Lucy noticed that the voice-mail light on her cell phone was blinking. She called in for her messages and cringed as she heard Gerald Trujillo’s voice reminding her that they were meeting at the fire station later in the day for more medic training. She quickly deleted the message.
Down the street, the crow over Patsy Burke’s house had gone, but Lucy could see the top of the cell tower in the distance. If Patsy Burke had been home, she could have heard Lucy’s entire cell-phone conversation with Garcia over her police scanner.
Gil was sitting at his desk, having just hung up with his mother, when he heard someone call his name. He looked up to see Maxine Baca standing with an old jewelry box in her hands. Joy had one like it that she kept her “secrets” in—old birthday cards, valentines from boys, and a small ring that Gil had given her when she was five.
Mrs. Baca hadn’t slept, he was sure. Her hair was un-brushed and pushed up on one side, making her look off-kilter. She shoved the jewelry box into his hands.
“I found that under her dresser last night. I didn’t know what to do with it so I … You can have it and people can say what they want.” Gil opened the box and looked inside. He expected to find heroin and needles. Instead, he found himself staring at a stack of Polaroids.
The ice-skating rink at the Genoveva Chavez Community Center doubled as a cool-down room for Lucy. Her arms ached, and she knew that she had overdone her workout, trying to weight-lift out her stress. She hunched over on a cold metal bench and peered at the kids’ feet as they skated, trying to figure out how they balanced on the blades. Lucy had grown up mostly in L.A. and Florida, where ice skating was not a popular pastime.
Before moving to New Mexico, she’d had a Clint Eastwood fantasy of the state—filled with cactus and dust and cattle. But Northern New Mexico was nothing like that. In the summertime it was green, its fields filled with wildflowers. In the fall the aspens turned bright yellow, cutting a stripe of gold across the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. In the winter the snow came.
New Mexico was now in a drought; it hadn’t snowed in a month. Everyone wanted snow—they prayed for it. But Lucy had a secret: she hated snow. She liked the idea of snow. It was pretty, and she loved how it looked like white icing when it coated the tops of the mountains. But she had no idea how to walk in it, drive in it, or deal with it. When she met her first snowfall in Santa Fe, she wanted to call in sick to work so that she wouldn’t have to figure out how to maneuver her car in it.
She’d tried to learn to like it—had even taken skiing lessons with Del last year. But her instructor had pulled her aside, saying, “You really don’t have the knack for this.” After that, she’d given up trying to live with the snow and decided to hate it. It was more honest than pretending. If it never snowed again, she’d be happy.
The metal bench was getting cold, so she took her towel and headed out the door. The sweat had dried, and her face felt like it was coated in dust. She glanced at the newspaper racks next to the door. A headline in the Santa Fe Times caught her eye: WOMAN STRANGLED, POLICE SAY. At first Lucy thought the story was about Melissa Baca, that the Santa Fe Times had managed to get hold of her autopsy as well. But the article was about Patsy Burke. Lucy felt a burn of guilt. If only she’d somehow been able to tell Tommy Martinez that Patsy Burke had been strangled. Damn ethics rules. Now, the Santa Fe Times had scooped them on the cause of death.
Lucy fished out fifty cents and pulled out a paper. The first paragraph of the article on Patsy Burke was wordy. It needed about ten words taken out. That gave Lucy some comfort. The rest of the story didn’t reveal anything new.
She got into her car and threw the paper on the passenger seat before the thought struck her. What did it matter which newspaper got the story first? Strangled or not, Patsy was still dead. And Lucy was responsible.
Lucy looked at her watch. She was supposed to meet Gerald Trujillo at the fire station in a half hour. She still had time to run home and take a shower. She would only be a few minutes late.
She waited at an intersection, trying to make a left turn out of the community center. Just as the traffic broke enough for her to merge into the lane, she took a right instead of a left toward her house. The road she was on intersected with the highway and she turned onto it, the traffic becoming lighter, then turning into a trickle. She headed east, not toward the mountains but toward the plains, unrelenting in the distance.
