Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery (11 page)

“
You know who killed her, don’t
you?”

Paul started to reply, then seemingly changed his
mind. “If anything happens to me, there’s a copy of the combination
to the safe in the stables taped underneath the top left drawer in
my dresser.”

He kissed my forehead, then whispered, “Remember, I
love you. I always have. I always will.”

As if on cue, the air conditioner belches. I fret
about the ominous symptom of impending air-conditioner-death for a
moment, then pitch to my side, pulling the pillow over my ear,
hoping to block the noise.

Del’s news about the million-dollar policy gives me
pause. It’s true Paul has changed. So have I, but I always
considered him a prudent person. Why would he make such a blatant
move?

I roll to the other side and, just as that infernal
machine burps again, pull the sheet around me in anticipation of a
shot of cooler air. Nothing happens for a moment, then there’s a
huge grinding sound and I realize it’s in its final death
throes.

One last whump, then a wheeze, then merciful
silence. No matter that there’s not a breath of air coming through
the open window. Tomorrow I will change rooms, hoping to find a
healthier cooling unit, and an end to the sheriff ’s too-easy
access.

AT SIX A.M., I PULL MYSELF from a second night’s
torture and stagger to the bathroom. No pleasure palace there. The
washbasin stands alone, offering no accommodation for even the
barest of necessities.

The sink is aces compared to the tub, the bottom of
which is etched brown with rust. I am a shower person, but I need a
miracle to get the gushing downward spate up the pipe to the
showerhead. I crank the transfer handle that jerks, then trembles
while the partly clogged nozzle above coughs and clinks until it
gives forth its anemic offering. Nothing can make the stream any
stronger than a puny trickle and I long for my stinging spray in
Houston.

Though I manage to get the soap out, my mousey-brown
crimp fails the squeaky-clean test. I hate that. Call it a fetish,
but clean hair matters. The only answer is to towel dry it and,
before it kinks, twist it into a knot on the top of my head.

By the time I make it to the Medical Examiner’s
office, which is a few doors from Cotton’s, I am very out of
sorts.

My nose quivers as the smell of death rushes
forward. It’s not exactly the odor of decay, but the antiseptic
veil that covers it.

Dr. Keene, the ME, is nowhere in sight, but Cotton
is already there, slumped in one chair, wearing a crisp uniform.
“Did your mama say it was all right to wear your hair up?” His
taunt is softened by a lazy drawl and an amused look on his
face.

I ignore the jibe and sit. “Where’s Keene?”

“
My men just hauled in a
‘floater.’ Some galoot drowned in a cattle tank out by Knippa last
week.”

He grabs a folder from Keene’s desk. “Are you sure
you want to see these? They’re pretty graphic.”

“
I’ve seen about everything there
is to see.”

“
Okay. But remember, you asked for
it. Hope you have a strong stomach.”

It’s a blessing the photos are in black-and-white.
The first shot from behind the corpse shows the full body, face up.
Reena is clothed in her trademark long-sleeved shirt, long pants,
and sling-backed flats.

The scavengers have taken their toll. Blackened claw
prints punctuated by droppings trail across the blouse and down the
slacks. To one side, her shattered sunglasses glint in the sun.

I pick up a magnifying glass from Keene’s desk and
study the picture. There appears to be only a few wrinkles in the
groin area of the slacks and the creases are still sharp at the
knees. Reena couldn’t have been riding a horse. Was she knocked
unconscious away from the site, then slung across the back of a
saddle like a bag of feed?

The next shot is taken from foot to head. It’s then
I see the gaping slit in her throat that begins below the left ear,
goes downward and across the mid-line of the neck, then ends below
her right ear.

I shiver and stutter, “They cut her throat? I
thought it was a shooting.”

“
Shooting would be too merciful.
Whoever did this wanted her to suffer. It’s called a necktie job.
Usually mob connected.”

That doesn’t make any sense at all. “So, you think
it was a professional killing?”

He shrugs. “We don’t know. There’s so little
evidence...”

His voice trails to a halt as the third glossy sends
me reeling. It’s a close-up of Reena’s face. Those delicate
features that trapped many a male, obliterated by the sun’s
relentless rays and the hungry predators’ feast. Only gaping
sockets remain. Her lips have vanished. Teeth jagged stubs.

