I clicked through her site, savoring it like a rare liqueur. Her portfolio was unbelievable. She had already traveled all over the world, including Europe, India, Latin America, and Turkey. I clicked on her biography and my jaw dropped. She would be thirty-one in early February. Had I thought to do this sooner, I would have known she wasn’t as young as I had assumed. This threw a whole other song into the mix.The biography portion of her site included a couple of photos of her as a little cowgirl. Even as a child, she’d had that damn grin. The Wyoming landscape stretched for miles behind her in each image. Another photo showed her sitting in a downpour in what looked like a Central American jungle. She huddled amidst indigenous peoples beneath a leaky roof, laughing with them. My heart lurched and my breathing sped up. This is either really good or really bad. Shit.
The text provided just enough information without going into too much detail. She had been born in Wyoming and got interested in images and art as a child. From there, it was just a matter of getting her hands on a camera. Her mom gave her a used Kodak when she was five. After that, Sage said in the biography, there was no going back.
I clicked on another page of her Web site labeled
“exhibitions.” She had already had several over the years. University of Wyoming, University of New Mexico, a couple of galleries in Los Angeles, one in Austin, and two in Boston. Those featured European images. “Wow,” I said out loud. Upcoming exhibitions included an installation on the UNM
campus—Sage had already mentioned that one. But she also had an opening coming up in Santa Fe on Canyon Road, which was the place to get your art shown there. I was blown away. I clicked on
“galleries” and found out that her work was currently on display at two here in Albuquerque. One was in Old Town.
Another page on her site featured several photographs that had been published in magazines. A few I actually recalled seeing somewhere. The last page I viewed was called “upcoming projects.”
According to this, in February she was scheduled to do a photo essay down in the Everglades after which she was going to document local fishing along the Gulf Coast. She thanked the Aaron Siskind Foundation underneath the description of the Everglades shoot. The Fifty Crows Foundation out of San Francisco was helping fund the Gulf Coast project.
I sat back. Her work was amazing. She captured not just the image, but the essence of whatever or whomever she photographed. Sage was not only talented, she was gifted. She was born with an ability to see into people and to draw out of them their innermost thoughts and dreams. She did the same with landscapes. I was spellbound. So many layers.
Here she was, one of the up-and-coming talents in documentary photography and she was so understated. Humble. Real. I wanted to know more.
In every conceivable way. And that thought both excited and scared the hell out of me. She’s not as young as I thought. This could be dangerous.
I stood and stretched. Time to get my mind off Sage for a bit and do the job I was asked to do. There was nothing in Melissa’s notebook that she hadn’t already told me. But she had logged the three numbers from which Megan had called. The most recent number matched the last three times she had called. So she was staying put somewhere. Megan called Melissa at least once every eight days, it seemed, as I flipped through the pages and checked the dates. The longest stretch was the most recent.
I put the notebook down and went back through Megan’s bookshelves, paying particular attention to the books Cody had given her. For all I knew, something he had underlined was some kind of secret code, in which case, I’d probably not ever know what he was looking for. But I might have missed something. I went through Megan’s books again as well. School texts and some fiction that included Tony Hillerman and Nevada Barr. I could totally visualize Megan as a forest ranger. I hoped Nevada Barr was that kind of influence on her.
I moved to her bedroom, where Megan kept her addiction recovery books. Nothing in them beyond notebook paper on which she had written what looked like affirmations and a few thoughts. I was glad to see that the books looked like they got a lot of use. I finished in the bedroom and went back to the computer. Had I missed something in her files?
An hour later, I was stumped. I had gone through all of her files again. Maybe Cody and Roy wanted the photos. That seemed logical. But there wasn’t anything that would get them arrested in those photos, which were all fairly benign. I looked through the two drawers of Megan’s computer desk. I had already checked all the CDs but I decided I’d check them again.
Ten CDs later, I sat back, glaring at the screen.
