The City of Rocks

by Don Travis

  Millicent hadn’t joined us for the meal, so after the rest of the crowd disappeared, Bert took a plate to his mother and spent a quarter of an hour with her. I watched the news on their satellite TV system, the first time I’d caught up on current events in several days. The sound bites on the state of the economy and the progress of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan could have been recycled reports from a week ago.

  When Bert returned, I lowered the volume. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s worked her way through most of the stages of grief. I think she’s past anger now. I expect she’ll show up before the night’s out.”

  As if summoned by his prediction, Millicent appeared on the threshold of the great room and eased into the recliner reserved for her. She raised the footrest, giving me a good view of her worn, wool-lined buckskin house slippers. Her eyes were puffy, her hair in slight disarray. At the moment she was Millicent, not Mud Hen.

  “BJ, I owe you an apology. You go out of your way to save my ranch, and I pay you back by blaming you for losing Maria and Luis. It wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry. Bert, we’d better look for a cook the first thing tomorrow. The Lord knows Linus tries, and he’s a better cook than most, but we’ve spoiled our hands when it comes to the supper table.”

  She looked over at me. “BJ, what do you figure’s coming down the cattle chute at us?” Mud Hen was back.

  “A stampede.”

  “How come? Heck will just make a decent offer, and when I tell him to go to hell, he’ll drop the matter. They don’t seem to have a problem getting their stuff over the border without owning the Lazy M. Why cause trouble over this particular stretch of land?”

  “Because he’s built his plans around this ranch. It’s perfect for him. It abuts his spread. It’s isolated. A year-round paved highway runs through it. It has an airfield for small craft. What more could he ask?”

  “That’s true, but what does it have that a couple of others in the area don’t?”

  The answer came in a flash. “The City. The only thing the Lazy M has the others don’t is the City of Rocks.”

  Chapter 31

  A BLEARY-EYED Paul knocked on my bedroom door the next morning on his way down to breakfast. He dug Maria’s cooking, so he appeared as unhappy I’d chased her away as Millicent had been yesterday. He cheered up when I asked how he’d fared at the poker table.

  “Those guys can’t believe I’m cleaning their clocks fair and square. I had to pass the deal to prove I wasn’t doing the South Valley shuffle.”

  “I take it you won.”

  “Money, yeah, but not sleep. They wouldn’t quit until about three this morning. I don’t know how they cowboy all day long on no sleep. They claim they snooze in the saddle, and they might be telling the truth.”

  Hazel called in the middle of breakfast to report Bill Garza had not checked out the Martinson shack because that was a state police case. Fortunately, Manny Montoya had. He’d picked up half a dozen sets of prints, which he identified as Liver, Lopez, a couple of local junkies, and Zack Rybald, the owner of R&S Auto Repair. The final set remained unidentified.

  “Ask him if he can run those unknown prints through the system across the border. Jim Gray’s on his way down to pick us up. I should be back in the office by noon.”

  “Good. We can use some help.”

  Paul stacked zzz’s on one of the couches as I went in search of Bert. I found him in the office with his mother. Millicent intended to stay close to headquarters, although I suspected the decision was more a matter of taking care of her ducks than one of being cautious.

  “We need to find something Madelena touched that hasn’t been wiped down,” I said.

  Millicent shook her head. “Good luck with that. Maria was a meticulous housekeeper. She wiped everything down.”

  “Not everything,” Bert said with a grin. “Come on.”

  We followed him to his bedroom, where he opened a bureau drawer and held up a bolo tie by its strings. “I took this off and handed it to her when she admired it. You know, acting goofy and saying she could have it if she liked it so much.”

  I could easily picture Bert doing his routine for a pretty woman, even if it was his best friend’s pregnant fiancée.

  “When she gave it back, I slipped it into my pocket. So I’ve handled it, but maybe there are still prints on it.”

  “Worth a try. I need to borrow it.”

