Red Gold

by Robert D Kidera

  It was quarter to eleven when we entered the building through a back entrance. Sam led the way into an eight by ten room. It had one barred window near the ceiling, two chairs and a table. Cigarette butts floated in a half-full cardboard coffee cup on Sam’s side of the table.

  He sat down and motioned me to do the same. I nodded, coughed to clear my throat, and sat opposite him on an uncomfortable wooden folding chair.

  Sam leaned under the table and I heard a loud click. I didn’t see any recording device or microphone. I didn’t need to.

  “Detective Lieutenant Samuel Archuleta, questioning Gabriel James McKenna. April 18th, 10:15 A.M.” He lit up a cigarette, read me my Miranda rights, and the ordeal began.

  For the next hour I told him what I knew: everything I’d learned about O’Connor, Damien, the Ramos murders, and Carmen’s involvement. I told him about the maps, and Red Gold, and the possibility that my ancestors had hidden part of the Lost Adams gold somewhere in New Mexico. I suggested this as O’Connor’s motive for the killings.

  I didn’t mention anything about the gazebo explosion in Old Town Plaza. That would keep until I conferred with C.J. and we coordinated our stories.

  Then he switched off the recorder and surprised me.

  “I thought about what you said yesterday.” He spoke in a hushed tone and leaned forward, as if afraid that he might be recorded. He dropped another butt in the coffee cup and immediately re-lit.

  “What I said?” I shifted in my chair.

  “About sitting on the story. We can’t, of course. But we may be able to stage-manage the release of information.”

  “You’re the cop. Do what you think is best.” My stomach growled. My throat had tightened from all my talking. I wanted to go home.

  “You said Carmen and O’Connor were going to take the key you gave them back to your house to get some map?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And that they’d return to the Ambrosia Lake trailer to finish you off?”

  “Yeah. And if I’d lied to them, which I did, he’d torture the truth out of me. And then kill me, I suppose.”

  “Looks like they failed on all counts. We had your house covered, and they must have realized the trailer was hot because they never came back. Velez had a couple of his men lying in wait all night, but nobody showed.”

  “So they’ll probably try to kill me sometime down the road.”

  “We have a plan to prevent that.”

  “Sending me on a romantic cruise?”

  “We’re going to announce that we found Damien’s dead body. That he was the main suspect in the disappearance of Officer Flores. Give them the impression that we still consider her a kidnapping victim, not a suspect in Damien’s murder. That story goes out in time for the evening news. We mention that Professor Gabriel McKenna is being sought as a person of interest—”

  “Won’t work,” I interrupted. “They’ll assume that you found my body or found me alive and I spilled.”

  “—and we put out an unconfirmed report that the remains of another body were found a short distance from the trailer, mauled and scavenged by animals. Identity unknown, dental record tests to follow.”

  My skin crawled. “Maybe. Might buy you a bit of time. Put them off their guard a little. I dunno.”

  Sam grinned, like he enjoyed this. “It might be good for you to be dead for a while. Give you time to heal. Keep them off your trail. We’ll pull the crew watching your house and Carmen’s after we bug both dwellings. Have a plain-clothes team use your barn as our center for operations and communication. And we’ll do it legal. Hopefully, O’Connor tries a second time to use that key on your safe.”

  “There isn’t any safe, remember? That key is to a safety deposit box at my bank. Of course, O’Connor doesn’t know that, so he might still try the house.”

  “Let’s hope he does. We’ll put a watch on your safe deposit, too.”

  “Have they been spotted anywhere yet?”

  “No. O’Connor’s a no-show at the law firm, of course. No sign of his Lexus either.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I said. “If you want to get lost, New Mexico is a damn good place to do it. Keep in mind that Rebecca Turner needs protection. She turned against O’Connor to help me and he won’t forget that. I promised to do everything I could to defend her.”

  Sam raised his considerable eyebrows.

  “She knows more about O’Connor than anybody else. He’ll wonder what she’s told the cops. How soon will you question her? I’d like to be there when you do.”