I can almost feel the buzzards’ tough beaks,
pulling—picking, slashing—tearing. I try to knock the gruesome
picture away. No use. I’ll remember it as long as I live.

The sheriff ’s voice intrudes. “Want some
water?”

I shake my head, afraid to look up, afraid to betray
my feelings.

Keene’s return saves me. He’s a dried-up bone of a
man savaged by the South Texas sun. Unimposing in every way except
for piercing black eyes and straight bushy brows.

He speaks to the sheriff, first describing the state
of the “floater,” saying he’ll have some results by tomorrow.

Then, he turns to me. “I see you have the
pictures.”

I nod and squeak, “Her throat was slit.”

Keene nods back. “Never saw one of those before.
People out here usually settle their differences with a gun or a
noose.”

Nothing in my career as Assistant District Attorney
has prepared me for what I’ve just seen or for what Keene says
next.

“
FYI, the subject was involved in
a sexual encounter sometime shortly before her demise.”

He lays the information on me in a rather off-hand
manner, then I realize he’s of the old school and is embarrassed to
say such things in front of a woman.

I sit up at that and notice that Bill Cotton does,
too. “With the man who slit her throat?” I ask.

Keene smiles a little. “Looks like it. That’s the
one concrete piece of evidence we have. If we’re lucky, the DNA
results will give the bastard up.”

He runs his finger down the report. “No defense
injuries. Fingernails clean. Not a crack in her manicure. There was
no attempt to ward off an attack. It appears she knew her
killer—well.”

I flip back to the first photo. “But she was fully
clothed.”

“
They probably had sex first,”
Keene said. “Then he killed her.”

My mouth drops open at that. “Oh, come on. Are you
telling me the killer waited for Reena to put herself together
before he swacked her?”

The sheriff reaches for the photo, examines it a
minute, then says, “Maybe it wasn’t the person she had sex with.
Maybe it was someone who caught them in the act. Like a jealous
husband?”

“
Could be,” Keene says. “But then
that would mean there’s a witness still walking around. That
doesn’t seem quite logical. I mean, if I killed someone in front of
a witness, that witness would have to go, too.”

I can’t believe Keene’s overlooked such an obvious
clue: Reena’s shoes. “Maybe Mrs. Carpenter wasn’t even killed at
that site. She wouldn’t have gone riding in those shoes.”

I hand him the photo.

He examines it for a few minutes and when he looks
up, his face holds new respect. “You’re right. She couldn’t have
ridden a horse very well wearing shoes like that.” He picks up the
report and rereads a paragraph on the second page. “Nope. No
contusions noted on her feet or ankles. ’Course the body was pretty
badly decomposed.”

Keene stands, indicating the meeting is over. But
when I rise, the room spins, then grows dark. I lurch sideways into
the sheriff. He guides me back into my seat, then sits beside
me.

Through the haze, I hear Keene say, “Have her lower
her head between her knees, while I rustle up some smelling
salts.”

I don’t have the strength for that, so I tilt into
his chest, realize he’s trembling, and feel him for the briefest
instant barely touch the top of my head with his lips.

The ammonia snaps me to and I see Keene’s grinning
face only a few inches from mine. “I was wondering how long it
would take for all this to hit you. Those pictures were pretty
grisly.”

I sit up, head still a little too light for comfort.
“I’ve seen plenty worse, but I knew her. Guess I’m not as tough as
I thought.” Keene slides behind his desk. “Don’t sell yourself
short, little missy. I’ve seen big fellas keel over much quicker’n
you did.”

Cotton has shepherded me down the street to the only
drugstore in town that features a soda fountain and a few
booths.

“
Two orders of eggs over easy with
ranchero sauce, a side of beans, and some black coffee.”

He shoots me a brief smile, then busies himself with
his cell phone. “Hey, it’s Cotton. Just checking in.”

I see his jaw bunch and his mouth flatten to a hard,
thin line. Finally, he lets out a long breath. “Stupid sonovabitch.
I ask him to do one simple little thing and he screws up. You got
an APB going?” His nods are accompanied by a lot of “uh-huhs,” then
he flips the phone shut.