She didn’t know where she was going.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday Afternoon
I’m curious why you didn’t mention that you and Melissa were having problems,” Gil said as way of greeting Jonathan Hammond. Gil stood in the doorway to Hammond’s apartment. He hadn’t been invited in. He had called the school after Mrs. Baca’s visit, only to be told that Hammond had the afternoon off.
“It wasn’t problems,” Hammond said. “It was just a rough patch.”
“What do you mean ‘rough patch’?”
“We had a disagreement.”
“About what?”
“It was something minor.”
“What was it about?”
“It really isn’t something that needs to be discussed.”
Gil realized that he wanted Hammond to be Melissa’s killer. But twelve students and several teachers had seen Hammond directing the dress rehearsal. The state police had talked to all of them. Not a second of Hammond’s time was unaccounted for the night Melissa died.
Tired of standing in the cold doorway, he walked into Hammond’s apartment without being invited. It was decorated in brown and the furniture was mostly large antique pieces. The place was fairly neat, except for an overflow of books in piles on the floor and a half-finished bottle of Jose Cuervo on the coffee table.
Gil took a packet of photos from his pocket and tossed them onto the oak dining-room table, watching for Hammond’s reaction. There wasn’t one.
“You don’t seem too surprised to see these photos. You must have seen them before?” Still no reaction. “Maybe you took them?” That barely got a rise out of him.
“No.”
“Who did take them?”
“I have no idea.” Hammond stared at the photos without touching them.
The pictures were of a redheaded girl who looked twelve. She was in poses that rivaled those in the Kama Sutra. There were eleven pictures in all. And in every one she only wore a string of pearls. In a few, she covered herself with a Japanese fan.
The photos were copies; Gil had given the originals to the state police. The chain of evidence on this case was going to be a nightmare if they had to go to court. The photos had passed from an unknown someone to Melissa, to her mother, to Gil, to the state police. A good defense attorney would rip that apart, if they ever got a suspect.
The pictures had been dusted for prints. Melissa’s and Maxine’s were on them along with about a half-dozen others that couldn’t be identified. Gil already knew that one set on them was Hammond’s; he had been fingerprinted three years ago after a DWI arrest, which meant that Hammond could have been the one who took them.
The photos themselves didn’t offer any clues. The only thing visible in the background was the couch the girl posed on—pastel blue with dark blue swirls. The couch hadn’t been sold by any of the furniture stores in town. It had been a longshot, but Gil had given it a try. “The work is either custom done or an antique,” one store manager had offered. From where Gil stood now, he could see clearly into the only other room in Hammond’s apartment—the bedroom. There was no blue couch with dark swirls in sight.
Gil had had no luck in finding out who the girl was. Burroway Academy didn’t have a yearbook. He had left messages at Principal Strunk’s home and office. His secretary said that he was out of town and she didn’t know how to reach him. The secretary was of no further help; she’d been working at the school for only a few weeks and said she barely knew who the teachers were, let alone the students. Hammond was the only one left to ID the girl.
“W
ho’s the girl?” Gil asked Hammond, who had sat down at the table.
“One of Melissa’s students.”
“Her name?”
“Sandra Paine. Her father’s an ob-gyn at St. Vincent.” Hammond smiled to himself. “Dr. Paine. Would you want a guy named that to deliver your baby?”
“And how old is she?
“I guess about twelve. Sandra was showing the photos to some friends in class and Melissa took them from her.”
“What did Melissa do about it?”
“She didn’t get a chance to do anything. She was killed the same day.”
“When did she show them to you?”
“During lunch on Monday.” That would explain why his fingerprints were on the photos.
“She was killed eight hours after finding these photos. You didn’t see any connection?”
“No.”
Hammond sat very still. Gil let the silence stretch. He waited for Hammond to fill it. After a few moments, he did.