What was I missing? The CDs were just back-ups of files on her hard drive. I opened the drawer to put the disks back. A folded manila envelope rested on the bottom. The CDs had been sitting on top of it and it hadn’t registered with me earlier. I took it out and knew immediately there was a CD in it from the way it felt in my hand. The envelope was sealed and addressed to Cody. No return address but the postmark date was July 8, after Megan had left. Did Cody hide it here?
I opened it carefully with my pocketknife and pulled the case out so I could remove the disk. I inserted it into the CD drive and clicked the mouse through the steps to open it. The only thing on this was one file—a photo. I clicked on it and waited for the appropriate software to open it. As it took shape, I felt my stomach clench. It was a picture of John Talbot’s body lying in the parking lot. The angle was different than the photo that Mark had shown me at the station. Raymond Watkins stood over Talbot, looking down at him with a smirk. Cody stood to Raymond’s right, glaring at whoever was taking the picture.
“Oh, my God,” I said softly. I shouldn’t e-mail this to anyone. I had to take it to Mark right away, so it could be admitted to evidence. Plus, I really didn’t want anything like this traceable to my e-mail address. Should I copy it? Fuck. Then it’d be on Megan’s computer and that might look incriminating.
Better to just get the damn thing to Mark. I ejected the disk and put it back in its case before sliding it into the envelope, figuring that my fingerprints were all over it anyway. I quickly shut everything down and checked to make sure I had Mark’s card. A gallon-sized plastic Ziploc bag I found in one of Megan’s kitchen drawers worked for an envelope once I folded it over. No sense getting any more fingerprints on it.
Halfway down the walk to my car, I remembered that Sage’s house was open and I turned around so that I could retrieve the key from inside and lock up. The key sat on the counter, like she said, next to a plate covered with plastic wrap. A note rested next to the plate. “Banana bread. Come on, bachelor. Have a slice.”
I smiled and lifted the plastic wrap for a piece and took a bite. “Oh, my God.” It was the best I had ever tasted. I carefully re-wrapped it and glanced at my watch. One-thirty. I found a pen on the kitchen counter next to a phone and wrote on the piece of paper, “Thanks! Freakin’ DEE-LISH-US!” I placed a copy of the key to Megan’s on the piece of paper and wrote right next to it, “Just in case.”
I locked up then headed to the next block to retrieve my car, which was only a couple blocks from Carlisle, a main drag that cuts north-south through the heart of Nob Hill. On the way to the police station, I called Mark and left a message telling him that I was on my way with a photo on a CD I’d found at Megan’s that pertained to the Talbot case.
When I got to the station, the receptionist said that Mark wasn’t in and was there something she could do? I left the envelope with her after writing a long note explaining the circumstances in which I’d found it and admitting that my fingerprints were thus all over it. I told him to call me for further information. I was hesitant to leave it with the receptionist, but it was a police station, after all. From the car, I called Chris and left a message telling her I’d found a photo at Megan’s and she needed to check in with Mark.
Then I called Melissa. Geez, nobody was answering their phones. I left a message with her as well, telling her to call me.
Two-thirty. I got back into my
car and re-traced my route to Carlisle. An American Furniture store dominated the parking lot on the corner of Menaul, a major east-west route, and Carlisle. I turned left before the store into the shopping center and parked.
The afternoon heat scraped against my skin as I walked toward Cost Plus Imports. Sculptures made out of rebar and car parts decorated a small grassy area in front, one a dinosaur or maybe a dragon and another a crane. I entered the store, trying really hard not to think about the fact that I found that picture in Megan’s house. I hoped to God she didn’t know what had been in that envelope.
I headed directly to the wine section and selected a dry sweet rosé from New Mexico’s Blue Teal Vineyard, located in the Mesilla Valley near the Mexican border, and a darker red called Coyote, from Black Mesa, a northern vineyard near Taos. The Blue Teal needed to be chilled, but the Black Mesa was better at room temperature. I knew I was on autopilot, trying to do little stupid shit to keep myself on track, keep myself focused on here and now. There was nothing I could do about John Talbot or the picture.