“
Well, your boyfriend has slipped
my deputy.”

I frown, because what he says isn’t registering.

“
Paul Carpenter is missing. He
managed to shake off the deputy I sent with him to Laredo. I don’t
need to tell you what this means, do I?”

My stomach vacates the premises. Though Paul is not
technically a fugitive, he can now be arrested if they find
him.

“
Bad news is, Carpenter’s on foot.
Leaving us with no car to trace. We didn’t let him take his cell,
so that’s a dead end, too. CPA said he was with another client when
Carpenter arrived, then got waylaid in the hall on some tax matter.
By the time he got to the office where my deputy sequestered Paul,
more than twenty minutes had passed and Paul adiosed.”

My mind races. If Paul was planning to run, wouldn’t
he have told me? I think back to the last evening we shared and his
parting words: Remember, I love you. I always have. I always
will.

Was that his way of saying goodbye?

“
Did Carpenter say anything to you
about... anything?”

“
You were the one who told me Paul
was going to Laredo when you paid me a visit last night.
Remember?”

“
Right.” He looks a little
sheepish. “I was a damn fool to let him get so near the border. The
whole thing’s my fault. His CPA’s office building is a single story
and only blocks from the bridge. All he had to do was mingle and
cross.”

“
He wasn’t under arrest, was
he?”

“
You know he wasn’t. Don’t try to
be his lawyer. It’s too late for that.”

Breakfast arrives, but my concern for Paul and the
horrific pictures of Reena have killed my appetite. I shove my eggs
around the plate and watch the sheriff demolish his.

By the time we get to the Anacacho station wagon,
the sheriff is all business. I’ve been given strict instructions to
notify him immediately should Paul contact me, and cautioned not to
speak to anybody about this latest development.

He helps me into the station wagon, then pushes on
the door until it softly clicks. “Where will you be?”

There’s no point in lying. In all probability, he’ll
have me tailed as a precaution. “I thought I’d drive out to
Anacacho. Paul might have contacted Miguel by now.”

“
Not a bad idea. I’d like us to
work together on this, are you game?”

“
Fine by me, but you better give
me your cell phone number.” He studies me for a minute. I guess
he’s trying to decide whether or not I can be trusted. If he were
to ask me that question directly, I honestly don’t know how I would
answer. My main mission is to find Miguel and hopefully, through
him, find Paul.

He pulls out a pad, scribbles a number, and hands it
to me. “Just use the area code, not the one.”

He nods, then turns away to begin the trip back to
his office in the municipal complex.

I reach for the key, then sit back and sigh. What on
earth could Paul have been thinking? Did he slip his escort on
purpose, or did “they” spirit him out of that CPA’s office against
his will?

He’s been missing long enough to get back to
Anacacho, but I’m sure he won’t go to the ranch house. Maybe the
lean-to? It’s quite possible Paul might hide there. If that’s so, I
want to get to him first.

THE IMPOSING STONE MANSION with its once-welcoming
covered porch now seems stark and sinister beneath the late-morning
glare. I park the Anacacho station wagon next to Paul’s Mercedes,
enter the dark entry hall and stop to listen. Nothing.

I call out. “Hello?” then tiptoe across the entry
hall tiles into the living room and suppress a scream. The
paintings are gone, the furniture too. I hurry to the wall. It’s
exactly as it was the first time I visited Anacacho: bare, smooth,
and cool to the touch, except that mangled picture hooks give
evidence of a hurried removal.

I rush through the empty dining room, pausing only
an instant to notice the faint outline of the Navajo rug that once
lay beneath the long refectory table. Above, naked wires hang where
a wrought-iron chandelier had softly lit the room.

The swinging door sighs into the kitchen. Counters
gleam. Floor spotless. It’s as if no one has ever been here.

The refrigerator—empty. I think back to the previous
evening and the pungent odors wafting to the tower from below while
Miguel served drinks as the sun set. Then, dinner under stars,
still paled by the gloaming. Now, there’s no hint a meal has ever
been prepared in this kitchen.