When the Devil Doesn't Show: A Mystery

by Christine Barber

  She got to the house and knocked, not really expecting anyone to answer. She wasn’t disappointed. She waited another minute before she walked back out toward the road, the dogs keeping her company. She went to the mailbox and checked a few bills inside to make sure she had the right address. Then she got back into her cruiser and called Joe, telling him that no one was home.

  * * *

  Holding tight to a box of doughnuts and holding tighter to the coat wrapped around her, Lucy tried to make her way through the hospital parking lot without slipping on the ice. The sun had melted much of the snow from the storm last night, leaving only slippery patches behind. She walked past a Ford F-150 that looked just like Tommy Martinez’s truck and even had a Capital Tribune parking pass hanging from the rearview mirror. She dialed him as soon as she got inside.

  “Are you at the hospital?” she asked, purposely not mentioning their last tension-filled conversation.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m in the ER. There was another home invasion last night. A family was taken hostage, and the dad got shot in the head.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “I know, and they have two little twin boys,” he said. “From my count, that makes three home invasions in the last few days.”

  “Really?” Lucy asked.

  “There was the one last night, one out in La Cieneguilla,” he said. “And the one you went to with the fire department.”

  “Stop fishing, Tommy,” she said. “I’m serious.”

  She hit the button for the elevator, trying to balance the box of doughnuts in one hand while taking off her coat and cradling the phone between her cheek and shoulder. She decided something had to give.

  “I have to go,” she said, “or I’ll twist my neck off.”

  She got out of the elevator at the maternity ward. In the waiting room were groups of people: stressed spouses, screaming siblings, sleeping grandparents. There was no way to tell if they were all related or waiting for the arrival of different babies. Over the loudspeaker came the chiming of a bell. Either an angel had just gotten its wings or a new baby had arrived in the world. Some greeting cards might say they were one and the same. When Lucy had first visited the hospital, she had no idea the chimes meant a baby had been born. She thought maybe the chimes were a stealthy yet relaxing way for administration to communicate with the security guards. One chime meant a stabbing in the ER. Two chimes meant a body dumped at the front door.

  Lucy went over to the front desk and waved to a woman on the phone, making sure the nurse saw her leave the doughnuts on the countertop. Not that Lucy was bribing the nurses. She went over to a basket labeled BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENTS FOR NEWSPAPER and took out a stack of forms, filled out by the proud parents. She waved good-bye to the nurse, who was still on the phone.

  She went back into the waiting room and took a seat, wanting to go through the announcements right then and there, in case one of them might be of help to Gil. Next to her, a family was celebrating its newest addition. The grandfather was handing out plastic cups to everyone in the waiting room, while an uncle popped a bottle of champagne. The grandfather tried to give Lucy a cup. She started to say no, but the uncle was there, pouring champagne into her cup.

  “Attention, everyone,” the grandfather said to the room. “Let’s all raise our glasses to my daughter and my beautiful new granddaughter, Emma Victoria Romero.” They all drank, except Lucy, who went as quickly as she could to the elevators, still holding her cup. She dumped it in the trash, not caring if the family saw her, only feeling the need to get it out of her hand.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  December 23

  Kristen Valdez walked toward the Nambé tribal plaza, which was made of dirt like all the roads in the area. Here, the dirt was more for ceremonial reasons than economic. The dances in the plaza were supposed to be a connection to the earth—not asphalt. The plaza was surrounded on three sides by two- and three-story flat-topped adobe buildings dating back to the 1400s. The Pueblo people were here for thousands of years before that. On the fourth side of the plaza were the religious buildings: the church and the kiva. As was the case for every pueblo, when the Spanish came in the 1600s, they built a church on the plaza and renamed the tribe. Most tribes, such as Santa Clara or San Felipe, were renamed in honor of a saint. The Nambé had been one of the few tribes able to keep a version of its actual name. Nambé Pueblo’s real Tewa name was Nanbé Owîngeh, which meant “People of the Roundish Earth.” Recently, some of the other tribes had started reverting back to their true names. San Juan Pueblo had changed to Ohkay Owîngeh, which in Tewa meant “Place of the Strong People,” and Santo Domingo Pueblo, which spoke Keres, switched its name to Kewa Pueblo.