  The sound of a motor overhead drew us outside. Jim’s silver, cherry-trimmed Cessna Skycatcher circled the headquarters. A UNM alum and avid Lobo fan, Jim had painted the craft with his school’s colors. He made good time. It was only eight o’clock. We watched him set the craft down smoothly and swivel to return to this end of the short runway.

  Paul and I said quick good-byes. I was still urging them to be careful when Jim secured the cabin hatch. Moments later we were airborne and headed for Las Cruces to deliver Bert’s bolo to Montoya’s office. As we circled over the City of Rocks, which appeared deserted, I saw no sign of movement on a well-worn trail leading straight to the international border. The thought of scouting out the Rayo tempted me, but I wasn’t willing to involve Jim in an illegal incursion into Mexican airspace.

  As Deming appeared in the distance, I pointed to a column of gray smoke riding the morning breeze. “Dime to a donut that’s Liver Lips’ shack.”

  “And right after we talked about incriminating fingerprints,” Paul said.

  “We might as well have lit the torch ourselves.” I grabbed my phone and got Bill Garza on the line.

  “Yeah, it’s Liver’s shack. I get a call from your office about fingerprints this morning, and two hours later, his place is burning to the ground.”

  “Fortunately, Detective Montoya of the NMSP did the forensics work. Like you said, Liver was his case. Is it arson?”

  “I’d say so. I can see the tire marks where somebody stopped and peeled out again. I figure they tossed a firebomb.”

  “You’re at the scene?”

  “Yeah, they put you through to my cell.”

  “I’m in the plane circling overhead. We’re going to land, and I’ll join you as soon as I can find a car.”

  “Don’t bother with the car. I’ll pick you up.”

  Paul wanted to come with me but agreed to return to Albuquerque with James when I gave him the responsibility of delivering the bolo to Montoya in Cruces.

  Garza waited as I exited the Cessna and waved me over with his customary scowl. “If witnesses hadn’t seen a car tear out this morning just before the fire, I’d accuse you of dropping a Molotov cocktail on that shack.”

  “I plead not guilty. Do you have a description of the car?”

  “Would you believe a black Firebird? Get in. Let’s go see what’s left. Firemen got to the shack pretty quick, but it wasn’t nothing but dry kindling waiting to go up. Not much they could do.”

  “Any sign of the car?” I asked.

  “It’s in someone’s garage by now, probably within twenty miles of where we are.”

  “Detective Montoya said one of the prints he lifted in Martinson’s house belonged to Zack Rybald.”

  He smiled. “Let’s go pay that gentleman a visit. What could be better than finding that Pontiac in his shop?”

  As we pulled into a parking space down the street from the R&S, Garza removed his black ball cap with a DPD logo and scratched his grizzled skull. “I’ll bet my badge and throw in my pension more drugs go through that place than a Walgreens pharmacy.”

  “So shut him down.”

  He gave me a disgusted look and crawled out of his unit. “Don’t think I haven’t tried. But we haven’t been able to find any probable cause to raid the place.”

  “Maybe the prints Montoya lifted will help.”

  “Doubt it. Liver Lips used to work for him. His lawyer will think up a dozen reasons why Rybald’s prints would be there.”

  No one manned the customer-service desk when we entered the shop, but we saw Rybald down in one
of the bays, working with a mechanic. He grimaced when he spotted Garza’s uniform but continued working for a minute before he walked up three concrete steps into the public waiting area. Without offering to shake, he wiped his hands on a soiled red rag and leaned forward. An unconscious sign of aggression?

  “Bill, what can I do for you?” His gaze moved to me. “You’re that Albuquerque PI… uh, Vinson. Right?”

  “Right. Good memory, Mr. Rybald.”

  “This about Liver Lips again?” He applied the same rag he’d used on his hands to his sweaty face. “I seen the smoke. Heard the sirens. A customer said somebody torched his place.”

  “You know anything about that?” Garza fixed him with the glare he gave friend and foe alike.

  “Kids. Vandals. Anything that’s abandoned around here is bound to get trashed.”

  “We’re looking for a car. A black ’96 Pontiac Firebird. You seen it?”

