The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

“So, are you going to call him so Hannah can recite her ABCs?” Clayton asked.

  “We thought you should do it,” Grace replied.

  Clayton considered it, or pretended to. “I don’t think he wants to talk to me.”

  “Perhaps,” Grace said, “but he might enjoy talking to Hannah and Wendell.”

  Wendell kept his head down, eyes fixed on his plate. For the motormouth he’d become, he was unusually quiet.

  “Would you like to talk to your grandfather?” Clayton asked his son.

  “I drew a picture for him,” Wendell said with a slight nod.

  “Let me see it.”

  Wendell brought him the drawing. It showed Kerney and Wendell standing together against a backdrop of mountains with the sun high in the sky. Wendell had carefully colored the sun yellow, the sky blue, and the mountains green, and lettered his name and the word grandfather, badly misspelled, under the feet of the crude figures. Both were smiling.

  “It’s a very nice picture,” Clayton said, rubbing his son’s head and smiling at Hannah. “We’ll call your grandfather tonight, when I get home from work.”

  Smiles greeted Clayton’s announcement as he rose from the table.

  Ganged up on by his family, Clayton drove away from home feeling a bit put out. Not at Grace and the kids, but with his mother. Why the change of heart? She’d never wanted him to know his father, and now it was suddenly okay for Kerney to be treated like a grandfather. What was that all about?

  He consulted the map Rojas had given him, told dispatch he was in service and where he was going, and made his way up the forest road into the mountains until a locked gate stopped him. He got out, climbed the gate, and walked the steep, curving road. At the last bend a large log cabin with a covered porch came into view.

  It was one of those modern cabins made from precut logs, with a pitched green metal roof and two stone chimneys at either end of the building. The cabin sat on an elevated stone foundation overlooking a small meadow and a frozen streambed that meandered out of a narrow mountain ravine. Large windows gave a view of the forest beyond the meadow and the white-capped Sierra Blanca peaks in the distance.

  Clayton gauged the size of the cabin and decided it was at least four thousand square feet, minus the covered porch with the redwood railing and massive hand-cut stone steps. It was way more than twice the size of his house in Mescalero.

  Yesterday’s light snowfall in Ruidoso had left two inches on a deep bed of frozen snow in the mountains. It was the first precipitation since the Ulibarri murder. Clayton scanned the area for more cabins hidden in the trees and saw none. On the north side of the road, where the sun couldn’t reach, he knelt and carefully brushed away the fresh snow looking for tire tracks on the hard-packed ice. The last vehicle driven over the frozen surface had tires much wider than a car, pickup truck, or SUV.

  He tried several more places with the same results and switched to the south side, brushing a channel across the width of the roadway. Again, only the very wide treads of a heavy vehicle showed.

  Clayton stood in the driveway and studied the cabin, wondering if it was the private retreat where Harry Staggs’s fictitious Johnny Jackson provided female companionship for important, well-known men.

  He decided that if Rojas was the pimp who provided girls for VIPs, he certainly wouldn’t have given him a map to the place. The windows were shuttered on the inside so Clayton couldn’t get a look. But from all appearances, it seemed to be just a rich man’s vacation lodge.

  Rojas’s girlfriend had mentioned taking several hikes during her stay at the cabin, so at the front porch steps Clayton brushed away the snow, looking for any telltale remnants of boot prints. He did the same at the back door, at a trail head next to a covered wood pile that wandered into the forest, and on the front porch around an expensive hot tub where wind-blown snow had collected. There were bobcat and deer tracks in the snow behind the cabin, and old claw marks from a black bear on the trunk of a nearby tree. But Clayton saw no evidence of any recent human activity. Not even the woodpile had been disturbed.

  On the side of the house he found more tire indentations that matched what he’d seen on the road, and clear boot tracks in a man’s size led to a propane tank lettered with the supplier’s name.

  He called the company, spoke to the manager, gave his location, and asked when the tank had last been filled. The manager searched his paperwork and came back with a date that matched exactly the time Rojas’s girlfriend said she’d been at the cabin.

