’d signed a land purchase agreement, retained the architect’s services to design their house, leased a furnished guest house on Upper Canyon Road to live in until the new house was built, and rented a storage unit so Sara could have the family treasures she’d inherited from her grandmother shipped to Santa Fe from her parents’ Montana sheep ranch.

  Recently made a rich man by way of an unexpected bequest from a dear old family friend, Kerney had the money to spend. With Sara’s encouragement, he was slowly learning to enjoy his newfound financial freedom after living for so many years on a cop’s salary.

  Behind a high wall, the adobe guest house had two bedrooms, two baths, a two-car garage, an expansive great room that served as a living and dining area, and an adjoining kitchen with high-end appliances. At three-thousand square feet, the house was the largest and most expensive place Kerney had ever lived in. It came with a tidy backyard tended by professional gardeners, and a shady portal that included an expensive natural-gas barbecue grill, a bar sink, a built-in refrigerator, and a hot tub.

  The main house, a mere seven-thousand square feet, was tucked against a hill with views of the valley below. According to the estate manager, the compound was one of ten residential properties owned by a Wall Street stockbroker.

  Raised on a working cattle ranch in southern New Mexico, Kerney had been taught by his parents to rise early and get as much work as possible done before the heat of the desert drove both man and beast to seek shade. The habit was so ingrained that unless job demands forced him to work late, he was always up by five in the morning. Recently he’d been devoting the hour or so of uninterrupted time before he had to leave for the office to various tasks that needed doing to get the house built.

  Two weekends ago Sara had flown in on a quick day trip for a Saturday closing on the land. Today he was overnighting the architect’s plans to her, along with snapshots he’d taken of the property on a rare day off.

  Kerney looked through the photographs. The two sections, a little over twelve hundred acres, were located on a ranch southeast of town that was being sold in large parcels zoned for agricultural use only. The property appealed to them from the moment they first saw it, and learning that the surrounding tracts couldn’t be developed for residential use cinched the deal. Additionally, the owners, a couple Kerney knew and liked from his days managing a small gentleman’s spread in the basin, would continue to ranch a large swath of land that abutted Kerney’s two sections, providing added protection from the urban sprawl that kept creeping south of the city limits.

  Four miles in off the highway, Kerney’s sections consisted of a combination of canyon land and open pastures. Two wells produced good water, and a ranch road ran past the building site Kerney and Sara had selected for the house. When built, the house would be sheltered by a ridge and face south, overlooking a canyon that opened onto a wide meadow with views of the Ortiz and Sandia Mountains. The ridge behind the house, treed with juniper and piñon, rose gently to the north, exposing the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, but hiding the city from view. The panorama of the Jemez Mountains stretched across the horizon to the west, where at night the lights of Los Alamos and the nearby commuter town of White Rock glistened.

  He packed the photos and the house plans in a mailing tube, sealed it, and turned his attention to the old Montoya case file. He had a lot of ground to cover, not much to go on, and a gut feeling that he’d missed something the first time around.

  The thought made him grumpy. He forced himself out the front door, thinking maybe his heart wasn’t in the job anymore. He would much rather spend his time building the house, putting together a small ranching operation, and establishing something positive for himself, Sara, and their unborn child. Soon Sara would have an
ultrasound test, and with any luck they’d know if she was carrying a boy or a girl. The thought made Kerney smile. Either way, he was ready to be a dad.

  After striking out on his attempt to locate Ulibarri through his employer in Albuquerque, Clayton arrived at the Mescalero Apache resort and casino, hoping he would find him there gambling with Humphrey’s money, which, not surprisingly, hadn’t turned up in the ruins of the fire.

  Situated in a high valley a few miles outside the city of Ruidoso, the tribal enterprise was a cash cow that drew year-round vacationers and gamblers from all parts of New Mexico and surrounding states. It offered skiing in the winter and all the usual summer recreation activities, such as golf, boating, trail rides, tennis, and swimming, along with twenty-four-hour gaming at the casino, which was within easy walking distance from the lodge and guest rooms.

  The lodge had cedar-shingle siding, a high-pitched roof, and an expansive deck that overlooked the lake and the mountains beyond. Small streams, some coursing over man-made rock beds, others cutting through carefully tended lawns, flowed down the hill in front of the lodge into the lake. Small stands of pine and aspen trees and winding walkways gave the grounds a parklike feel.

  Most of the permanent employees were tribal members, and the woman at the reception desk was no exception. Barbara Chato, an old classmate from high school, smiled as Clayton approached.

  “You never come here anymore, stranger, now that you’ve left us,” she said.

  “I haven’t left,” Clayton replied. “I just work off the rez.”

  Barbara shrugged. “That’s too bad. Billy Naiche made sergeant last week. I heard you would’ve gotten the promotion if you hadn’t quit the department.”

  “Good for Billy,” Clayton said as he put Felix Ulibarri’s photo on the counter. “Have you seen this man?”

  Barbara shook her head.

  “Can you check and see if a Felix Ulibarri is registered?”

  Barbara’s fingers clicked away at the computer keyboard while her eyes scanned the monitor. “We don’t having anybody by that name staying here.”