  “The same one Montoya asked me about? Naw, we don’t get many cars with Chihuahua plates in the shop.”

  “How’d you know it had Mexican tags?” I asked.

  “Montoya told me.”

  “Didn’t have to be in the shop,” Garza said. “Coulda seen it on the street. One of your mechanics coulda worked on it on his own time.”

  “Hey!” Rybald yelled over his shoulder. “Any of you guys worked on a black Firebird with Mex plates? Anybody seen one?”

  Denials came from the three bays at the rear of the shop.

  “Guess not. I see anything like that, I’ll let you know. Vinson, anytime you want that Impala of yours serviced, give me a call, and I’ll give you a deal.”

  Garza’s contemptuous stare followed Rybald as he tripped down the steps to the bays.

  “I take it you don’t like Mr. Rybald very much.”

  He turned and made for the door. “I don’t cotton to smug sons a’ bitches.”

  We drove from the shop to what was left of Liver’s shack. The fire truck had departed, but one fireman hung around to make sure the ashes didn’t flare up again. Smoke still rose from the pile of ashes and charred timbers. Half-burned four-by-fours stood at each corner of the small structure; everything else had collapsed. The shed out back stood untouched.

  I mentally measured the distance from the dirt lane to the front stoop. “Firebomb, you said?”

  “Firemen figured a Molotov cocktail.”

  “That was quite a throw. Whoever tossed it probably had to get out of the car. Somebody around here should have seen them.”

  “Several somebodies probably did, but only one would even admit to seeing a car.”

  “Hold on, I have an idea.” I called the Lazy M and got Paco’s cell number from Millicent. As I handed it over to Garza, I related the events of yesterday afternoon, including the fact I’d confronted Paco with my belief his fiancée was the woman I met at Liver’s the morning of his death. “Can you run down any calls made from this number? Calls made yesterday afternoon or this morning?”

  “You’re thinking Rael called someone to torch the place?”

  “Makes sense to me. If it wasn’t the gold Plymouth Duster he left the ranch in yesterday the witness spotted, he probably didn’t do it himself.” Garza asked for the plate number, and I recovered it from my pocket notebook.

  “So you think he set the place on fire to keep us from identifying his girlfriend’s prints. How would we do that unless she has a record over here?”

  “I don’t think he knew the state police had already dusted the shack. And I have something with her prints on it. My friends should have delivered it to Montoya’s office in Cruces by now.”

  I rode with Garza to the fire department, where a lieutenant informed us there wasn’t anything to report yet, although he believed the fire was arson. The burn pattern supported the theory of a Molotov cocktail tossed through a window, but that was all he knew at the moment.

  After that, I asked Garza to drop me at Sunrise Car Rentals on Airport Road, where I rented an Impala. After filling out the appropriate paperwork, I cruised the streets of Deming in the vain hope of spotting a black Firebird. After an hour I gave it up as a fool’s errand and headed down I-10 for Las Cruces. On the way I called Millicent and gave her the latest news. Then I let Hazel know I wouldn’t be home by noon after all. I closed the call, realizing how much I missed Paul… and he’d only left my side a few hours ago. The price of true love, I guess.

  Chapter 32

  TAKING A set of fingerprints isn’t the same messy, awkward procedure as when I was a cop, at least in properly equipped metropolitan areas. More often than not nowadays, they are digital prints. Checking them through the system’s more efficient too. And when you’re comparing one set directly against another, it’s even faster. The sky-blue turquoise stone in the bolo tie we’d delivered to the state police was huge, and the sterling silver backing held a print.

  By the time I arrived, Montoya’s people determined it matched the unidentified print found in Liver’s shack by eight points. Eight points were good enough for me. Madelena Orona was the woman I’d seen in Martinson’s shack the morning of his death.

  I spent an hour giving Montoya the details I gathered in the course of my investigation. When he asked me to dictate a formal statement, I handed him the tape from my recorder. I’d switched it on as soon as we sat down at his desk. Then we went to a nearby café for a late lunch while someone transcribed our conversation. I settled for a BLT on rye with a fruit cup. He went for the menudo and a warm flour tortilla dripping with butter.

