“That would be very nice,” Detective Ramona Piño said demurely.
Clayton didn’t like El Paso very much, not even with a pretty sunset in full view on the western horizon. A hundred and twenty miles south of Ruidoso, it was sandwiched between the New Mexico state line and the Mexican border city of Juárez, across the Rio Grande. In spite of new shopping malls, spreading residential subdivisions, and a partially revitalized downtown area, El Paso held no appeal for him. Perhaps it had something to do with geography. It was the westernmost city in Texas, much closer to the New Mexico state capitol in Santa Fe than to white-bread Austin. It was a gateway city, heavily populated by native Hispanics, as well as a growing number of both legal and illegal immigrants from Mexico and Central America. It was a desert city with blistering wind-storms, little rain, and brain-deadening hot summers. But most of all, it was an industrialized city, filled with warehouses, freight companies, NAFTA maquiladoras just across the border, wholesale distribution centers, and major drug runners operating out of Juárez.
The interstate and major railroad tracks cut through the city. Endless truck stops, gas stations, and vast, fenced storage yards lined the highways. Squalid barrios on both sides of the border spread way beyond city limits. All of it gave Clayton a dismal feeling.
Captain Vincent Calabaza of the El Paso Police Department headed up an intelligence unit that was part of a multiagency drug interdiction task force. Housed in a new building built with federal funds, the task force consisted of agents from DEA; FBI; Immigration and Naturalization; Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms; and a host of state and local officers.
A heavyset man in his fifties, Calabaza listened while Clayton asked about Luis Rojas, and ran down the reasons for his inquiry.
“Are we talking about the same Luis Rojas?” Calabaza asked when Clayton finished.
“He owns a trucking company,” Clayton said.
“And you think he may be a party to a homicide?” Calabaza asked. “Or running whores in Ruidoso?”
“Is he a friend?” Clayton asked, reading Calabaza’s skepticism.
Calabaza snorted a laugh. “I don’t travel in such heady social circles, Deputy. Rojas chairs the citizen advisory board for the police department and serves on the mayor’s downtown redevelopment committee. If he’s dirty, it’s a big surprise to us.”
“You’re that sure?” Clayton asked.
Calabaza opened a desk drawer, removed a file, and gave it to Clayton. “Take a look yourself. Everyone on the citizen advisory board goes through a thorough background investigation before being appointed by the chief.”
Clayton read the intelligence report on Rojas. He was single, never married, born and raised in El Paso. Father was a construction worker, mother a hotel maid. Played high school football, made all-state his senior year as a first team wide receiver, attended the University of New Mexico on an athletic scholarship, and graduated with a degree in marketing. Parents deceased, five siblings—two brothers and three sisters. The brothers, two sisters, and a brother-in-law worked for the trucking company Rojas owned. One sister lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico—forty miles north—and currently served on the county commission.
Clayton scanned the financial data. Rojas had an eight-figure personal net worth, and aside from the trucking company, was a one-fifth partner in a privately owned local bank, owned an office building leased by a state agency, and held shares in an investment firm.
“A real rags-to-riches story,” he said, studying Rojas’s photograph. He didn’t come close to matching Harry Staggs’s description. Light brown hair, full nose, no mole on the right cheek, wide, full lips.
“That’s right,” Calabaza replied.
The report documented that Rojas liked to gamble occasionally at the nearby Indian casino and enjoyed piloting his own plane. Interviews with women Rojas had dated revealed nothing out of the ordinary in his personal relationships. The list of Rojas’s friends and associates included corporate executives, area politicians, civic leaders, and wealthy patrons of the arts, all of whom gave Rojas high marks as a businessman, friend, and upstanding citizen.
After college and before returning to El Paso, Rojas had lived in Denver for a number of years working for an advertising agency that was no longer in business. A criminal- and traffic-records check in Colorado had come up empty, as had inquiries to various federal law-enforcement agencies.
Clayton read the narrative report filed by the investigator who’d interviewed Rojas. Rojas had cooperated fully, allowing the officer access to his personal income tax statements and corporate financial records. Everything checked out.
