Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

This was no time for someone to be threatening her or her family. Without hesitation, she would blow away anyone who came to do them harm.

She patted her tummy and hummed quietly as she waited for Tug Cheney to arrive.

With the information Bobby Trujillo had provided, Patrol Officer Russell Thorpe found it relatively easy to locate the subcontractors who’d worked on Kerney’s new house. By the end of his shift, he’d interviewed everybody who’d been involved with site preparation, earth moving, concrete pouring, and the rough-in plumbing and electrical work. He’d also checked every possible vehicle for a tread mark match. The sum total of his efforts resulted in excluding everybody he’d interviewed as a likely suspect in the case, which wasn’t a bad thing.

At state police headquarters, Thorpe dropped off the evidence at the lab for analysis. On his way out the door the thought occurred to him that it might be wise to talk to the building suppliers. He called Trujillo on his cell phone, got the names and addresses of the companies that had delivered materials to the site, and set out to make the rounds.

A bachelor with no one waiting for him at home, Thorpe didn’t mind putting out the extra effort. He wanted to show initiative and make an arrest in the case. Besides pleasing Kerney, it would earn him some points with Chief Baca, which might help when he had enough time on the job to apply for a transfer to criminal investigations.

The suppliers consisted of an adobe manufacturer, a lumber company, and a ready-mix concrete outfit. The ready-mix plant and the lumberyard were nearby, so Thorpe checked there first and talked to the drivers, both of whom reported seeing no traffic on the ranch road or any suspicious activity at the job site. The adobe works was run by a tribal outfit on a pueblo outside of Espanola, a small city north of Santa Fe.

The drive to the pueblo took Thorpe along a busy highway that eventually ran north to Taos and then on to Colorado. He passed by two Indian casinos, through some badlands where the roadside businesses looked junky and languishing, and got caught in stop-and-go traffic as the road funneled down to the main drag in Espanola, which seemed to offer nothing more than a combination of strip malls, gas stations, fast-food restaurants, and mom-and-pop businesses housed in dilapidated buildings.

On the other hand, the pueblo outside of town had some charm. Located along the river in thick bosque with ancient cottonwoods lining the roadway, the main village was virtually hidden from the outside world.

In a large fenced clearing away from the village, Thorpe found the yard where the adobes were made. It consisted of a metal building and long rows of freshly made mud and straw adobe bricks that were drying in the sun. Bales of straw and mounds of clay were strategically located next to several large, motor-driven mixing tanks used to stir the ingredients to the right consistency. Hundreds of empty wooden forms were lined up ready to be used in the next production run, and a fully loaded flatbed truck was parked in front of the office.

Inside the building he introduced himself to a middle-aged man who didn’t look happy to see a state cop in uniform on tribal land.

“What do you want?” the man asked suspiciously. His face was covered in a film of adobe dust and his large hands were calloused and rough looking.

“I’m investigating a crime in Santa Fe County,” Thorpe said, “and I need to talk to your driver.”

“I’m the manager and the driver,” the man said. “What crime?”

“You delivered to a construction site where a horse was killed sometime yesterday.” Thorpe gave him the location and the contractor’s name.

“I wasn’t at that site yesterday. Trujillo’s next order isn’t due for another week.”

“When were you out there?” Thorpe asked.

“Five, maybe six days ago.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

The man shrugged. “Not really.”

“What did you see?” Thorpe asked.

“I had three deliveries to make that day so I got out there real early. A vehicle passed me coming down the ranch road. I figured it was one of the crew off to get something he needed for the job. But when I got to the site there wasn’t anybody around. I unloaded where Trujillo wanted the bricks and left before Bobby and his crew showed up. That’s all I saw.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“A van. One of those big, older models, maybe an eighty-two or eighty-three. A blue GMC with a crumpled front fender on the driver’s side. I got a good look at it because he had to slow way down to get past me on the road.”

Thorpe was impressed. The man had a good eye. “Did you see any passengers?”

The man shook his head. “Nope, at least not in the front. The rear windows had curtains.”

“Who was driving?” Thorpe asked.

“A man.”

“Anglo? Hispanic?”

“I didn’t pay any attention to his face.”

“Can you give me the exact date you were there?”

The man looked through his invoices and read off the date.

“Thanks for your help,” Thorpe said.

“Did you stop at the tribal office before you came here?” the man asked.

“No.”

“Well, you should have. This is sovereign land. You’ve got no jurisdiction to be here without permission.”

Thorpe threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry about that.”

The man looked Thorpe up and down. “Dumb rookie mistake.”

“Excuse me?” Thorpe said, taken aback.

“I said you made a dumb, rookie mistake. I spent ten years as a tribal police officer, and met a lot of young state cops who thought they could go anywhere they wanted. Had to throw a few of them off the pueblo a time or two. Would have done the same to you, if I was still in uniform.”

“I can understand your point of view,” Thorpe said, unwilling to apologize twice. He reached for his pocket notebook. “I’ll need your name for my report.”

“Donald Naranjo,” the man answered as he handed Thorpe a business card. “You can call me here at the office if you’ve got more questions. Good luck with the case. Anybody who puts a good horse down for no reason needs his butt seriously kicked before he gets locked up.”

“Maybe so,” Thorpe said. “Thanks for your help.”

Naranjo gave him a tight smile in reply.

Thorpe left, vowing to bone up on tribal jurisdictions. That issue aside, just maybe he had his first lead. He’d talk to Bobby Trujillo in the morning to see if anyone driving a blue van had been working at the job site. If not, he’d have to look for the vehicle, which could set back his investigation a good bit.

But either way, he still had a start.

Tug Cheney looked at the dead rat. “Most likely it was poisoned,” he said. With a gloved hand he picked it up by the tail and put it in a box. “I won’t know for sure until I cut it open.”

“Can you tell me anything else?” Sara asked.

“I’m no expert on rodents,” Tug replied. “But I do know rats are nocturnal. They feed at night and usually sleep during the day, so I doubt it crawled onto your front porch by itself. You’re sure there hasn’t been a pest exterminator out here recently?”

“That’s what I was told by the estate manager,” Sara replied.

“Let’s look for a burrow,” Tug said, eyeing Sara’s bulging stomach. “If I remember correctly, rats have a fairly limited territory. Are you up for it?”

“Of course,” Sara said. “I’m pregnant, not disabled. What exactly are we looking for?”

“Any kind of mound where the earth has been disturbed. It might look like a prairie dog hole, or be a smaller burrow system under a tree or shrub.”

Tug viewed the lush landscaping surrounding the estate. Whoever owned the property didn’t give a hoot about water conservation. Non-native annuals filled flowerbeds bordering the main house and driveway, a large swath of thirsty blue grass ran down to the adobe wall, and mature fruit trees and several big Navajo willow trees that required intensive irrigation shaded open patios around the huge, rambling structure.