  “Ask the driver if anyone was here when he made his delivery,” Clayton said.

  “Let me get him on his cell phone,” the manager said.

  Clayton waited patiently and smiled to himself when the manager reported that no one had been at the cabin when his driver had filled the tank. It was exactly what he’d expected to hear.

  “I need to take a statement from him,” Clayton said, checking his watch, figuring his travel time back to Ruidoso on the forest road. “Where can I meet him in the next thirty minutes?”

  “Do I have a problem with my driver, Deputy?” the manager asked.

  “Not at all,” Clayton said as he walked quickly down the road toward the locked gate.

  The man told him where to meet the driver. Clayton disconnected and smiled to himself as he climbed the gate. What was that old saying? Sometimes people were just too smart for their own good.

  Detective Piño sat quietly in Sergeant Vialpando’s office while he examined the hard-copy printouts from Greer’s Internet personal ad and Web site. One shelf of a bookcase held a display of baseball caps from various police departments. On Vialpando’s desk was a framed photograph of a large, smiling black dog.

  The bull-pen area outside the office was nearly empty. Only two detectives were at their desks. Except for paperwork or court appearances, mornings weren’t the busiest times for vice cops.

  Vialpando looked up from the copies. “Compared to a lot of the crap on the Net, this is pretty classy stuff. Some soft-porn poses, no totally nude pictures, good photography, a sexy, narrative come-on that only hints at sex for hire, and a good-looking woman who wouldn’t raise any eyebrows if a guy was seen in public with her. I’d say the whole thing was professionally done to appeal to high-end clients.”

  “So send her an E-mail and ask her for a date,” Ramona said.

  “Not yet, unless you’re in a hurry,” Vialpando said. “We’ve got reasonable suspicion to believe Greer’s a hooker, but no probable cause. I’d rather put surveillance on her for a day or two, document her next date, interrogate her client afterward, and then bust her when she asks me for money. If I can scare her enough, maybe she’ll roll over on her pimp.”

  “I can wait,” Ramona said. “Do you think she has a pimp?”

  “From what you’ve told me, Greer is probably new to the game, so I’m betting somebody fronted the money for the Web site. They don’t come cheap, and I doubt Greer built it herself.”

  “And Thomas Deacon?” Ramona asked.

  “You’ve done me a huge favor identifying him as the photographer. Chances are he makes his bread and butter in the skin trade. He should prove to be a very valuable informant.”

  “I get first crack at him,” Ramona said.

  “Of course,” Vialpando replied. “Are you ready for your meeting with Bedlow?”

  “I am.”

  He gave her a worried look. “We never send our undercover female vice detectives out alone. Let me put a wire on you, just to be safe. I’ll park a block away, record the conversation, and be there in case you need backup.”

  Given what Ramona had learned about Sally Greer, it was a good idea. She nodded her concurrence.

  Vialpando nodded back, relieved. “We can meet for an early lunch afterward.” He named the restaurant, a nice but not expensive eatery in the Nob Hill district just east of the university. “I’ll have a lot of questions.”

  “About the case?”

  “Yeah, but mostly about yo
u,” Jeff said with an easy smile.

  Ramona stood and smoothed down her skirt. “I may have some of my own questions to ask.”

  Jeff Vialpando glanced at her legs and said, “Like what?”

  She touched the framed photo of the smiling black mutt. “I want to know everything about your dog.”

  Vialpando laughed.

  Ramona turned crisply on her heel to hide the flush on her face. “Let’s get me wired,” she said, as if she weren’t already buzzing with the small jolt of electricity that had passed between them.

  Yesterday’s MRI test and his prior commitment to teach a late-afternoon class at the law-enforcement academy had left Kerney with no time to follow up on state senator Tyler Norvell. On his desk he found a file from Sal Molina with an attached note indicating that Detective Piño was still in Albuquerque and hadn’t yet reported in.