I’d done what I was supposed to. So why did I feel so damn helpless?
On my way back to Megan’s I stopped at a gas station and called Cody’s number from the pay phone. Four rings and voice-mail again. I hung up.
Fuck this. Time for a disposable cell phone so I could actually leave him a message and get something going here with him. Maybe since Megan knew I was in town, she’d take the opportunity to bail on him if I could get him away long enough. I clenched my teeth and hoped Mark would call soon. Gripped by a sudden weird urge, I steered west again toward Old Town and the gallery where Sage’s work was on display. I wanted to not think about Megan for a while longer.
I parked just off the Plaza, on Romero and walked a half-block to the main square. I walked another block to Amapola Gallery. An electronic sensor beeped as I entered. Loads of art graced every conceivable space. Gallery personnel had added display cases for smaller objects, including jewelry.
Everything was arranged nicely so traffic could flow easily around objects. A man behind the counter near the back wall looked up. I guessed he was Navajo.
“Hi,” he said. “Looking for anything in particular?”
He spoke in a pleasant baritone.
“Actually, yes.” I approached the counter. “Sage Crandall’s work. She’s—”
“Right over here,” he replied, grinning. He came around the counter and crossed the room to a series of framed photographs on the wall. His cowboy boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor. He wore jeans and a red button-down shirt. The design on his bolo tie struck me as Puebloan. He gestured at the wall.
Ten photographs, all landscape shots. Four looked as if she’d taken them in Central America. Two of those were marked “sold.” Chaco Canyon’s Pueblo Bonito at sunrise and sunset graced two more, both sold.
Two others depicted the Great Stupa in Sanchi, India.
One was marked “sold.” But the last two were the ones that really caught my eye.
Slot canyons, probably in Utah. She’d been in these canyons and I wondered how she’d managed to bring her gear with her. Both photos captured the undulating but immutable nature of the narrow walls, splotched white and sandstone red. Soft sunlight filtered down through an opening high above the canyon floors. Sage had managed to capture a pictograph in each image. In one, the design looked like an animal of some sort. She had framed it in the lower left. In the other, the pictograph looked more like a human. It was about midway up, on the right.
“Wow,” I breathed.
“Her work is excellent.”
I turned my head to look at him. “I’m not sure that word captures it.”
He smiled. “I’d have to agree. Anyone who comes in here and sees her photographs is usually sucked right in.”
I looked again at the slot canyons. There was something deeply intimate about the two images.
Paired, they were like lovers, at once reflecting the other but also staking out their individuality.
Complementary but solitary. Five hundred dollars for both, framed.
“The canyons. I’ll buy them both.” They spoke to me. No, that wasn’t a strong enough word. They reached out and grabbed me by the throat. I found myself thinking that whatever happened with Sage, I would have these mementos of her and for some reason, that was comforting.
He grinned. “Ah. So she spoke to you.”
I looked at him sharply. He motioned me over to the counter. “I’ll write up a receipt. If it’s okay, they’re on display for another month or so.”
“No problem. I’ll check back.” And I’ll check with Sage, I found myself thinking as a weird light-headedness suddenly washed over me. Sage was in those images. She wasn’t visible, but there was a part of her in each one. And I wanted to have her near, no matter what form. The thought shocked me with its intensity. I took a credit card out of my wallet as he wrote up a ticket.
“Don’t lose this. It’s proof of purchase.” He handed the form to me, took my card, and slid it through the machine. “How did you discover her work?” He gave my card back.
“I met her.”
He nodded slowly. “She has that effect on people.”
“Compelling,” I said wryly.
“Sage carries a rare spirit,” he continued, keeping his eyes on mine. If he was Navajo, he had clearly adopted some white ways. “Uninhibited, I think, might capture it in English.” He handed me the proof of purchase and the credit card receipt for my signature. I signed it and handed it back.
“Thank you so much.” I wasn’t sure how traditional he was so I hesitated about extending my hand. He noticed.