“Do you see anything in that report that’s illicit, immoral, illegal, or of dubious character?” Calabaza asked.
“He looks like Mr. Clean,” Clayton replied as he wrote down Rojas’s home address and closed the file.
“I don’t know much about the New Mexico criminal statutes,” Calabaza said, “but in Texas, illegal gambling is a Class C misdemeanor that carries a five-hundred-dollar fine. Are you going to file charges?”
“Right now, he’s just a possible witness,” Clayton answered.
“Well, if you do charge him, let me know. My chief will want his resignation from the citizen advisory board.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Clayton said.
Calabaza nodded. “Give my best to Oscar Quinones.”
Mansion was the only word that came to mind when Clayton arrived at Rojas’s house. He’d never seen anything like it. The semicircular driveway was paved with brick, and an attached six-car garage had a second story accessed by an exterior stairway. The entryway, illuminated by soft lights, was a series of arches under a covered portal. Above the portal four double-sash doors opened onto a roofed balcony with a lacy cast-iron railing. The place looked like a Spanish villa.
Motion-sensitive lights came on as Clayton walked up the pathway to the house and Luis Rojas greeted him at the door. Clayton went through the formality of identifying himself and showing his shield.
“By all means, come in, Deputy,” Rojas said pleasantly. A couple of inches taller than Clayton, Rojas wore a lightweight crewneck sweater and a pair of casual slacks.
In the living room Rojas directed Clayton to a sitting area in front of a window that looked out on a lighted landscaped interior courtyard with a fountain.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“Have you seen Harry Staggs today?” Clayton asked.
“No, but he called me to apologize for any trouble he might have caused. I told him he’d done the right thing by talking to the police. After all, a man has been murdered. That’s far more serious than getting busted for playing an illegal game of chance. Are you here to arrest me?” Rojas smiled charmingly. “I must tell you my reputation will suffer if you do.”
Clayton shook his head. “That’s not my intention.”
“What a relief,” Rojas said with a chuckle, as though it was all a big joke.
“Did Staggs tell you what his plans were?”
“I didn’t know Harry had any plans, other than to obey all the gambling laws in New Mexico. He told me you’d shut down his operation.”
“We think he’s left Ruidoso,” Clayton replied.
“I wouldn’t have any idea where he might have gone,” Rojas said.
“Do you know a man named Johnny Jackson?”
Rojas shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t. I’m not very helpful, am I?”
“Do you know this woman?” Clayton said, holding out the blonde’s photograph.
Rojas took it. “She doesn’t look familiar.”
“You were seen with her at the Ruidoso airport.”
Rojas didn’t blink. “That’s not possible.” He rose from his chair. “Excuse me for a minute. I think I can clear up the confusion.”
He came back in the company of a strikingly attractive blonde. “Deborah, this is Deputy Sheriff Istee. He wants to ask you a few questions. Deborah is my girlfriend.”
Deborah smiled at Clayton with pretty blue eyes, shook his hand, and answered all his questions. Yes, she’d flown to Ruidoso with Rojas. No, she wasn’t at the poker game. She’d spent that night at Rojas’s vacation home, and stayed over an additional day after Luis had returned to El Paso.
“Did you go anywhere, see anybody, do anything?” Clayton asked.
“I took several hikes by myself,” Deborah replied. “But I didn’t see anybody. Other than that, I didn’t go out at all.”
“How did you get back to El Paso?”
“I drove Luis’s SUV. That’s why I went with him. He’s trading it in for a new one, and he asked me if I’d like a few days in the mountains in exchange for doing him a favor. I jumped at the chance to get out of the city and be by myself for a while.”
“What kind of vehicle did you get?” Clayton asked Rojas.
“I’m still shopping around,” Rojas replied, “although I’m considering a Mercedes. It’s a civilian version of a military vehicle used by the German army. Are you familiar with it?”
Clayton had read somewhere that the movie stars who made action flicks and owned ranches in Montana all had them. He’d seen photographs. They were macho adult toys that went for about a hundred thousand dollars. Almost four times his annual salary.