  “She’s still in the hospital, sedated and under observation. If she gets medical clearance, I might be able to interrogate her tomorrow, or the day after. Depends on her mental condition. As for you being there, that’s not happening.”

  “It might put her at ease. She trusts me. A little.”

  “No.”

  “Do you at least have her room under guard?”

  Sam nodded. “Gabe, you should check into a motel. Let me know what you need and I’ll see what I can do.” He dropped another butt into the cup. Our talk was over. “Need a ride?” He got up from his chair.

  “I’ll call a friend, thanks.”

  “C.J should be home. We questioned him last night.” Sam reached into his pocket and took out my cellphone. “Keep in touch. I scrounged up the charger for you.” He handed them to me and made like he was going to give me a good-luck punch in my left arm. I flinched. He laughed and moved toward the door. “You’re free to go.” He took the tape of my questioning and left the door open on his way out.

  When he was gone, I looked at the sling on my arm. It annoyed me. I took it off, rolled it up in a ball, and dialed my phone.

  C.J. arrived at police headquarters in his hearse. I met him at the curb. The passenger side window was all the way down, so I stuck my right hand inside and gave him a feeble wave.

  “Need help getting in?”

  “I’m okay. Buy you lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  I eased myself into the seat. My left arm was on fire, so I unrolled my sling and put it back on.

  “Charmaine sends her wishes for your speedy recovery,” he said. “For some reason, she seems to like you.”

  “That’s because she hasn’t met me yet.”

  C.J. stared at me; real concern decorated his face. “You sure you’re up for lunch?”

  “Just groggy. A bit weak. Painkillers.”

  “Okay, hang on.” We peeled away from the curb and sped south on Girard to Central. C.J. hung a right, and wove in and out of westbound traffic until I saw a familiar sign: Painkiller’s Pool Hall, Bar & Grill. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was just referring to all my medicines.

  We settled into the same booth as last time, farthest from the front window, closest to the restrooms. We got the same waitress.

  “You guys again?” She twiddled a pencil in her hand and studied my left arm. “You seriously need to find a safer way to live.”

  I glanced at her nametag. “What’s good, Alicia?”

  “Try the fish tacos.”

  C.J. grumbled. “Got any meat?”

  “Hamburgers. The usual.” She let out a sigh.

  “I’ll have the tacos,” I said. “Give my friend the biggest burger on your menu. Kill another steer if you have to. He’ll have a Coors Light and I’ll have a Diet Coke. Thank you, miss.” I folded a twenty into the palm of her hand.

  “Coming right up.” She turned and disappeared into the mystery that is Painkiller’s kitchen.

  “Diet Coke?” C.J. looked bewildered.

  “I’m on three different medicines, my arm has six stitches holding a bullet wound together, I haven’t slept in two days, and I’d like a decent chance to stay awake long enough to finish my meal.”

  C.J. raised a hand in surrender. “For a minute I thought you were turning over a new leaf. Had me worried, that’s all.”

  “I have to thank you. I wouldn’t be here without
your help.”

  “Forget it. Figure I’d knocked you down enough times, it’s only fair to pick you up once in a while.”

  Before I could respond, Alicia came by with our drinks and another plastic bowl of pretzels. I pointed to them. “Specialty of the house?”

  “No. I am. Your food will be here soon, Sugar.” She left to tend to other customers.

  C.J. gave her the eye before he looked back at me and silently mouthed the word “Sugar?”

  I shook an index finger at him. “Have more respect for the dead.”

  “Huh?”

  I told him about Archuleta’s plan to announce the discovery of a second, unidentified body. That undercover police would monitor my house and Carmen’s place. I told him about the key and the non-existent safe, and our hopes that O’Connor would assume I’d died and attempt another break-in.

  I drained my soda. “I’ll let the police worry about O’Connor and Carmen. They’ll be caught eventually. I need your help with something else.”

  “Name it.”

  “Finding the gold.”

  “You still gnawing on that bone?”

