“You said the APD vice supervisor thought Bedlow was legit,” Molina replied.
“Everybody’s legit until they get caught,” Kerney said, rising to his feet, his knee protesting as he did so. “I may be getting the leg fixed and losing the limp for good.”
“Really?” Molina replied. “When?”
“Don’t know. Soon, I hope.”
Molina laughed. “That’s good news for you and bad news for us, Chief.”
“Now why would you say something like that?”
Molina thought about all the good things Kerney had accomplished in a very short time: pay raises starting in July, improved officer training, streamlined operating procedures, promotions based on merit, not politics. Department morale was soaring.
“Because nobody can keep up with you as it is.”
“Are you turning into a brownnose, Lieutenant?”
Molina snorted. He’d worked with Kerney back in the old days and knew the chief’s sense of humor well. “Yeah, that’s me all right.”
Action picked up at the slots and tables as the late-morning customers rolled out of bed and into the casino. From the video surveillance room, Moses Kaywaykla watched as Clayton approached the cashiers one by one, asking questions, and passing out something to each employee. He went out on the floor to investigate.
“Nephew,” Moses said, steering Clayton away from a roaming security guard, “what are you doing?”
“Looking for this guy,” Clayton said, holding up a sketch.
“You should have brought that to me,” Moses said sternly.
“Are you pissed?”
“You’re starting to act like a gringo. Let’s talk upstairs in the café.”
Clayton handed Moses the sketch after they were seated at a table. “Do you know him?”
Moses shook his head as he waved off the approaching waitress. “He doesn’t look familiar.”
“His name is Johnny Jackson. Five six or seven, about a hundred and forty pounds.”
Moses studied the sketch more closely to satisfy Clayton’s persistence. “He still doesn’t look familiar.”
Clayton pushed a driver’s license photo across the table. “Him?”
“Harry Staggs,” Moses said. “He comes in and plays poker occasionally when he’s not busy entertaining his friends.”
“You knew about his gambling parlor?”
“It was a well-kept secret until the morning paper appeared,” Moses replied. “How come you didn’t arrest Staggs?”
“For lots of reasons,” Clayton replied brusquely.
“I’m sorry you put him out of business.”
“Why is that?” Clayton asked in surprise.
“Some of the big winners would come here and keep playing after his game ended. We could usually count on a number of them to lose money at our tables.”
“You had knowledge of his activities and did nothing?”
“If it doesn’t affect Mescalero Apaches, I don’t really care what happens off tribal land. Neither did you, until a short time ago.”
There was nothing subtle about the criticism. In the Apache world, family came first and foremost, and that included the entire tribe. “Are you going to lecture me, Uncle?”
Moses smiled gently. “Not today. Do you have more questions?”
“This Jackson supposedly runs a stable of hookers at a nearby location, where important, well-known men are discreetly entertained.”
Moses shook his head. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Never heard of it?”
“Never. About the only skin-trade action we get here is an occasional freelance hooker up from El Paso. I run them off as soon as they show up.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Bimbos are hard to miss.”
“Anything like that happen recently?”
“My night shift supervisor thought he’d spotted one a couple of days ago. But she left the casino alone before he could approach her.”
“What day, exactly?”
“I think it was the same night your murder victim was here,” Moses said.
“Let’s find out,” Clayton said as he pushed his chair back.
In the video surveillance room, Moses checked the log and confirmed that the woman had been at the casino the same day as Ulibarri. He pulled a tape from the video rack and ran it fast-forward until a blonde with long curly hair and a lot of cleavage moved jerkily across the screen.
“She’s new,” Moses said as he reversed the tape and hit the remote play button.
They watched as she circled the poker tables, trying to draw interest. Ulibarri, who was at one of the tables, didn’t seem to notice until she whispered something in his ear after he’d won another pot. He smiled, nodded, and watched her walk out the door.
“I don’t remember seeing this when we first looked at the tapes,” Clayton said.
“I think we skipped over it,” Moses said.
“Can I borrow the tape?”
“No, but I can have a couple of stills made for you in less than a hour. I’ll get you an enlarged profile and full-face head shot. Will that do?”
“Thanks, Uncle.”
While Moses delivered the tape to a computer technician and went back to work, Clayton went to see if the lodge employees remembered anybody who looked like Jackson. No one did.
With the grainy but serviceable photos of the blonde in hand, he canvassed the lodge employees again, without success. He hurried to Casey’s Cozy Cabins, hoping Harry Staggs could ID the woman as Jackson’s companion.
Staggs wasn’t home. From the front porch, he called Tredwell on his cell phone and asked the attorney where he could find Staggs.
“I don’t baby-sit my clients,” Tredwell said.
“He hasn’t left town, has he?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“You’re a big help, Tredwell.”
“Please, no thanks are necessary,” Tredwell said.
Clayton punched the off button. A light snow was falling. Maybe it would be a wet year. The wildlife needed it. If he’d stayed with the tribal police, he’d be out checking boundary lines, reporting cattle that had strayed either on or off the reservation, posting new signs to replace the ones stolen by tourists, chasing off the occasional trespasser who had wandered onto Indian land by way of the national forest, and maybe breaking up a fight or a domestic squabble.