“I told Melissa I didn’t see that much wrong with this,” Hammond said as he waved his hands over the photos. “If the girl was doing it of her own free will, what’s the problem with it?”
“Is that why you got in the fight? Melissa broke up with you, didn’t she?”
“Sort of. I knew it was only a temporary breakup. She’d never actually leave me.”
“She was on her way to your place when she was killed, wasn’t she?” Gil asked.
“Yes. She was going to pick up her things. She had some sweaters here or something. She didn’t want me around when she came by.”
“You got into this fight during lunch the day she died?”
Hammond nodded.
“Do you think Melissa told anyone she was going over to your house that night?” If someone had known where she was heading, he could have been waiting for her and forced her to pull over. Or maybe have a prearranged meeting at Oñate Park?
“I doubt it,” Hammond said. “Melissa wasn’t like that. She didn’t do that typical female thing where she had to confess everything to everyone. At most, she might have told Judy.” But Judy Maes had told Gil that she didn’t know where Melissa had been going that night. Gil would have to ask her again.
“There are a couple of things bothering me, Mr. Hammond. Your fingerprints are on these photos. You seem to be the only person who knew where Melissa was going when she was killed, and you had just had a fight with her.”
“But I have an airtight alibi, don’t I, Detective?” Hammond said with a stiff smile. There was no way to break the alibi. The state police were looking into the possibility that Hammond had hired someone. They were checking his bank accounts and going over his phone records. Pollack had wanted Gil to interview Hammond again, “to shake up the Shinola in him,” in Pollack’s words.
Hammond started systemically turning the photos over, facedown. “I made the mistake of telling Melissa that I once had a crush on one of my students,” Hammond said without prompting. “I was just trying to get her to calm down, to get her to see she was overreacting. I was trying to make her see that it’s natural for teachers, especially men, to become enamored of their students after they hit puberty. There are several books on the subject. It’s all very much human nature. It can be a good thing for both parties. Attraction is a very primitive thing. Very uncontrollable.”
“You’re a sixth-grade teacher? That would make the student you had the crush on, what, eleven?”
“I never acted on it. But what’s the harm in looking? And what’s the harm in these photos if the girl was willing?”
“Mr. Hammond, this man—the man who took these photos—acted on it. Doesn’t that concern you?”
“I think it was understandable.”
“Understandable? How?”
“Officer, please. The girl looks like she’s enjoying it, so who are we to tell her it’s wrong? We don’t give young adults enough credit. They are able to make their own decisions, and I think we should let them. She made the decision to have these photos taken.”
Hammond turned the pictures back over and started touching them again, this time using his index finger to trace around the edges.
“Who took the pictures, Mr. Hammond?”
“Why don’t you ask the girl in them? Or won’t she tell you?”
Gil felt the need for brutality. He slowly started collecting the photos. He held them with the images facing the palm of his hand. He was tired of looking at them. “Who was it?” he asked quietly.
“I honestly don’t know. After our fight, Melissa wouldn’t tell me. She was afraid I would warn him.” Hammond stared off into space.
“Do you even know if it was a man? Could it have been a boy?”
“Melissa never said, but by the way she was talking I could tell it was an older man. She kept saying things like, ‘He needs to face the music,’ and that sort of thing. I don’t think she would have been talking that way about a twelve-year-old boy.”
“But she knew who it was.” Hammond nodded. “And she planned to confront him?”
“That was the idea. Bring the poor fool to justice.”
Maybe confront him at Oñate Park, give the man a chance to turn himself in? That sounded like something Melissa would do.
Gil got up from the table, wanting to be as far from Hammond as possible. He leaned up against the far wall and folded his arms, forcing Hammond to look up at him.
“Melissa didn’t give you any indication if she had talked to him yet?”
“No. She wouldn’t tell me anything at all.”
“Who are Sandra’s friends at school?”
“I have no earthly idea. Melissa would have known; but I’ve never had Sandra in any of my classes.”
