Ariel Gore - Santa Fe Noir

“A coffee would be nice, if you have it,” I said, following her inside. The walls were perfectly white, sealed, with rugs hanging in strategic locations. They made the eye follow into the spacious living room, where a series of dusty pots, baskets, and a glass case with fragments and arrowheads stood against the far wall.

She turned and gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, tea is all I have. Most of my clients prefer it, it settles the nerves.” She hit the switch on an electric kettle next to a selection of bags with bright colors and a few small steel pitchers; various creams, I presumed.

“That’s fine then,” I said. “So, about Mr. Redmond, did you know him?”

“Briefly. He was a fan of my brother’s work,” she said, making her own mug of tea.

I stood next to the case, trying not to stare at her, so I opted to stare at the case instead. It was neatly organized and curated, with small plaques explaining each item: Diné pottery, arrowheads found at the Katzenberg property in Clovis, etc. Each artifact looked to be the sort of thing that could fetch several thousand at the right auction — maybe more. It wasn’t my field.

“Have you seen him recently?” I continued.

She turned, the mug steaming in her hands, and leaned back against the shelving unit, her green eyes studying me, her face serious. “He was here a few days ago. Annoying, really; he was interrogating me regarding the treasure. What was in it, how it was buried, did Eric ever mention anything to me...”

“You must get those sorts of questions a lot,” I said, taking out a notepad to write down important details.

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, less now,” she said, “but it’s always a topic of conversation. I generally just tell people that Eric didn’t confide anything in me, unfortunately.” She sipped from her tea, and smiled. “Have you drank much tea in your life, Mr...?”

“Apodaca. And not really. I’m more of a coffee guy.”

“Fair trade?” she said, and it took me a moment to realize she was asking about the coffee.

“Folgers,” I replied, trying to get back on course.

“Oh my God, you have to stop. It’s impossible, the way they treat their workers. Pennies a day, in conditions that would disgust you. I can’t imagine choosing to support such an unethical company.” Her voice was hard and tight, and I could tell she was legitimately offended.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Did Mr. Redmond say anything to you about looking for the treasure?”

“Oh, it was all he could talk about! He was going on and on about some breakthrough he’d had, and he wanted verification. I couldn’t give it to him, of course.”

There was an awkward pause as I tried to figure out what to ask her next. It felt stupid to have driven an hour and change to come in and ask very basic questions. “So... business has been good?” I pointed at the case.

She smiled, apparently happy to talk about her work. “Well, it’s been profitable, and I like to think that I’m doing some good with my success. Twenty-five percent of our proceeds go to the O’Shaughnessy grants program, where we fund indigenous history programs in the public schools.”

“How do you get all of these?” I asked, that curiosity catching up with me. “They couldn’t all come from the Katzenberg property...”

“Well, some do. More than you’d expect, actually, it’s been quite the boon for poor Eric. The rest are donations from old collectors, or sold, or purchased at auction. We’ve had some good luck the last few years.”

“And that’s the sort of thing that’s in the Katzenberg treasure?”

“That’s not particularly amusing, Mr. Apodaca,” she said, although she couldn’t help smiling, “but yes. According to Eric, it’s a collection of artifacts similar to these, with the addition of some old family heirlooms.” She grimaced. “Father had some old Spanish doubloons, and Eric had some replicas cast as well, which would only be worth the gold content. He loved the idea of people seeing actual coins in the chest.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Why are you asking me these questions?” She finished her cup of tea. “I’m afraid I do have appointments and need to clean up a bit before they arrive.” She gestured to the spotless seating area.

I’d probably get in trouble for it, but decided to go with the truth: “Mr. Redmond was found dead in the forest this morning, and he had a copy of your brother’s book with your address in it. I thought I should check and see if he’d mentioned anything to you.”

She nodded, her face a little sad. “I was worried you were going to say that. He seemed to be struggling to keep his breath, and when he said that he was going into the woods... well, I warned him that he should spend another few days acclimating before trying anything. It’s so important to take care of yourself as you age, and it was clear he hadn’t.”

I thought about the paunch that Redmond had around his stomach, and how it was smaller than my own. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Listen, here’s my card; if you think of anything, feel free to call. Thanks for your time.”

“Of course.”

I walked to the door, but she said something to my back as I opened it: “You don’t think it’s out there, do you? You think my brother’s a liar?”

I had to sigh. I’d been asked this question (minus the liar part) more times than I cared to count. “Ma’am, I think the only way to keep people from finding treasure is if there’s no treasure out there.”

I spent the rest of the day finishing the report, and going through Redmond’s copy of Where Glory Waits . Most of it was references that might be clues to the location of the treasure. Apparently Redmond was quite the amateur archaeologist. He talked about other digs he’d done, and things he found, but his notes rambled, as if he didn’t really know what he was talking about. He mentioned arrowheads that belonged to the Anasazi or Clovis culture, but up in Utah? He went on about his bitch of an ex-wife — his words, not mine — and had a lot of questions about “F-ton,” which seemed kind of panicked. There were doodles and notes, and he had a weird habit of circling some of his page numbers and squaring others.

The book messed me up, to be honest. I’d never bothered to sit down and read it, but here was Katzenberg painting himself as some kind of heroic man of the west, yet he’d never really lived here. You live on a compound with forty acres around you, and who can say that you actually know any of the people you’re making money off? Moreover, with the notes that Redmond had written in here... Redmond had worshipped the guy. Talked a lot of trash about the idiots who didn’t see things like he did, who didn’t see the value in the arrowheads and the pots... Well, Mary O’Shaughnessy did. Hell, she saw so much value in them, she made a couple million a year on them.

That’s probably why I drove off into the forest that night. I was thinking a lot, and wanted to get a little air. The whole damn thing had messed me up and so I headed out to El Porvenir. Maybe doing a little nighttime vigil would help me think it through. The camp was closed, of course, but it’s not like the tape could keep me out and, according to my voice mail, the forensics crew had finished their sweep earlier.

Which was why I felt goose bumps rise on my arms when I pulled up. There were three pickups there, two sort of older and beat up, one more pristine. Also, Redmond’s window had been smashed in. I called in to Alicia that we had some people breaking the tape at the site, and slipped the latch on my holster. She might think it was weird I was out there at that hour, but I’d blow it off somehow.

“What the hell is going on out here?” I muttered as I opened my door carefully, my lights off. I didn’t want to startle anyone, so I rolled down my window and tried to listen. I could see flashlights swinging around in the trees out near where Redmond had been found. My gun was in my hand as I approached, and my Maglite in the other, although it was off. I figured I’d get close, listen in, and then startle them off.