Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

"What day, exactly?"

"I think it was the same night your murder victim was here," Moses said.

"Let's find out," Clayton said as he pushed his chair back.

In the video surveillance room, Moses checked the log and confirmed that the woman had been at the casino the same day as Ulibarri. He pulled a tape from the video rack and ran it fast-forward until a blonde with long curly hair and a lot of cleavage moved jerkily across the screen.

"She's new," Moses said as he reversed the tape and hit the remote play button.

They watched as she circled the poker tables, trying to draw interest. Ulibarri, who was at one of the tables, didn't seem to notice until she whispered something in his ear after he'd won another pot. He smiled, nodded, and watched her walk out the door.

"I don't remember seeing this when we first looked at the tapes," Clayton said.

"I think we skipped over it," Moses said.

"Can I borrow the tape?"

"No, but I can have a couple of stills made for you in less than a hour. I'll get you an enlarged profile and full-face head shot. Will that do?"

"Thanks, Uncle."

While Moses delivered the tape to a computer technician and went back to work, Clayton went to see if the lodge employees remembered anybody who looked like Jackson. No one did.

With the grainy but serviceable photos of the blonde in hand, he canvassed the lodge employees again, without success. He hurried to Casey's Cozy Cabins, hoping Harry Staggs could ID the woman as Jackson's companion.

Staggs wasn't home. From the front porch, he called Tredwell on his cell phone and asked the attorney where he could find Staggs.

"I don't baby-sit my clients," Tredwell said.

"He hasn't left town, has he?"

"Not as far as I know."

"You're a big help, Tredwell."

"Please, no thanks are necessary," Tredwell said.

Clayton punched the off button. A light snow was falling. Maybe it would be a wet year. The wildlife needed it. If he'd stayed with the tribal police, he'd be out checking boundary lines, reporting cattle that had strayed either on or off the reservation, posting new signs to replace the ones stolen by tourists, chasing off the occasional trespasser who had wandered onto Indian land by way of the national forest, and maybe breaking up a fight or a domestic squabble.

But he didn't have time to ruminate about the past or feel sorry for himself. If he wasn't going to catch a break, he'd have to make one for himself. How to do that was the question.

In college Detective Ramona Pino had taken a few drama classes and appeared in several student plays. The experience had served her well in police work. During her time on the force, she'd worked an undercover narcotics assignment and posed as a fence for stolen goods, both with success, so she knew the value of convincing performances.

She'd called ahead to schedule an appointment with Cassie Bedlow and now knocked tentatively on the woman's open office door.

Cassie Bedlow smiled at the young woman standing nervously in the doorway. Somewhere in her mid to late twenties, she was no more than five three and was wearing a short skirt that displayed well-toned, nicely formed legs and a knit sweater that indicated shapely breasts in proportion to her body. Her face was classic northern New Mexico Hispanic, with arched eyebrows, large pupils, dark round eyes, small, thin lips, high cheekbones and even features.

"You must be Ramona," Bedlow said, moving from her desk to a tan leather couch. "Come in and sit with me."

Detective Pino caught the calculating, appraising look in Bedlow's eyes. She sat on the couch, her back straight, knees together, hands in her lap and gave Bedlow the once over. There was nothing flashy about the woman. In fact, just the opposite: she was round, wide in the hips, and had a matronly air.

"So, you're interested in modeling," Bedlow said.

"I shouldn't be wasting your time," she said, giving Bedlow a wistful glance.

There was a breathless, little-girl quality to Pino's voice that Bedlow liked a lot. Costumed correctly, with her small size, pretty features, and tiny voice, Pino would draw plenty of attention from men who liked the innocent schoolgirl look.

"Why do you say that?" Bedlow asked.

"I've always wanted to try modeling," Ramona said as she pouted slightly and looked around the office. "But you probably think I'm too old and too tiny to be a model."

A bookcase along a side wall held large photo albums and casting directories. On the top shelf was a chamber of commerce membership plaque and a silver-plated presentation bowl from a community charity fund-raising organization.

"That simply isn't true," Bedlow replied. "I use models of all sizes, ages, and ethnic backgrounds. For example, you'd make an excellent junior-size catalog model. With the right training, you wouldn't lack for work."

Ramona beamed enthusiastically. "Really?"

"Yes, if you're photogenic, and I have no doubt that you are," Bedlow said. "Did you bring any photographs?"

Chagrined, Ramona furrowed her brow. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't think about that."

"Do you have any handy?"

Ramona shook her head. "Not really. I just moved here from Durango, and I left a lot of my personal things behind in storage."

She looked at the wall of framed photographs of attractive young women behind Bedlow's desk. Some were runway shots, but most were studio photos of women with their hands on their hips or their butts stuck out in provocative poses not unlike those in glossy fashion magazines. They pouted, smiled, or looked haughty for the camera.

Ramona's expression brightened. "Maybe I could use one of your photographers. Those are great pictures. I'd be willing to pay, if it isn't too expensive."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me about you."

Ramona sketched her fictitious past: born in Taos, raised in southern Colorado, high school graduate, work experience in boutiques and women's clothing stores, divorced with no children, new to Albuquerque with no friends or relatives close by.

"So, you know something about fashion," Bedlow said. "That's a plus. Now tell me why you'd really like to be a model."

Ramona gave Bedlow a shy glance. "I guess I'm bored. I want to do something exciting, have an adventure, meet interesting people. I got married too young and now that I'm divorced I'd like to have some fun before I get too old. That's one of the reasons I decided to move to Albuquerque."

"Modeling is hard work."

"I've worked hard all my life," Ramona replied.

Bedlow smiled. "Are you working now?"

"I'm looking. I wanted to find out about your agency before I took a job, so I can fit the classes into my schedule if you decide to accept me. How expensive is the program?"

"The classes run for twelve weeks and cost three thousand dollars."

"Oh," Ramona said. "I don't have that kind of money."

Bedlow patted Ramona's knee. "Don't be discouraged, I sometimes offer a tuition loan to a student I think has potential. You would have to sign a contract with the agency and agree to repay your tuition from your earnings after graduation. But with your looks that shouldn't be a problem."

"You'd do that for me?"

"First things first," Bedlow said, rising to gather a brochure, a student application, and an agency contract from her desk. "Let's get you started on enrolling, and have some photographs taken."

Ramona stood and took the forms from Bedlow's hand. "This is so much fun," she said breathlessly. "Can I fill these out while I'm here?"

"If you like."

"I've just moved into an apartment and I don't have a phone yet. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all."

"Where should I go to get the pictures taken?"

Bedlow gave her a business card for a photographer, and directions to get to his home studio in a residential area not far away. "He does all my photography work. I'll call and see if he can fit you in today. He'll do some proof sheets, which you can bring back to me this afternoon."