  “More than ever. Don’t know where it is yet. But now that I’m dead, I have a better chance to find it without getting killed. And I have some ideas.”

  Alicia arrived with my tacos and a huge platter of fries and onion rings. C.J.’s burger covered a second plate, like a gigantic brown Frisbee.

  “Thank you, miss. My friend would like a plastic fork with his meal.”

  Without asking why, she walked back to the kitchen and returned with one. C.J. defiantly used it on both of his plates.

  I did most of the talking while we ate and filled him in on what I knew about O’Connor, Carmen, and Rebecca Turner. He knew a bit about Damien from the TV news reports; I told him the rest. At the end of it all, C.J. agreed to help me find the gold.

  Alicia came by to drop off our check and slid the little plastic tray toward me. I covered our tab and left a generous tip on the table. “Excellent tacos. My friend here enjoyed the side of beef. Thanks.”

  She curled strands of her bleached blonde hair with the index finger of her right hand and gave me a look that, at an earlier age, would have made me blush. “Any time, Sugar,” she said as we left.

  We walked back to C.J.’s hearse and I eased into the passenger seat.

  He looked over. “Where to?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me make a phone call first.” I fumbled for my wallet, found the card I wanted, and then punched in a number on my phone.

  “Nai’ya? This is Gabe McKenna. Is this a bad time?”

  “Hi, Professor. No, it’s fine. I’m just about to leave my office for home. How are you?”

  “That’s a long story. The bottom line is I need to ask a huge favor. I…Nai’ya, do you have a spare room? Some place I might stay tonight? I can’t go home. I can explain why, but it’ll take some time. I wouldn’t bother you if this weren’t truly important.”

  There was a moment of silence on her end of the line. Perhaps I’d asked for too much.

  “It’s a sofa bed. Is that good enough? I can be home in twenty minutes.”

  I thanked her several times before we hung up. I gave C.J. her address, but instead of starting his car, he stared at me.

  “You know what you’re doing? I could drop you at any motel in town. Who is this woman?”

  “A former student of mine.”

  “Dog. I never figured you for a player.”

  “It’s not like that at all. I need to talk to her. I need the help of someone I can trust completely—”

  He took the key out of the ignition. “You don’t trust me after all this?”

  “—and someone who isn’t already known to O’Connor, Carmen, Rebecca Turner, or even Archuleta.”

  “You’ve become one very suspicious dude.” He put the key back in.

  “Blame me?”

  “Nope.” C.J. started the engine and pulled out of the Painkiller’s lot onto Central. “Thanks.”

  “For what?” I said.

  “For trusting me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “This gal, Nai’ya, who is she besides one of your former students?” C.J. continued on Central toward the eastern edge of UNM campus.

  “Nai’ya Alonzo-Riley. She teaches at the college and is Director of Educational Programs for Laguna Pueblo.”

  “Pretty weird name, if you ask me.”

  “Nai’ya was her mother’s name, as I remember. Alonso is her family name. The early Spanish intermarried with Pueblo women. You often find Native people with Spanish surnames. And Riley—”

  “Don’t tell me she’s Irish.”

  “No. Some Laguna people took the last name of Riley back in the 19th Century when Anglos moved into their area. Figured they’d be trusted more and treated better if the Anglos thought the Laguna people were more like them.”

  “I know how that goes.”

  “I remember her telling me all about that once…years ago. When we first met.”

  “You’re doing a lot of remembering, man.”

  “Nai’ya’s a very memorable woman.”

  “Uh-huh.” C.J.’s cellphone rang. Most of the talking happened on the other end. C.J. nodded apologetically to the surrounding air. I figured his wife was laying down the law. I figured right.

  “Charmaine? Hello? She hung up on me.” He looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry man, I gotta go right away.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want you to drive me all the way to Nai’ya’s house, in case we’re being followed.”

  We approached a strip mall on our right, less than half-a-mile from Nai’ya’s address on Marquette Avenue. “Turn into that shopping center. I’ll get out and go the rest of the way on foot.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I always try.”

