But first Claire asked, “Ansia? How did you get into my office? The gate was locked when I went out.”
“I have the code,” Ansia said. “Maia gave it to me.”
That was a code Celia needed to change immediately without waiting for Seth to be chastised or tried by committee.
“The student at the Information Desk didn’t see you?”
“Nobody saw me,” Ansia said. She held out the skirt of the dress with one hand and made a curtsy. Claire accepted the gesture as a thank you.
“It looks good on you,” she said. Ansia seemed to smell better in the dress. At least the office didn’t reek of ammonia. “Thank you for coming. I have some pictures and one of them might be the woman who told you she was Maia’s mother. Would you be willing to take a look?”
Ansia nodded.
Claire took the pictures she had printed and showed Jennifer Rule to Ansia.
“Her hair is too pretty,” Ansia said. ‘“That’s not her.”
Next Claire handed over the picture of Bettina and Bill Hartley accepting the triathlon trophy.
“That’s the man who came,” Ansia said. “Didn’t I tell you he was a runner?”
“And the woman?” asked Claire. “Do you recognize her?’”
“She’s too young to be the woman I talked to,” Ansia said. “She looks like a girl.”
“She looks older in person,” Claire said.
Ansia shook her head.
Ansia became so agitated when Claire handed her the picture of Sharon and Damon that the paper shook in her hands. She resembled a too-full bowl with a surface that remained smooth and tranquil when the bowl was held perfectly still, but the slightest push caused the liquid to churn and slosh over the edge. Claire assumed it was the sight of Sharon that brought on the anxiety, but Ansia was more interested in Damon.
“You know this man?” she asked.
“I’ve met him,” Claire said.
“Does he work here?”
“No. He lives and works in Taos.”
“I saw him here with Maia,” Ansia said. “They were arguing on the steps.”
“When?”
Ansia’s eyes glazed over as she struggled to remember. Claire wondered if she was on drugs and if so, how long it had been since she shot up, how long it would be before she needed to shoot up again. “Right before Maia died. Is this man a john?”
“No. He’s the man who abused Maia when she lived in Taos. He’s to blame for her ending up on the street. Maia had agreed to tell the Taos County DA about him.”
“Did he know that?”
“If he was arguing with her, I would say that he did. What about the woman? Do you recognize her?”
Ansia stared at Sharon’s picture. “I don’t know. The woman I saw was wearing a hat.”
“Was she wearing glasses?”
“No.” Ansia put the printouts down, went to the picture of the dancing girls on Claire’s wall, and touched the shadow coming out of the corner of the painting. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
“I think it is,” Claire replied.
“Men. They use you, abuse you, and leave you all tore up.”
“These are nice flowers,” Claire said, picking up the roses, trying to calm Ansia by diverting her.
Ansia stared at the bouquet as if she had forgotten all about it. “They’re for Maia. I found them in the Dumpster. I want to leave them here in the place where she died. Can I keep these pictures? They will help me remember.”
“Sure,” Claire said.
“Take me to the room where Maia died.”
“It’s supposed to be locked after hours,” Claire replied.
“I have the code.”
“It won’t work. That room is used only for storage and it’s locked with a dead bolt and a key.”
Ansia shook her head, flapping the cherry red hair against her cheek. “Maia wouldn’t sleep in a room like that,” she insisted. “Take me there.”
Claire agreed, hoping she would settle for leaving the flowers in the hallway outside the locked door. She handed the dead roses to Ansia, who put them and the printouts in a plastic bag. Claire led her to the elevator, wishing she could find some way to make both of them invisible. She didn’t want to be seen taking Ansia into the basement. Technically CSWR was closed for the day, but people worked and studied in the library at all hours.
At every security door they came to, Claire punched in her code. Once they stepped out of the elevator into the basement, the dullness left Ansia’s eyes and she had the heightened awareness of a stalker conscious of every sound, every smell. It was the attitude that kept her alive on the street. If she had drugs in her system, Ansia seemed to have shaken them off.
They walked through the dim corridors where the pipes throbbed overhead. A red EXIT sign signaled escape to Claire but she walked right past it. They came to the closed door at the storage room.
“This is the room where Maia died,” Claire said, not knowing what to do next. Hold hands? Sing a song? Say a prayer? Cry? “We could leave the flowers here and share our thoughts.” It seemed lame, but it was the best she could come up with in the way of a ceremony.
“Let’s go inside. I want to leave the flowers on the place where Maia died.”
“The door is supposed to be locked,” Claire said.
Ansia tried the handle. “It’s not.”
Claire was startled when the door opened and swung into the room. She reached around the corner and flipped the light switch, not wanting to step into the darkness. The overhead light revealed nothing new—stacks of empty boxes, shadows, dead roaches.
“I told you Maia wouldn’t sleep in a locked room,” Ansia said. “See what?” A rubber doorstop Claire hadn’t noticed on her previous visit lay on the floor. Ansia kicked it.
Claire began to question everything Paul had said. They only had his word that the dead bolt to this door was routinely locked at night and over the weekend. Nobody else had ever cared or noticed. Claire’s mind returned to her earlier question. Why bother to deadbolt a room that contained nothing of value?