  Kristen wondered if the trend of the tribes reverting back to their origins would include religion. The Catholic Church, as much as it was not an original part of Pueblo life, had become enmeshed in tribal customs over the centuries. Kristen glanced up at Nambé’s church, which had been built by the Franciscans in 1613, been destroyed during the 1680 revolt, been rebuilt, fallen down, and been rebuilt again. Within ten feet of the church was the tribal kiva. The only part visible aboveground was its circular roof with a hand hewn wooden ladder leading underground. The kiva predated the church by at least two hundred years. It was a single, round underground room about twenty-two feet in diameter with whitewashed walls covered in pictographs of rainstorms and snakes—on one wall hung a crucifix. The kiva was a junction between the underworld and the above world. The underworld was where humans and animals lived, until they crawled out through the kiva and went aboveground. As she walked closer to the plaza, Kristen could hear drumming from the kiva, where the dancers were preparing.

  Around the snow-covered dancing ground in the center of the square, a crowd had gathered, with emo girls in black jeans and men in Harley Davidson shirts. Most of the people were tribal members, but there were also plenty of Anglos and tourists. A half-dozen Buddhist monks, wrapped in saffron robes, stood nearby. They came every year from the monastery in Santa Fe to offer their blessings to the celebration.

  Kristen nodded to Emmet Ortega, the tribal officer, who was deep in conversation with a well-dressed Anglo woman holding an expensive camera. As Kristen passed by, she heard the woman say, “I want to play by the rules, but people are giving me dirty looks.” The tourists always wondered why the pueblos didn’t allow photos or videos to be taken of the dances. Some of them thought it was because tribal members believed that having their photo taken was akin to having their soul stolen. But that had never been true. It was more about protection of the tribal culture and respect for the sacredness of the dance. Just as people are discouraged from taking pictures during Mass, so it was the same during the dances.

  Kristen made her way over to her mom and sat down in a lawn chair next to her. Her mother, covered in a fleece blanket with a cup of coffee in her hand, sat next to Kristen’s uncle, grandma, and a half dozen other relatives. They were catching up on news of the tribal members who had died in the last year. “Then Martine lost Elisa in a car accident up on Opera Hill,” her mother was saying as Kristen surveyed the crowd, watching couples huddle together for warmth and two little girls play on the dancing ground. She decided to practice some of the skills she’d learned while watching Detective Montoya. He was always studying people, trying to interpret their behavior by their body language and word choice. He usually caught small indications from suspects that everyone totally missed. It was why she was constantly offering to help him on cases—because she wanted to learn how to do it, too. She glanced around the crowd, looking for someone to study. Over near the church were a couple of boys who looked to be about sixteen years old, in hoodies and low-slung jeans with tattooed names wreathed around their necks. They looked like they were going to cause some trouble. Kristen wondered why she thought this. She kept watching them and realized that they seemed to shift their stances a lot, which usually was a dominance display. They could be anticipating a fight. One of
them, who stood a good foot above the others, kept looking over at another group of teenagers nearby. At that age, she reasoned, height meant power, so the taller boy was likely in charge. She tried to determine by his body language why he kept glancing over at the other teenagers. He looked nervous. That meant fear. She wondered what was scaring him. It took Kristen a moment to notice exactly where he was looking: at a girl standing with the other group of teenagers. The fear and dominance display finally made sense. The boy wasn’t looking for a fight. He was looking for a hookup. Kristen knew that Detective Montoya would have determined this within a minute of watching the boys. He would have known not to waste his time observing them when someone else in the crowd was likely up to something much worse. Kristen continued watching the boy, who, a moment later, went up to the girl, who smiled.

