Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“Well, for a guy who’s supposedly real smart, that was a pretty stupid thing to do,” Clayton said, “because it brought you right to his front door.”

“So he screwed up and made a mistake,” Thorpe said.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Clayton said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Everything I read in the case files Detective Pino gave me last night argues against that kind of a screw-up. Until Drake’s murder, all you had were little bits and pieces of miscellaneous evidence and no hard-target suspect. Then, bingo, everything falls into place, neat as a pin.”

“You’re saying it’s far too convenient,” Ramona said.

“Staged might be a better word,” Clayton replied.

“Except for the shoe prints,” Thorpe said.

“Maybe he isn’t coming back here,” Ramona said.

“That’s possible,” Clayton said. “What showed up when you tossed the house?”

Ramona shook her head. “Not much. We pretty much found what we were looking for on the first pass.”

“Let’s take a closer look inside for more anomalies. He’d need money if he plans to disappear after he’s done with the killing.”

“More observing, Sergeant?” Ramona asked.

“Exactly,” Clayton answered.

“We didn’t find any money,” Thorpe said.

“It won’t hurt to look again,” Clayton replied.

“I guess not,” Thorpe said, with a grin.

Sergeant Cruz Tafoya went hunting for Noel Olsen’s parents, Stanley and Meredith, who were listed in the phone book but either away from home or not taking calls. Stanley, according to the information contained in the old case file, was a dentist, so Tafoya went to Olsen’s last known office address only to learn that he’d sold his practice some years ago and taken a job with the Indian Health Service.

Tafoya checked with the Indian Hospital on Cerrillos Road and learned that Olsen was still employed by the IHS, but out of town doing his monthly rounds of regularly scheduled appointments at clinics on the Navajo Reservation. He asked about Mrs. Olsen’s whereabouts and was told she didn’t work and was something of a recluse.

The home address for the couple didn’t register with Tafoya, so he looked it up in the county street map guide. The Olsens lived in Eldorado, a rural, middle-class subdivision ten miles southeast of Santa Fe along U.S. Highway 285.

Thirty years ago, when the subdivision was new and still relatively undeveloped, Tafoya’s uncle, Benny, had managed the privately owned water utility that served the small cluster of new houses near the old ranch headquarters that had been turned into a real estate office.

As a young kid, Cruz had spent many summer weekends with Uncle Benny, now long retired, who’d lived in a cottage at the stables. Together, they rode horseback over the thousands of yet untouched acres that gave spectacular views of three mountain ranges in the distance, or drove into the back-country hills over rough roads on land slated to remain as open space.

Cruz knew that the subdivision had grown into a bedroom community of several thousand homes. But without a reason to visit over the years, he hadn’t given it much thought. Seeing it up close after so long made his jaw drop. All traces of the vast stretches of pinonstudded ranchland were gone. The main trunk roads had been paved, and houses on acre or more lots were scattered in every direction.

A shopping mall, a branch bank, and a professional office building stood within shouting distance of the highway. Further down the road, past a number of Santa Fe-style, faux-adobe houses, an elementary school and a fire station stood on pastureland where antelope had once grazed.

Cruz pulled to a stop in front of the community library near the school, consulted his map, and then drove on to the west end of the subdivision, where a string of houses bordered an old post-and-barbed-wire fence. Beyond the fence, open land stretched for several miles, ending at the state highway that cut in front of the Cerrillos Hills and ran past the state prison.

Tafoya knew the day was coming when pricier houses on five-, ten-, and twenty-acre tracts that were way beyond the means of most native Santa Feans would fill up the land.

The Olsens’ house was on a side road situated at the back of a lot accessed by a long, weed-infested driveway. Cruz entered the gate to a walled courtyard, walked up a flagstone path past barren flower beds, and rang the doorbell.

From the outside, the place looked neglected. The exterior plaster was badly cracked and the portal above his head showed water damage from a roof leak. A bird had built a nest on the outside light fixture next to the front door and there was a mound of dried droppings on the flagstone at his feet.

He rang the bell again and listened. From inside he could hear the sound of a blaring television. After waiting a few more seconds, he pounded on the door. An older woman with tousled gray hair opened up.

“Please go away,” the woman said. Wrinkles around her mouth gave her a sad, dissatisfied look.

“Meredith Olsen?” Cruz asked, displaying his shield.

“Yes. Why are you here? We don’t bother anybody.” Her breath smelled of booze.

“I need to ask you some questions about your son.”

“Noel? I can’t talk to you about him.” Mrs. Olsen’s expression turned cagey. “Did Stanley send you here to trick me?”

“I’ve never met your husband,” Cruz replied.

Mrs. Olsen raised her hand as if to stop him. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I have no reason to lie,” Cruz said.

Slowly, she lowered her hand and pulled her robe tightly around her thick waist. “We don’t talk about Noel,” she replied in a toneless recitation. “It’s not allowed. That’s all I have to say.”

Cruz looked past Olsen into the darkened front room. He could hear the television broadcasting what sounded like big band dance music from an old movie. The weak flickering of the screen spilled out from an adjacent room.

Mrs. Olsen hadn’t moved. He glanced back at her face and decided to try a ploy. “Noel is missing and I was hoping you could help me find him.”

“Missing?” Mrs. Olsen’s eyes blinked rapidly. “How can he be missing?”

“He’s not at home and hasn’t been at work for some time,” Tafoya answered. “Can we talk inside?”

“Are you sure you haven’t talked to Stanley?” she asked suspiciously.

“Never. Can we talk? I’m sure you want us to find your son.”

Meredith Olsen nodded timidly and led the way into a family room. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were dancing on the large-screen TV. Bookcases along one wall were filled with hundreds, perhaps a thousand, movie video cassettes. A fifth of scotch and a glass sat on a side table next to a reclining chair that faced the tube.

She picked up the remote control and pressed the mute button. “I knew something was wrong with Noel,” she said.

“Why do you say that?” Tafoya asked.

“Every month, when Stanley goes out of town, I have lunch with him. We always meet in Albuquerque on a Saturday. He didn’t come last week.”

“Did you try to call him?”

Mrs. Olsen nodded. “From a pay phone. He didn’t answer. He’s always kept his word to see me since he got out of prison, whenever we could do it so Stanley wouldn’t know.”

On the television, Astaire and Rogers spun across the ballroom floor and swirled off camera. The scene shifted to a closeup of an unhappy looking bandleader. “Does he come to Santa Fe to see you?” Cruz asked.

“Never. He hasn’t been in Santa Fe since the day he went away.”

“He hasn’t visited here recently, in the last week or so?”

Mrs. Olsen shook her head. “Why is Noel missing? Has he done something bad?”