“Yeah, I’ve seen pictures,” Clayton said, concentrating his attention on Deborah. “Are you sure no neighbors saw you at the vacation house?”
“I have no neighbors,” Rojas said. “It’s very secluded.”
“Where is it?”
“I’ve had a map drawn up for friends,” Rojas said, “so they won’t get lost when they visit. I’ll give you a copy.”
He opened an end-table drawer and handed Clayton the map. The retreat was on private land surrounded by national forest, northeast of the village of Alto.
“That’s deep in the mountains,” Clayton said.
“Which is why I need good transportation to get to it,” Rojas said. “Especially in bad weather.”
“I bet you do,” Clayton said as he folded the map into his shirt pocket and looked at Deborah. “I’ll need to see your driver’s license, miss.”
“What on earth for?” Deborah asked.
“My report.”
Deborah smiled. “Of course. I’ll get my purse.”
She fetched her purse and handed Clayton her license.
“You have your own place?” Clayton asked, noting the address on the license.
“Yes, but I’m here a lot,” Deborah said, sliding her arm around Rojas’s waist.
He made sure all the license information was current, got a work and home phone number, and closed his notebook. “I doubt that I’ll have to bother you again.”
“It’s been no bother,” Deborah said.
“None at all,” Rojas said, giving Clayton a hearty handshake. “Good luck with your investigation.”
Outside, Clayton walked to his unit thinking how convenient it was that the girlfriend had been on hand to confirm Rojas’s story.
Chapter 8
S
ally Greer rented a first-floor apartment in a building at the rear of the complex. There was no sign of activity inside, and her assigned parking space with the apartment number stenciled on the curb was empty. Ramona Piño found an inconspicuous spot away from the security night-lights and waited in her vehicle for Greer to make an appearance.
Ramona wasn’t sure how she would play it, if and when Greer showed up. Approaching her directly would raise too many questions. She would hang out for a while to see what developed. Besides, the only thing waiting for her back in Santa Fe was the tiny guest house she rented from a retired cop, whose last tenant had been Chief Kerney.
It was nice enough, but lonely. Moving out on her ex-boyfriend had been the smart thing to do. He’d turned into a channel-surfing couch potato, who spent his evenings at home watching cable sport shows, bitched at her for working late on the job, and never seemed to want to do anything fun.
During their last six months together, he’d treated her like a wife, and that wasn’t going to happen to her again. She needed a close relationship with someone who cared for her as a friend and lover, who accepted her as an equal, who respected her independence, who appreciated the demands of her job.
She wondered about Sgt. Jeff Vialpando. He was good-looking, seemed bright, had a sense of humor, and didn’t put out a macho attitude—all good signs. She put the skids on her thoughts and decided not to dwell on him any further. Lunch tomorrow would give her a better idea if he really had potential as a boyfriend, although dating a cop who lived sixty miles away might be something of a problem.
An hour into Piño’s wait, Greer appeared. Within a short time she was back in her car, after changing from tight-fitting jeans and a turtleneck pullover into a short dress with spiked heels.
Piño followed her downtown to a hotel near the convention center. Inside the crowded hotel bar, Greer joined two middle-aged men and a young woman at a table. Piño recognized the other woman from the photographs she’d seen at Thomas Deacon’s studio. Neither of the men looked to be particularly likely dates for such attractive young women.
She retreated to the lobby and sat behind a placard on an easel that welcomed a trade association to the hotel. When the foursome appeared Greer was paired off with one of the men, walking arm in arm to the main exit, smiling and chatting. She’d covered her facial bruises with makeup. Piño pegged the man with her to be in his fifties. Balding and portly, he had an eager expression on his face as he laughed at something Greer said.
Piño waited until they were outside before taking a side exit. By the time she turned the corner the foursome was gone, the taillights of a car fast disappearing down the street. As she walked to her vehicle Piño called her older sister, Rebecca, who lived in the city.
“Becky, I need a bed for the night, if it’s not an imposition.”
“Come on over,” Becky said.