  The tribal governor passed by wearing a dress coat over his suit and tie, his long hair pulled back in a braid. A chorus of “Hello, Governor” and “Hi, Governor” went up, as did a few “Hola, jefes.” The governor went to join the other elders standing next to the church. Kristen could hear them talking in their heavily Tewa-accented English, staccato and halting. The war chief stood with them, seemingly part of the conversation, yet he looked only at the crowd. It was part of his job to keep an eye on the tourists and watch for witches, who were known to use the dances as a way to disseminate their curses. There was a time, when Kristen was sixteen and wearing a lot of black and skull-and-bones jewelry, that her family thought she might be becoming a witch. but it was just her Goth phase.

  * * *

  Joe was dialing the number for Melody, the preproduction manager, when there was movement from the Escobar apartment on the first floor. A woman wearing slippers with a coat over her bathrobe opened the front door and came out carrying two trash bags. She looked to be about sixty-five—too old to be Lupe Escobar—possibly a grandmother. They got out of the car, and Gil called over to her, “Excuse me, ma’am.” She turned to look at them without interest. They introduced themselves, giving their names and titles. She said her name was Connie Lopez. Gil asked, “Do you know the Escobars?”

  “No,” she said, not stopping on her path to the garbage can at the curb.

  “But you’re coming out of their apartment,” Joe said. She said nothing as she got to the trash can and struggled to open the lid, which was covered in snow. “Ma’am?” Joe said again, hoping for a response. There was none.

  Gil decided they needed a different approach. “You said your last name was Lopez?” he asked, thinking the “proving your ties” conversation might make her more likely to talk to him. With the sleeve of his jacket, Gil brushed the snow off the top of the trash container and then opened it for her. “My mother’s cousin has a wife who is a Lopez. Her family is from Los Trampas.”

  “My husband’s last name is Lopez,” she said. “He has relatives up in that area. You’re a Montoya?” she asked him as she put the bags in the can. “Do you know the Montoyas from over by Old Pecos Trail?”

  “That’s one of my aunts,” Gil said. “But my father’s family is from Galisteo.”

  Joe, seeing that a connection had been made, jumped in, “Were you related to the Escobars?”

  “Related? No. I’m just their landlady. Or I was their landlady.”

  “They moved?” Joe asked. “When?”

  “Yesterday,” she said as she started to walk back to the apartment. Joe and Gil fell into step alongside her. “Blanca may have finally just had enough.”

  “Who is Blanca?” Gil asked.

  “Blanca Escobar,” she said. “Lupe’s mother. It was just the two of them. And then the baby.”

  “What makes you say Blanca had finally had enough?” Joe asked.

  “They got into a big fight yesterday, yelling and screaming at each other,” she said. “I live in the apartment above them. I could hear most of it. Blanca said she was leaving because of the crazy guero.”

  “Guero?” Joe asked

  “It means a white guy—sort of,” Gil said. It was a term Mexicans used either to describe a fair-haired white person or to call them a name akin to “whitey.” “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not that I heard,” the landlady said. “Blanca seemed like a nice enough person. As soon as that baby came home from the hospital, she took good care of it. That’s more than I can say for Lupe.”

  “You didn’t like her?” Joe asked.

  “She was always bringing home fancy things, but as far as I could tell she didn’t have a job,” the woman said. “And she left that baby with her mom at all hours of the day and night. My guess is drugs.” When they reached the front door, she said, “You might as well come in the apartment to get out of the cold.”

  She opened the door and stomped her feet on the welcome mat. Gil and Joe did the same, and then followed her inside.

  “They didn’t really leave anything here,” she said. “But you’re welcome to look through it.”

  A futon couch covered with a floral sheet stood in front of a fake, undecorated Christmas tree. In the bedroom, the bed was stripped bare and the dresser drawers were empty. The only things in the bathroom were a half roll of toilet paper and a half empty shampoo bottle.

  “How well did you know them?” Joe asked.

  “Not at all,” she said. “I learned a while ago that my tenants’ problems aren’t my business.”