“Joe Montoya.” He offered his right hand. I clasped it, relieved.
“K.C. Fontero. Thanks again.”
He handed me one of his business cards, which he kept in the pocket of his shirt. I took it and slid it into one of the cargo pockets of my shorts. “See you in a month or so,” he said.
“Definitely.” I left and returned to my car.
By the time I got back to Megan’s and parked just around the corner, it was nearly five. I grabbed the wine and crossed the street, doing a quick scan as I approached, in case Cody had come back today. He probably hadn’t. He probably went back to Edgewood and bitched Megan out because the locks had been changed on her door. Or he’d blame her for giving him the wrong key. Maybe he didn’t realize the locks had been changed. I let myself in and put the Blue Teal in the fridge, then turned some music on and stretched out on the couch, listening to the hum of the swamp cooler and the sounds of Central in the distance. My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but figured it might be Mark, calling from work.
“Hello?”
“Hi, K.C. This is Mark Aragon, with APD.”
“Oh, thanks for calling. I guess you got the CD.”
“I did. This is some serious shit. I’m guessing the photo was taken right after Talbot was shot. I don’t see a gun, but the fact that these two guys were there at the scene of a murder without informing authorities looks mighty suspicious. Where’d you find it, again?”
I went through the story again and this time, I explained what my relationship was to Megan and Melissa Crown. I included Cody’s relationship to Megan. It took about fifteen minutes. When I was done, Mark was quiet for a bit. Then he spoke. “So what were you planning to do when you located Sorrell?”
“Nothing. Tell Melissa. She said she would then hire a PI to deal with it. Probably follow him around or something.”
“Why didn’t she do that initially?”
“She couldn’t find one who was entirely comfortable dealing with white supremacists. And she couldn’t really gum up APD with it because Megan’s an adult. Plus, she can’t prove that Sorrell’s done anything illegal.”
“True.” His tone was thoughtful. “This changes that, though. We now have probable cause to get involved. I’m going to check this photo out and see if we can find Watkins and put a tail on him. We migh
t get lucky and find Sorrell, too.”
“So what does this mean with regard to Megan? I mean, I found the photo here, at her house. The envelope wasn’t open, though. And it’s dated after she left.”
“We’re dusting it for prints. Hopefully, hers won’t be on it. I’ll have Chris swing by to dust some of Megan’s things that only she might have touched so we can run a comparison if necessary. We’ll be checking the envelope for trace as well. I’m really hoping that she has nothing to do with this and that Sorrell hid it there without her knowing about it. In the meantime, stick around. This is getting complicated.”
“Yessir.” We hung up and I groaned, trying not to stress out just yet. I sank back into the couch and was staring moodily at the blank TV screen when Melissa called. Quickly, I told her what I had found. She was quiet for a bit before speaking. When she did, her tone was subdued.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think she knows about it. But they’re checking the prints. They’ll find mine and hopefully Cody’s. Maybe Raymond’s.”
“I can’t—I can’t think about this right now.”
“Don’t. There’s nothing we can do until the results come back. I’ll let you know as soon as possible. Just finish your day and do some packing. Maybe get some sleep.” I paused for a moment. “I’m sorry about this, Meliss’.”
“It’s not your fault. Thanks for telling me, even though it’s really shitty news.” She sighed. “All right.
Let me know what they find out. Bye.”
“Bye.” I hung up and continued staring at nothing. For some reason, I believed that Megan didn’t know about the photo. I clung to that and tried to focus on dinner with Sage.
Chapter Thirteen
“HELLO? SAGE?” I entered her kitchen and noticed a couple of pots on the stove. Damn, it smells like Indian food. Music emanated from the stereo in the living room. Alana Davis. Nice. Sage was probably in the bathroom or something, so I’d open a bottle of wine. I pulled a couple of drawers open, found a corkscrew on my second attempt, and set to work on the Blue Teal, sniffing it when I pulled the cork out.
Land of Entrapment Page 18
