Death Song kk-11 Page 20

  Clayton called Beaner into the room to ask him what, if anything, belonged to Brian Riley.

  Beaner looked around and stroked the tuft of facial hair that hung from his chin. “I don’t see anything here that’s his.”

  “Nothing?” Clayton demanded.

  “That’s right.”

  “What did he come here with?”

  “He had a backpack, a sleeping bag, a toilet kit that he kept in the bathroom, and the clothes he wore. That’s it.”

  “And he gave you money to hide him?”

  “A hundred dollars a night plus cash for food and extras, all of it in old money.”

  “What do you mean old money?” Armijo asked.

  “There wasn’t a bill less than ten years old that he gave me. Tens and twenties, and they hadn’t been circulated much. I pay attention to things like that. I figured it was stolen and I asked him about it.”

  “What did he say?” Clayton asked.

  “He said that he’d found it.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. He dropped the subject. But he pulled a wad of cash out of his backpack to pay me for putting him up.”

  “Do you have any of those old bills?”

  “No, I spent them fast in case they were counterfeit.”

  “I understand he told you he knew something about his stepmother that could put him in danger or get him killed,” Clayton said. “Was he any more specific about it than that?”

  “The night a friend dropped by, Brian said he’d found out something about his stepmother that was some pretty scary shit.”

  “Like what?” Armijo asked.

  Beaner shook his head. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk about it other than to say she wasn’t who she pretended to be.”

  Armijo stepped closer to Beaner. “Did he say how he knew this?”

  “He mentioned finding some documents on his father’s property.”

  “He used the word property, not house?” Clayton asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Clayton flipped up the mattress, hoping Riley had left something behind. There were only dust balls on the wood floor and a spider that scurried away to safety. “Did he have a cell phone with him?”

  “Not when he arrived. But he gave me cash to buy him one and sign up him for a prepaid calling plan at work under an alias.”

  “What name did he want you to use?”

  “Jack Ryan,” Beaner replied. “I’ve got his cell phone number if you want it.”

  “You bet we do,” Armijo said.

  Beaner took out his wallet and handed Armijo a slip of paper.

  “I’ll get the ball rolling on this,” Lee said as he flipped open his cell phone and stepped into the front room.

  “Stay put while I do a quick search,” Clayton ordered Beaner. He shifted nervously from foot to foot as Clayton looked through the documents and papers on the plywood table, the content of the boxes, the material on the bookcase, and the junk in a small closet.

  Clayton moved a box at the head of the mattress, picked up a paperback novel that had been hidden from view, fanned through the pages, and glanced at the synopsis on the back. It was a spy thriller featuring a CIA operative named Jack Ryan. “Is this Riley’s book?” he asked.

  “No, it’s mine,” Beaner replied. “He started reading it while he was here. That’s where he got the alias he wanted me to use for the cell phone. He said that he liked the sound of the name and it was close enough to Riley that he’d remember it.”

  “Did he talk about hiding out from agents of a foreign government?”

  “He mentioned that,” Beaner replied. “But I didn’t take it seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it sounded made up, like something right out of that book you’re holding in your hand.”

  Clayton hadn’t read the novel. Maybe if he did, he’d get some insights into Riley. “Mind if I borrow it?”

  “You can have it.”

  Lee Armijo stepped back into the room. “I’ve got an expedited search warrant in the hopper for the telephone records, and there’s no toilet kit in the bathroom. Anything here?”

  Clayton shook his head and returned his attention to Beaner. “Can you think of any reason Riley would leave so unexpectedly?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea as to where he might have gone?”

  “No.”

  Clayton handed Beaner a business card. “If he returns, calls, or you hear about him through some other source, contact me immediately.”

  Beaner stuffed the card in his shirt pocket. “I don’t think Brian is a bad person. I truly don’t think he would hurt anybody. He’s just a scared kid with an overactive imagination.”

  “Uh-huh,” Armijo said. “Did you try to sleep with him?”

  Beaner blushed and said nothing more.

  Outside the cottage Armijo’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the incoming phone number on the screen, put the phone to his ear, and said, “Talk to me.”

  He listened, grunted, hung up, and gave Clayton a totally disgusted look.

  “What?”