  “How long did they live here?” Gil asked.

  “Not long,” she said. “They got the place right when she was eight months along, so really, only a month or so.”

  There was no sign that the baby had been there. No crib was set up, and no mobiles hung from the ceiling.

  “Did Blanca have any family in the area?” Gil asked.

  “No, Lupe was from El Paso, I think, but Blanca was from someplace in Mexico,” she said. “My guess is that Blanca took the baby and went back home.”

  “You don’t think Lupe went with them?” Gil asked.

  “That would mean she’d have to give a damn about someone other than herself,” she said. “Besides, I saw her get picked up by some Anglo guy in one of those big dark cars. He was probably the crazy guero.”

  “Had you ever seen the man before?” Gil asked. She shook her head. “Did they give you any contact information when they signed the lease?” he asked.

  The woman laughed and said, “What lease?”

  “Just some quick cash under the table and Uncle Sam is none the wiser,” Joe said, winking at her. “I don’t blame you in these hard times.” The woman smiled at Joe, and he gave her his card. Before he and Gil left, he told her to call them if anyone came back to the apartment.

  * * *

  Lucy was just stepping into the emergency department, thinking she’d find Tommy, to see if she could smooth over the rough edges of their recent conversations, when her phone buzzed. It was the PIO from the Los Alamos lab calling her back, confirming she was being allowed to talk to Dr. Price’s immediate supervisor. Lucy found a pen in her pocket and wrote the number of the supervisor, Dr. Laura Goodwin, on her hand. It was the next number she dialed. Dr. Goodwin picked up on the second ring.

  “Hi, my name is Lucy Newroe. I’m a reporter for the Capital Tribune, and I am looking to do a story about Dr. James Price, who I believe worked in your department. Would you be able to talk with me today?”

  “Yes,” came the response. The woman sounded hesitant and almost disinterested.

  “That’s wonderful. Thank you. I know this is a difficult time.”

  According to the laws of communication, Dr. Goodwin should have responded to that statement with a “Thank you” or “Yes, it is.” But she was silent.

  “So, how long did you work with Dr. Price?” Lucy asked.

  “Not long.”

  “What was he like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lucy sighed. When a journalist starts an interview, she already knows exactly what kind of quote she is looking for from the subject. A good repo
rter is never surprised by what an interviewee tells her. And if a subject isn’t saying what the reporter wants, an experienced journalist will craft the interview in such a way so as to get the person to say the desired phrase. Sometimes, a reporter may have to ask the same question several times to get what she needs. If worse comes to worst, and the interviewee just won’t give a good quote, the reporter will say the exact quote she wants and just add at the end, “is that right?” Lucy could tell that Dr. Goodwin was one of those rare people who, for whatever reason, didn’t follow the customary social interaction rules. This meant Lucy couldn’t predict how Dr. Goodwin would respond to a question, and therefore she would have to work much harder to craft the interview correctly. Lucy also knew Dr. Goodwin wasn’t going to give her what she needed, at least not over the phone.

  “Hey, you know what? I’m actually on my way up to Los Alamos right now,” Lucy said. “How about I buy you lunch?”

  “I’m not…”

  Lucy heard the beginning of a denial and said quickly, “I have cleared everything with your public information office, and they are really happy that you’re talking to me.” Lucy knew that the implication that the PIO office expected Dr. Goodwin to talk to her would smooth the way. Lab employees were government employees, and they did what they were told. She heard a feeble “okay” and arranged to meet Dr. Goodwin in Los Alamos in an hour.

  * * *

  The dances were supposed to start at 12:00 noon, but of course they never did. Kristen Valdez thought that was a result of a difference in the concept of time between natives and the outside world. Tribal members would say, “We’ll meet when the sun goes down,” or “after I put the sheep in their pen.” The concept of noon was very precise and considered almost rude to natives, since it didn’t allow someone to go about his day in a smooth manner. People who paid close attention to time were always rushing to make their next appointment and not leaving time for everything that needed to be done.