“Show me the place she died,” Ansia insisted.
Claire led her to the corner Paul had pointed out. “I was told the body was found here,” she said.
Ansia dropped the flowers to the floor and knelt beside them. She took a candle from her plastic bag, lit it, and placed it on the floor next to the flowers. Claire saw it as a shrine to all “the girls who,” a sad little descanso like the ones New Mexicans left beside the road in the places their loved ones died. Ansia bowed her head and Claire rested her hand on her shoulder. A shadow reached out from the hallway and fell over both of them.
Chapter Thirty
CLAIRE SPUN AROUND AND SAW PAUL BEGALA in his gray uniform standing in the doorway, holding a gym bag in his hand.
“What are you doing? You can’t light a candle in here. You’re not even allowed in here,” he said. “No one’s supposed to come here after hours.”
Ansia’s head was bent and her voice muffled. “Go away,” she muttered.
“I thought the door wasn’t supposed to be open after hours,” Claire said.
“I had to work late fixing the leak but I’m going home now. I came by to lock the door.”
Claire supposed he was going out through the library to the rear parking lot. His approach hadn’t been preceded by the telltale jingle of his key ring or by his tuneless whistle. Claire didn’t see any keys hanging from his belt, leading her to suspect he left the large key ring in his office when he went home and kept his office key on the same chain as his car and house keys. As he stood in the doorway and watched them, Paul’s body was rigid with tension.
But there was ambivalence in his mismatched eyes—hostility but also a worried, vulnerable quality that provided an opportunity. Detective Owen might be able to do it better, but Claire had the advantage of being here now.
“You don’t routinely lock this door, do you?” she asked. “That’s why Maia came
in here to sleep.”
Paul turned stubborn. “I always locked it. I told you already I didn’t know she slept here.”
“But somebody else did, and that person persuaded you to lock Maia in.”
“I never talked to any woman claiming to be Maia’s mother,” Paul insisted.
“No, you talked to a man. Was it this man?”
Claire took the printouts from Ansia’s plastic bag and stuck the picture of Damon in front of Paul’s face. His instinctive reaction was to recoil from the image. His expression, full of fear and guilt, convinced Claire that he had spoken to Damon Fitzgerald, but law enforcement would need more. Detective Owen would have to follow rules of procedure when she questioned Paul, but Claire had entered a zone where the only rule was justice for Maia.
“I don’t know him,” Paul insisted. His tone was defiant, but neither eye would focus on Claire.
“His name is Damon Fitzgerald,” she said. “He’s an architect in Taos.” Claire took a deep breath and stepped further into the lawless zone. “I believe he paid you to lock Maia in the storage room for the weekend.” Ansia remained huddled in the corner, watching the conversational volley with eyes bouncing from Claire to Paul.
“Why would he do that?” Paul asked.
“He’s under investigation for criminal sexual penetration,” Claire said. “Maia intended to testify against him. His intent was to stop her.” Remembering that Paul was a man who liked to fish in mountain streams, a man who took care of his ailing wife, a man who had to have a soft side, Claire lowered her voice and said, “It would be better for you if you told the truth. There is a witness who saw Damon here arguing with Maia right before she died.” Claire was relieved when Ansia did not identify herself as that witness. “There are other witnesses who knew Damon’s girlfriend was looking for Maia. I’m sure you only got involved because your wife needed help.” Claire had switched from bad cop to good with a finesse Detective Owen might have admired. “The DA will understand that. It’s Damon she’s after, not you. If you can help her prosecute him, she will be lenient.”
Paul focused his blue eye on Claire as he said, “Well, whatever happened here you can blame that guy for it. He told me he wanted to keep the girl locked up for a few days to straighten her out. That’s all. He gave me a bag with food and water and a waste bucket. I left them in the room where she would find them. Was that a crime? He said he was Maia’s stepfather. He was going up to Taos to get her mother, he told me. He was afraid Maia would run away again. He said he’d be back on Saturday or Sunday and would call me. He wanted to be there when I opened the door. I gave him my cell number. If he’d called I’da come in at any time. How was I supposed to know the girl would bring drugs into the room with her?”
“She didn’t,” Claire said. “Damon or his girlfriend put the drugs in the bag with the food.”
“You’re telling me that guy deliberately locked his stepdaughter up with heroin?”
No, he provided the heroin and you locked her up, Claire thought, but she didn’t say so. Now that she had Paul talking, she didn’t want to stop the flow.
“His girlfriend was trading China White for information on the street. Damon had to know that locked up in a room with the drug, Maia would take it; she was a reformed addict and she was claustrophobic. The heroin was very fine and very dangerous.”
“Why would he want to kill his own stepdaughter?” Paul asked.
“She wasn’t his stepdaughter. He was once her mother’s lover and then he abused Maia when she was only twelve years old. That’s the case the DA was investigating. Maia was going to testify against Damon for a first-degree felony that could have put him in jail for life.”
Ansia had been huddling in the corner so still that Claire had almost forgotten she was there. But she jumped up now and cried out, “How much did you get for killing Maia?” in a hoarse voice.