Gil walked out without saying anything more. Hammond might not have killed Melissa Baca, but Gil would make sure that Principal Strunk fired him.
Gil rang the doorbell at the Paines’ house and glanced around the enclosed courtyard that he was standing in. A now-dry pond fed what was usually a tiny stream that twisted through brown flower beds. It was an excessive use of water in the desert. The door was opened by a man in his late thirties or early forties, with dark hair and eyes. He was wearing pressed jeans, loafers, and a crisp blue cotton shirt. Gil introduced himself, and Dr. Michael Paine led him inside. The story-high windows in the living room gave a broad view of the Santa Fe Valley. The leather couch Gil sat on was soft.
“Dr. Paine,” Gil started. “Your daughter, Sandra, is a seventh-grader at Burroway Academy, is that right?”
Dr. Paine said yes and added, “Her teacher was that dead woman, Miss Baca. Is that why you’re here?”
“In a way. I’m just checking into a few things,” Gil said noncommittally.
Dr. Paine seated himself on the couch across from Gil, pulling up his pant leg so as to not lose the crease in his jeans.
“Dr. Paine, has your daughter been in trouble at school lately?” Gil asked.
“I assume you already know she has been or you wouldn’t be here. What did her teachers tell you?” the doctor asked, looking unconcerned.
“I just have reason to believe that she has been …” Gil hesitated; he didn’t want to use the wrong word, “involved in things that may be inappropriate for a girl her age.”
“You can be more candid than that, Officer.”
“Had Melissa Baca called you or your wife recently to express concern about Sandra’s welfare?” It would have been very much like Melissa to call the parents, Gil thought.
“We’ve never spoken to or met Miss Baca.”
Strange, Gil thought. He knew all of Therese and Joy’s teachers.
Gil pulled a picture out of his pocket. He had had Sandra’s face blown up on one of the Polaroids. He wasn’t about to show Paine the actual pictures. Sandra’s father didn’t need to see how fast his daughter had grown up. Gil showed the blowup to Paine. “Is this Sandra?”
Paine didn’t even take the photo and barely glanced at it. “And
if it is?”
Gil finally got it—Dr. Paine knew about the photos. Maybe had even seen them. Maybe even taken them?
“Dr. Paine, what is your relationship like with your daughter?”
“Let me save us both a lot of trouble, Officer,” Paine said smoothly. “My wife and I know about the photos, which is where I assume you got that snapshot you’re holding. We don’t approve of Sandra’s actions and are punishing her appropriately for it. We will not be filing any charges against the man who took them, and if you file any charges on her behalf, we will not cooperate.”
“May I ask what the punishment was?”
“No. That is a matter for my family.” The doctor casually rested his arms along the back of the sofa and smiled slightly. “I hope you understand.”
“Who was the man who took them?”
“I have no idea. We didn’t ask her for a name.”
Gil shook his head. Paine seemed completely at ease discussing his daughter’s sexual relationships. He was almost too unconcerned. Gil simply did not understand the man.
“I think Melissa Baca was going to confront whoever took the photos,” Gil said. “We want to find that man and question him.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Do you even know if Sandra was forced into making these photos?” Paine didn’t answer, so Gil tried again. “Dr. Paine, your daughter was exploited by this man. I think it’s strange that you don’t want him punished.”
“Wouldn’t it hurt Sandra more to see her name on the ten o’clock news?”
“We don’t release the names of any victims….”
“Officer, please,” Paine said, smiling weakly, “You know as well as I do that these things are always leaked to the press. Honestly, my wife and I discussed this at length. We simply feel that this a family matter for us to handle. It’s in Sandra’s best interest. We have decided it is not a concern of the police.”
“I think a sexual predator is most definitely a police concern,” Gil said. Paine stared at him impassively. “Dr. Paine, can you understand how it looks that you’re being so uncooperative?”
The Replacement Child Page 17