But he didn’t have time to ruminate about the past or feel sorry for himself. If he wasn’t going to catch a break, he’d have to make one for himself. How to do that was the question.
In college Detective Ramona Piño had taken a few drama classes and appeared in several student plays. The experience had served her well in police work. During her time on the force, she’d worked an undercover narcotics assignment and posed as a fence for stolen goods, both with success, so she knew the value of convincing performances.
She’d called ahead to schedule an appointment with Cassie Bedlow and now knocked tentatively on the woman’s open office door.
Cassie Bedlow smiled at the young woman standing nervously in the doorway. Somewhere in her mid to late twenties, she was no more than five three and was wearing a short skirt that displayed well-toned, nicely formed legs and a knit sweater that indicated shapely breasts in proportion to her body. Her face was classic northern New Mexico Hispanic, with arched eyebrows, large pupils, dark round eyes, small, thin lips, high cheekbones and even features.
“You must be Ramona,” Bedlow said, moving from her desk to a tan leather couch. “Come in and sit with me.”
Detective Piño caught the calculating, appraising look in Bedlow’s eyes. She sat on the couch, her back straight, knees together, hands in her lap and gave Bedlow the once over. There was nothing flashy about the woman. In fact, just the opposite: she was round, wide in the hips, and had a matronly air.
“So, you’re interested in modeling,” Bedlow said.
“I shouldn’t be wasting your time,” she said,
giving Bedlow a wistful glance.
There was a breathless, little-girl quality to Piño’s voice that Bedlow liked a lot. Costumed correctly, with her small size, pretty features, and tiny voice, Piño would draw plenty of attention from men who liked the innocent schoolgirl look.
“Why do you say that?” Bedlow asked.
“I’ve always wanted to try modeling,” Ramona said as she pouted slightly and looked around the office. “But you probably think I’m too old and too tiny to be a model.”
A bookcase along a side wall held large photo albums and casting directories. On the top shelf was a chamber of commerce membership plaque and a silver-plated presentation bowl from a community charity fund-raising organization.
“That simply isn’t true,” Bedlow replied. “I use models of all sizes, ages, and ethnic backgrounds. For example, you’d make an excellent junior-size catalog model. With the right training, you wouldn’t lack for work.”
Ramona beamed enthusiastically. “Really?”
“Yes, if you’re photogenic, and I have no doubt that you are,” Bedlow said. “Did you bring any photographs?”
Chagrined, Ramona furrowed her brow. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”
“Do you have any handy?”
Ramona shook her head. “Not really. I just moved here from Durango, and I left a lot of my personal things behind in storage.”
She looked at the wall of framed photographs of attractive young women behind Bedlow’s desk. Some were runway shots, but most were studio photos of women with their hands on their hips or their butts stuck out in provocative poses not unlike those in glossy fashion magazines. They pouted, smiled, or looked haughty for the camera.
Ramona’s expression brightened. “Maybe I could use one of your photographers. Those are great pictures. I’d be willing to pay, if it isn’t too expensive.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me about you.”
Ramona sketched her fictitious past: born in Taos, raised in southern Colorado, high school graduate, work experience in boutiques and women’s clothing stores, divorced with no children, new to Albuquerque with no friends or relatives close by.
“So, you know something about fashion,” Bedlow said. “That’s a plus. Now tell me why you’d really like to be a model.”
Ramona gave Bedlow a shy glance. “I guess I’m bored. I want to do something exciting, have an adventure, meet interesting people. I got married too young and now that I’m divorced I’d like to have some fun before I get too old. That’s one of the reasons I decided to move to Albuquerque.”
“Modeling is hard work.”
“I’ve worked hard all my life,” Ramona replied.
Bedlow smiled. “Are you working now?”
“I’m looking. I wanted to find out about your agency before I took a job, so I can fit the classes into my schedule if you decide to accept me. How expensive is the program?”
“The classes run for twelve weeks and cost three thousand dollars.”
“Oh,” Ramona said. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
Bedlow patted Ramona’s knee. “Don’t be discouraged, I sometimes offer a tuition loan to a student I think has potential. You would have to sign a contract with the agency and agree to repay your tuition from your earnings after graduation. But with your looks that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“First things first,” Bedlow said, rising to gather a brochure, a student application, and an agency contract from her desk. “Let’s get you started on enrolling, and have some photographs taken.”
Ramona stood and took the forms from Bedlow’s hand. “This is so much fun,” she said breathlessly. “Can I fill these out while I’m here?”
“If you like.”
“I’ve just moved into an apartment and I don’t have a phone yet. Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all.”
“Where should I go to get the pictures taken?”
Bedlow gave her a business card for a photographer, and directions to get to his home studio in a residential area not far away. “He does all my photography work. I’ll call and see if he can fit you in today. He’ll do some proof sheets, which you can bring back to me this afternoon.”
“That would be super,” Ramona said, flashing a big smile. “Thank you, thank you.”
Bedlow laughed. “We’ll talk again soon, later in the day.”