  Molina’s public-records check on Belinda Louise Nieto had uncovered some fascinating information. Colorado court records showed that soon after the death of her father, Nieto legally changed her name to Crystal Fox. One year later she became a murder victim in an unsolved homicide still carried as an open case by the Denver Police Department.

  Kerney read the investigative narrative provided by the Denver PD. The murder had occurred in the victim’s car outside a trendy city nightspot. She’d been shot once in the chest by a small-caliber handgun. Analysis of the powder burns and flash points on the woman’s clothing disclosed that the barrel of the weapon had been placed in direct contact with the victim’s body.

  Witnesses at the nightclub reported that the victim had been in the company of a well-dressed, Hispanic male, approximately thirty years old, of average to slightly above average height. None of the patrons or employees at the club recalled previously seeing the couple, who had arrived at the club separately. The detective noted that most witnesses interviewed at the scene appeared to be high on cocaine “or under the influence of other illegal substances.”

  Faced with an unknown suspect, the detective assigned to the case had naturally concentrated on the victim. Crystal Fox turned out to be a “personal escort who specialized in entertaining well-heeled out-of-town male visitors to the city.”

  An address book at the victim’s apartment yielded the names of men who’d been entertained by Ms. Fox, many on a regular basis, according to a meticulously up-to-date social calendar discovered among her possessions. The night of the murder she’d had nothing scheduled.

  Departments as far away as Los Angeles and New York City had cooperated in the investigation, interviewing every one of Crystal Fox’s customers who could be located. None, based on verified alibis, had been in Denver at the time of the murder.

  A knock at the open door made Kerney look up. Helen Muiz came in and presented Kerney with the agenda of the appointments he’d asked her to make. Kerney knew each person on the list. All were politically well connected, reasonably trustworthy, and could possibly provide valuable information about Senator Tyler Norvell.

  “You’d better get cracking,” Helen said. “Your first meeting is downtown in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Whatever happened to your promise to make your own phone calls?” Helen asked.

  “Because of your charm and persuasiveness, I knew you’d have better luck getting through to these guys,” Kerney said, waving the slip of paper at her.

  “Baloney,” Helen said.

  Kerney laughed. “Don’t you mean to say that you respectfully disagree with my statement?”

  “No, just baloney will do,” Helen replied with a twinkle in her eye.

  Kerney knew that look well, so he took the bait. “What is it?”

  “Your doctor’s office called. The results of your MRI came in. He wants you to call him back so he can schedule surgery. Does this mean no more limp?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Wonderful,” Helen said.

  Clayton questioned the propane delivery driver carefully and learned it was company policy for the driver to announce his arrival at a customer’s home.

  The man had honked the horn and waited for several minutes before proceeding to fill the tank. No one had appeared during the time he was at the cabin. Since the stop was on his regular route, he’d been furnished a key to the locked gate to gain entry. He delivered every two months. When asked, the driver noted that the tank was over three-quarters full, which probably meant the cabin hadn’t been used much during the cold weather.

  At the airport Clayton reviewed a list of airplane owners who kept personal vehicles at the parking lot. The list showed make, model, year, and license plate information for each. Rojas hadn’t lied about owning an SUV. After cruising the lot without finding the vehicle, Clayton decided that maybe the girlfriend, Deborah, also hadn’t lied about driving the SUV to El Paso as a favor to Rojas. But that was about the only truth the woman had told. It got Clayton to start questioning the whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing, again.

  He headed toward Carrizozo and the office, using the road that would take him off the mesa and past Fort Stanton. He reached for the radio to call in his destination and ETA just as dispatch advised him that Hewitt, Quinones, and Dillingham were standing by for a meeting. He acknowledged the message, hoping maybe the blond woman seen with Ulibarri at the casino had been located. That might make things go a lot easier.

  From her sister’s wardrobe Ramona had selected a gray, midcalf skirt, a half-sleeve charcoal cowl-neck sweater, and black pumps. In Cassie Bedlow’s office she sat quietly while the woman reviewed her enrollment application.