“I didn’t kill nobody. All I did was lock the door,” Paul said. “She killed herself.”
“How much did you get for that?” Ansia demanded.
“A couple of thousand,” Paul admitted.
It was a huge sum of money to Ansia, a mountain of drugs, but nothing at all to Damon’s heiress girlfriend. It had to be a very small amount, taking into consideration that it was intended to keep Damon out of prison, where a child abuser’s life was worthless. It was only a drop in the bucket of the long-term costs of caring for Paul’s wife but it should have been more than enough to tell him he was doing something very, very wrong.
“You bastard, you killed Maia for a couple of thousand dollars,” Ansia’s emotions boiled over. “You’re no better than a candy man on the street.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Paul protested.
“You did.” Ansia opened her plastic bag, pulled out an object, and lunged at Paul.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.
Claire’s mind had the slow-motion clarity that precedes disaster. The flash of metal she saw wasn’t the dull blade of the paring knife she had given Ansia. It was the sharp glint of a hunting knife large enough to skin and dismember an animal. Ansia lives in a parked car, Claire thought. Of course she carries a knife.
Paul dropped his bag and put his arm up to protect his face. Ansia raised the knife and slashed the arm, releasing a stream of blood.
Claire pulled the skirt of the green dress and tried to stop her. “Ansia, don’t!”
Ansia lifted the knife and lunged again, and the fabric ripped loose in Claire’s hands. The knife sliced Paul across the shoulder, drawing more blood. He groaned and sank down to the floor. As Ansia pounced on him, he kicked his bag between her feet, tripping her. The knife fell out of her hand and clattered across the floor. Claire had a split second to decide whether to go for the woman or the knife.
Fearing a knife would be useless in her hands, she knelt over Ansia and pinned her to the floor. Ansia squirmed and bucked, trying to throw her off, but Claire held tight.
“Are you all right?” she asked Paul.
“I don’t know,” he said in a dazed voice.
“Where’s your cell phone?”
“In the office.”
“Can you get up and call for help?”
“I’ll try,” Paul said.
“Do it. I can’t hold her for long.” The bloody knife lay on the floor. If Claire didn’t get it, Paul would, but she was afraid of what Ansia would do if she let go. She might get to the knife first. She might attack Paul again. The knife had to be safer in his hands than in hers. Paul had people he had to answer to, but Ansia was responsible to no one, not even herself.
“Don’t let him get it.” She squirmed and kicked at Claire.
“Take it now,” Claire said to Paul. “Get out of here. Get help.”
He pushed himself off the floor, picked up the knife, and stood beside them, clutching the handle. All it would take to get himself out of this mess would be to raise his arm, stab both of them to death, and leave the knife in Ansia’s hand. The question was whether he was physically or emotionally capable of such brutality. Claire believed that you never knew what people were capable of until they were put in a situation that brought out their best—or their worst. The room was so still she heard the pipes throbbing like an artery.
“It’s only a matter of time before the APD learns about you,” she said. “I’ve told my associates everything I know. If you go to prison for killing us, how can you help your wife?”
Paul stared at the knife until the blood ran down his arm and onto the blade. He walked out of the room and down the hall. Claire was faced with what to do about Ansia, who had stopped squirming and stared at her with listless eyes.
“I need your help,” Claire said. “If you can identify Damon and the woman who gave you the China White, you can put both of them in prison for a long, long time. You’ll get a chance to see the woman in a lineup wearing a hat and dressed as she was when you met her. You can’t go back on the street now; you won’t be safe. You want
those people to be punished for killing Maia, don’t you?”
Ansia nodded. The fight had gone out of her. Her body twitched. “I need mi medicina,” she whispered.
In prison she was all too likely to find her medicina, but the court might put her into rehab instead. She would have to be drug-free to testify, and she would have to testify in order to convict Damon.
Claire looked down at the sage green dress smeared with dirt and blood. “Many girls have been hurt by men,” she said, “and too many men have gotten away with it. But you have the chance to punish the man who killed Maia and hurt the other girls. You’re the only one who can. It will be hard, but it will be worth it. Promise me you won’t run away if I let you go. Promise me you’ll stay here and talk to the police when they come. Say you’ll do it for Maia.”
Ansia nodded. It was her chance to be a hero.
“I’ll be your medicina,” Claire said. She helped Ansia into a sitting position, leaned against the wall, and rocked her in her arms until the police showed up.
Chapter Thirty-one
PAUL BEGALA RECOVERED FROM ANSIA’S WOUNDS. He was fired from his job at UNM but he found another at the nursing home that cared for his wife. Ansia was charged with assault with a deadly weapon. Unable to raise bail she was held over for trial. Detective Owen told Claire that this could be considered a good thing. Prison would keep Ansia safe until the time came to testify she’d seen June Reid arguing with Damon Fitzgerald. Convicting her of assault would get her off the street at least for a while. Detective Owen pulled some strings and got Ansia admitted to a special treatment program for female drug addicts. Drugs were almost as easy to come by in prison as they were on the street, but this program isolated the women from the general prison population and kept them drug-free. Claire agreed the program would be beneficial but she wasn’t sure Ansia would see it that way.
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