  As we ate he shared what little he’d learned about Liver’s murder. Using the three numbers from the Chihuahua license plate I’d given him, he’d determined the tags were a set stolen off a car in Guadalajara. The Firebird hadn’t surfaced again until this morning’s firebombing of Liver’s shack. It probably now had a stateside plate taken from some vehicle in Colorado or somewhere else far from the Boot Heel country.

  The state police’s forensics team had discovered traces of heroin in the wreckage of Liver’s pickup, fueling the suspicion his last trip to Albuquerque wasn’t solely for the purpose of delivering a passenger to Ramon Parnewski. Liver had likely handed over a drug package to the Six Pack bar owner as well.

  “Have you tied Liver to Paco Rael?” I asked.

  “They knew one another. Both of them grew up around Deming and in northern Mexico, but there’s no direct tie.”

  “The Orona woman was in his shack for a reason.”

  “Yes, and if we ever get our hands on her, we’ll ask her what it was. In the meantime we’ve alerted the border stations. If she comes back over the line, we’ll snag her.”

  “If she comes back as Madelena Orona and if she uses a manned border station, you might. What about Rael? Do you have enough to detain him if you locate him?”

  “Only to question him about his girlfriend. Then he’ll be free to go. We have better resources than the Luna County Sheriff’s Department, so maybe we can run down calls made from the cell number you gave Garza. If so, it might lead us to the Pontiac and the arsonist. Then we’ll have a serious talk with him.”

  My cell phone interrupted us. Hazel’s excited voice caught my attention. “Bob Cohen just called. Kenneth Hammond was murdered this morning.”

  “What? How?” I pressed the speakerphone button.

  “Apparently shot to death from long distance while he inspected one of his construction sites.”

  “Have they caught the shooter?”

  “Not according to Bob.”

  “Hazel, this could be payback, or it could mean Acosta’s cleaning up after himself. If that’s the case, all of us need to be careful. Call Paul and give him a heads-up, will you? He’s probably home by now, but even if he isn’t, he has his cell phone with him.”

  “What about the people at the ranch?” she asked.

  “I’ll phone them as soon as we hang up. In fact, I’ll probably head back down there. They’re the ones in real danger.”

  “The m
urdered man was Hammond, the Miami developer,” I told Montoya after I closed the call. “Can you alert the district office closest to the Lazy M?”

  “That would be District Twelve in Deming. I’ll let them know, but we might be overreacting. Maybe Acosta’s just settling a score with the man who double-crossed him. Assuming he’s the guilty party, of course.”

  “Maybe, but if Millicent and Bert both die, the ranch goes to her daughter, a Dallas artist with no interest in running a cow spread.”

  “So Acosta might pick it up after all. The benefits to a drug runner snagging the Lazy M are obvious, but are they strong enough to warrant all of this killing?”

  I cleared my plate away and leaned over the table. “Liver Lips and Lopez were killed to prevent us—me—from learning something. In Liver’s case, who got him to steal Millicent’s duck. I’m not sure what Lopez knew, but let’s suppose he knew who put his friend up to the snatch. The attempt on Bert was to show Millicent the threats were serious. Plus he showed up unexpectedly at the site where a meeting was supposed to take place, and the extortionist might have believed he had been betrayed.”

  “Hammond was payback for canceling the debt with Mud and preventing his bird from showing up for the race,” Montoya said.

  “And possibly to keep him from telling anything else he knew. If this thing breaks open, he’d have been called to testify.”

  “I hate to state the obvious, but if Acosta’s cleaning up after himself, you could be next on the list.”

  “That thought has crossed my mind. Let’s see if Cohen has any more details.”

  Bob could add little to what he’d told Hazel. Hammond had been inspecting the same North Miami project where the earlier attempt on his life had been made. He’d been standing on one of the exposed upper floors when a marksman caught him with a headshot. The police located the shoot site atop a building about 400 yards away. There were no leads to the shooter. I gave Cohen the same caution Montoya had given me before ringing off.