Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

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.

Sally 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 Pino found an inconspicuous spot away from the security night-lights and waited in her vehicle for Greer to make an appearance.