  C.J. hung a right and pulled up to one of the storefronts. As soon as I was outside, he roared off toward Central. I hustled into the nearest storefront. A coffee shop. Good.

  I sat by the front window for fifteen minutes and nursed a cup of decaf. Nothing suspicious outside. The car and foot traffic moved along at a normal pace—each succeeding minute played like the one before.

  The coffee shop had only one waitress, a stocky warhorse well past her prime. The gray hair plastered down on her head looked more like a skullcap than hair. She came by with a refill.

  I held my hand over the top of my cup. “You got a back way out of here?”

  “In some kind of trouble, mister?” She looked out the window and then at me.

  “No, and I’d like to keep it that way.” I handed her a ten.

  “See the restroom signs?” She nodded toward the rear of the shop. “Go past them all the way down the hall. The door empties out back near the dumpster.” She turned, shook her head, and muttered her way back to the counter.

  Nai’ya’s home, a single-story adobe on a landscaped corner lot in Albuquerque’s college town, suggested her life was stable and successful. A polished, red Mini-Cooper Countryman sat in the driveway. I cut around it and up the three steps to her front door. She opened it before I knocked.

  “Come in, Gabe.” She held the door and swept her arm toward her home’s dim interior.

  The warm, immaculate décor was dominated by Laguna Pueblo pottery and antique furniture of Spanish design. A woven Navajo rug hung on the wall behind her living room couch. A dozen candles perched in different spots around the room. A three-paneled retablo above her fireplace mantle starred St. Francis and two other guys I didn’t recognize. It was all genuine and unpretentious, like its owner.

  Nai’ya offered me a drink. I accepted, but asked her to cut my whiskey with plenty of soda. “You still drink gin and tonics?” I said.

  “I’m amazed that you remember.” She smiled and strolled back to the kitchen to mix our drinks.

  I remained standing and checked out the many photographs that filled the living room. Images of Nai’ya in her younger d
ays, mostly. Several shots showed her and a lovely young girl with native features.

  The picture in a shining silver frame on her corner table stopped me in my tracks. I looked happier in it than in most photos from that period of my life. A twentyish Nai’ya stood next to me; together we held a large potsherd. The burnt-orange expanse of Chaco Canyon filled the background.

  “Remember that?” She came back into the room with our drinks.

  I stared at the picture.

  “A long, long time ago.” She put my drink on an end table, sat on the large, black leather sofa and ran her hand along one of the cushions. “Gabe, suppose you start at the beginning and tell me what’s going on?”

  I was dog-tired, but wanted Nai’ya to know my whole story. I reached for my whiskey and sat beside her. For the better part of the next hour, I told her about my teaching career back in New York, my marriage to Holly and her unsuccessful battle with cancer, Aunt Nellie’s death, and my inheritance. I told her about Red Gold, and how the lost treasure was the reason Chato and his son had been killed. “That’s also why my life is now being threatened.”

  “Thank you for telling me. You’ve cleared up a lot of things.” She paused and took a sip of her drink. For a moment she stared into her glass and then ran her tongue along her lips. “I have a personal stake in this, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chato and Ricardo Ramos were part of my extended family.”

  I fumbled my drink, spilling a few drops on my pant leg. Nai’ya took the small napkin she held in her hand and blotted them up.

  “Nai’ya, I had no idea.”

  “Of course, how could you have known?” she said. “Chato was maybe seven or eight when his father, Jose Ramos, died. His mother, Alegriá, remarried less than a year later to Joseph Alonso-Riley from Paguate village.”

  “So you’re blood kin to the Ramos family?”

  “I am. Joseph was my grandfather. He’d been widowed two years before. He was strong and young and about the same age as Alegriá. Their son, Donaldo Alonso-Riley, was my father. I lost him fifteen years ago.”

  “So Ricardo Ramos was your cousin?” I put my drink down on the coffee table. Nai’ya set her glass next to mine and turned her body toward me.