Left outside Bedlow’s closed office door, Ramona sat on the edge of a carpeted raised platform and looked through the application forms and tuition loan contract. The contract had a clause that required the immediate full repayment of the tuition loan with interest if the student refused to accept any assignment arranged or sponsored by the agency.
It seemed straightforward enough, but Ramona wondered why the clause didn’t specify modeling assignments, given the detailed legalese of the rest of the document.
As she was filling out the application a car pulled to the curb and a young blond woman got out. Dressed in tight jeans and a bulky sweater, the blonde was thin and leggy. She took two last puffs on a cigarette, ground it under the toe of a spiked-heel red boot, and pushed her way inside. There was a welt under her eye, a bruise on the chin, and one cheek was puffy and swollen.
The blonde glanced at Ramona and started pacing back and forth. “Is she in?” she asked, her words slightly slurred.
Ramona nodded. “On the phone.”
“Shit.”
“What happened to you?” Ramona asked, oozing sympathy.
“Boyfriend,” the blonde replied after a slight hesitation. “He’s history.”
“That sucks.”
“Tell me about it,” the blonde answered, agitated.
“Did he hurt you bad?”
The blonde laughed harshly and pushed up the sleeve of her sweater. There were bruises on her forearm.
“How did it happen?” Ramona asked.
Nervously eying the office door, the blonde shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, pointing to her face. “It hurts too much.”
“Sorry.” Ramona returned her attention to the application. The blonde sat on a leather ottoman that had been used as a prop in some of the photographs on Bedlow’s wall.
“I’m Ramona,” she said when the blonde looked at her.
“Sally.”
“Are you a model?”
“Yeah. You gonna take the course?”
Before Ramona could answer, Bedlow appeared, and Sally stood up.
“I gotta see you now,” Sally said.
Bedlow’s voice dripped honey. “Of course, dear girl. Come in.”
Sally flew by Bedlow into the office.
Bedlow smiled sweetly at Ramona. “My photographer can take you right away. Will that do?”
“Oh, yes,” Ramona replied. She dropped her voice to a whisper and glanced at Bedlow’s office. “That poor girl.”
“It’s very unfortunate,” Bedlow replied. “Come back with the proof sheets after lunch.”
“I haven’t finished the application,” Ramona said, hoping she could stick around and do some eavesdropping.
“Don’t worry about it now,” Bedlow replied rather shortly, holding open the front door.
“Okay,” Ramona said cheerily. “See you in a little while.”
She made her exit and memorized the license plate on Sally’s car as she passed behind the vehicle.
Raised in Albuquerque, Ramona knew the city well. Bedlow’s photographer, Thomas Deacon, worked out of his home in an older neighborhood of postwar Southwestern-style cottages near Carlisle Boulevard. The house stood out as the only one on the street with a neglected front yard. A converted garage with a private side entrance served as the studio.
Deacon met Ramona at the door and gave her the once-over. She did the same to him, keeping an eager smile plastered on her face. He was in his forties, tall, with a straight, narrow nose, a long chin, and wide, down-tu
rned lips. He had long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore jeans and a lightweight cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
He was hard looking in a way that some women found exciting. To Piño he seemed like a middle-aged white guy who needed to be seen as hip, cool, and on the fringe. In Piño’s experience, the kind of man who usually turned out to be an emotional adolescent.
“Yeah, come on in,” Deacon said.
Ramona caught a whiff of marijuana as she stepped inside the studio. She checked his pupils; they were slightly dilated.
“Proof sheets only, right?” Deacon said.
“Yes,” Ramona said brightly. “That’s what Ms. Bedlow wants.”
Deacon grabbed a camera from a table, turned on some stand lights, and pointed at a white screen at the back of the studio. “Go over there and try to do what I tell you.”
He adjusted the lights, circled around her, gave directions, and took a bunch of head shots.
“Do you just do studio work?” Ramona asked, tilting her chin up.
“Hold still,” Deacon said, clicking the shutter. “No, I do a lot of location work.”
“That must be fun.”
Deacon gave her a sarcastic look. “It’s work. Loosen up, will you?”
“Sorry,” Ramona said. “I bet you get to see a lot of exotic places.”
Deacon snorted as he backed away. “Oh, yeah, lots of exotic places. I’m gonna need to take some full-body shots. Lose the skirt and sweater.”
Ramona stifled a desire to protest, pulled off her sweater and stepped quickly out of her skirt.
“Not afraid to show your body,” Deacon said approvingly, reaching for another camera. “That’s good. Bend over and put your hands on your knees.”
“Do you do a lot of location work for Ms. Bedlow?” Ramona asked, showing her cleavage.
“All of it,” Deacon replied. “Pout for me.”
Ramona pouted and Deacon fired off a bunch of frames. He put a straight-back chair in front of the screen. “Sit, spread your legs, and press your arms against your breasts.”
“Like this?” Ramona said, assuming the position.
“Yeah. Now, look tough. Can you do that?”
Ramona put on her cop face.
“That’s good.” Deacon took shots from different positions and angles, and lowered the camera. “Get dressed.”
The Big Gamble Page 12