  “You didn’t answer one question,” Bedlow said, looking up from the papers.

  Ramona shifted her weight and dropped her head. “I didn’t want to lie,” she said, “so I left it blank.”

  “Well, have you ever been arrested?” Bedlow asked.

  “Is it that important?” Ramona asked.

  “I don’t expect my students to be perfect, Ramona,” Bedlow replied gently. “But I do need to know if you have a criminal record. If you do, it doesn’t necessarily disqualify you from enrolling.”

  “Once,” Ramona said in a small voice. “I was arrested once.”

  “For?”

  Ramona stood. “I shouldn’t be here, wasting your time.”

  Bedlow waved her hand, palm down, in a gesture for Ramona to sit. “This isn’t an interrogation, and you’re not wasting my time, dear. We just need to be honest with each other.”

  Ramona stayed standing. “You’d give me a tuition loan, even though I’ve been arrested?”

  Bedlow laughed lightly. “I might be willing to take a chance on you. People make mistakes. You didn’t murder anyone, did you?”

  Ramona reclaimed her seat. “Oh no, I was arrested for possession of cocaine.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Ramona laid out the story; her ex-husband had been a heavy user who always had her carry his stash. One night while they were going home, he’d been stopped and arrested for driving under the influence.

  “We were both pretty high,” she added. “They found the cocaine in my purse. Just a little bit. It was my first offense. I pled guilty and paid a fine.”

  “Were you high on cocaine?”

  “Yes,” Ramona answered in a tiny voice.

  “Do you still use it?”

  “No.”

  “Are you drug free?” Bedlow asked.

  “Not completely,” Ramona said, looking away from Bedlow. “I sometimes smoke a little weed. I drink, but not a lot, and sometimes I take a sleeping pill at night.”

  Bedlow smiled sympathetically. “That doesn’t make you a major criminal.”

  “I guess not,” Ramona said with a weak smile.

  “Have you found a job yet?”

  Ramona put on a dejected face. “I’ve been offered a part-time sales position. But I wouldn’t get enough hours to even pay my rent.”

  “Have you ever worked as a waitress?”

  “
Before I got married, I did.”

  “Let’s see what we can do,” Bedlow said. “I have a friend who owns a club, and he’s always looking for pretty girls to work for him. It’s an upscale sports bar and restaurant, with an all-girl waitstaff. You’d have to wear scanty shorts and a low-cut halter top, but the girls make great tips.”

  Ramona perked up and looked animated. “That wouldn’t bother me, especially if I could make some good money.”

  “If I asked, I’m sure he’d be willing to schedule you to work nights so it doesn’t interfere with classes.”

  “That’s perfect. I’m a night owl anyway.”

  Bedlow wrote out the name of the bar, the owner’s name, and the address of the establishment. “He’s usually there around noon,” she said, handing Ramona the information. “I’ll give him a call to say you’re coming to talk to him.”

  “Oh, I hope he hires me,” Ramona said.

  “I think your chances are excellent,” Bedlow replied.

  “Thank you so much,” Ramona said.

  Jeff Vialpando was waiting when Ramona got to the Nob Hill eatery. The lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet and the waitstaff was standing around the bar chatting. The place had a rustic, antique feel to it, with lots of dark wood and reproductions of old advertising signs on the walls. He stood up as she approached the table.

  “I guess we don’t have much time,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her.

  “Forty-five minutes,” Ramona replied, checking her watch.

  “You handled Bedlow very well,” Jeff said, returning to his seat.

  “Thank you. But I thought we were going to talk about your dog.”

  “That will have to wait for another time,” Jeff replied. “While you were with Bedlow, I had one of my detectives search several escort-rating Web sites.”

  “An escort what?” Ramona asked.

  Vialpando smiled. “Your education about vice and the Internet has just begun. Many hookers are rated by their clients on the World Wide Web. Some women even post the testimonials they’ve received from satisfied customers on their personal Web sites. Sultry Sally has gotten her first grade, and it’s a good one.”