  “Captain Apodaca just informed me that one of his hotshot homicide detectives at the murder scene allowed a young man matching Brian Riley’s description to drive off on the Harley motorcycle. Apparently, the young man told the detective that he lived at the apartment complex and needed his wheels to get to work. Since the bike hadn’t been secured into evidence by the crime scene techs, the cop bought the story without batting an eye or thinking to check with anyone else. An APB has been issued.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Ten minutes ago. Every city, county, and state patrol officer in the greater Albuquerque area is looking for him.”

  “Well, at least Riley has surfaced,” Clayton said as he climbed into Armijo’s unit, although the stupidity of the mistake deflated his spirits.

  Armijo grunted. “Yeah, but if he’s on the run again it’s because he found out that Minerva Stanley Robocker went and got herself executed. He’s got to believe the killer is closing in on him.”

  “Let’s get some protection here for Beaner before we leave,” Clayton urged. “We don’t need another person Brian Riley knows getting themselves unnecessarily killed.”

  Lee keyed the radio microphone and made the request. While the two men waited, they listened to radio traffic. Everyone on the streets riding any kind of motorcycle was being stopped. It didn’t matter if they were on custom hogs, choppers with sidecars, dirt bikes, or motor scooters. If it had two or three wheels and an engine, it got stopped.

  A squad car pulled up behind Armijo. He waved and drove off. “Now what?”

  “It’s back to Santa Fe for me,” Clayton said. If Benjamin Beaner was to be believed, whatever Brian Riley found had been on the Cañoncito property Tim and Denise Riley owned. It consisted of a sizable piece of land, and only the double-wide, stable, horse trailer, and immediate surroundings had been searched. Unless Brian Riley was found and had started talking before Clayton arrived in Cañoncito, he planned to comb every square inch of it if necessary.

  “Get some sleep first,” Lee said, covering a yawn with his hand. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Clayton replied.

  During the hours Kerney had spent analyzing Denise Riley’s letters to her sister, he’d filled a writing tablet with notes. When he’d reached the point where he was trying to decide if Denise’s handwriting curlicues had changed over time, he decided to stop. He put the letters aside, stripped off the latex gloves he’d worn to handle the documents, and reviewed his findings.

  Denise had indeed used repetitive phrases and stock comments throughout her letters. No matter where she’d roamed, all the men she’d hooked up with were outdoor type guys who loved sports. Almost universally, she would characterize them to Helen as “footloose and fun-loving—not ready to settle down.” When she worked, her jobs were always “boring, but paid the rent.” When she
wrote about adapting to new customs, struggling to learn foreign language phrases, describing the people she encountered, recounting an excursion to a landmark destination, experiencing exotic cuisine, very little detail went with it. It was as though Denise had lifted her imagery, facts, and experiences from travel guides.

  There were seventy-eight letters in total, some of them lengthy, many of them short, but only five letters had any cross-outs or strikeovers, and the total number of misspelled words could be counted on both hands.

  Was Denise Riley one of the most exacting and error-free correspondents ever? It was possible, but Kerney doubted it. The era of letter-writing was long gone, a victim of computers, the Internet, and e-mail. Even if Denise was a throwback inclined to write leisurely letters to her older sister, surely once in a while a note home would have been dashed off in a scribbled hurry. There was none of that in the packet of correspondence.

  Kerney suddenly realized that not once in any of her letters did Denise refer to sending home snapshots of the places she’d visited, the people she’d met, or the men she’d supposedly fallen in love with. He picked up the phone and dialed Helen Muiz’s number. Ruben answered.

  “How are things going?” he asked.

  “I’ll be honest with you, it’s been rough,” Ruben replied. “Just getting her up and dressed in the morning is turning into a major feat. I’ve talked her into letting me make an appointment for her to see a therapist.”

  “That’s a wise thing for her to do. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m hanging in. Do you need to speak to Helen?”

  “Maybe you can answer my question. In Denise’s letters home, did she ever enclose any photographs of the places she’d lived, her boyfriends, the excursions she’d made, or the tourist attractions she’d visited?”

  “Never. She said she was too busy, felt that a camera made her look like a tourist and that she just wanted to blend in and experience the world rather than taking pictures of it.”

  “There’s no explanation of that in her letters to Helen.”

  “Helen had a phone conversation with Denise about a year or two after she’d left Santa Fe. That’s when the subject came up.”

  “Didn’t you or Helen or the other family members think it odd that Denise wouldn’t want to share a photograph or two of her world travels and adventures, the men she lived with, the new friends she’d made?”

  “Of course, but you have to understand that Denise had a habit of completely shutting down on a subject once she decided she didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It was one of her ways of establishing limits. Broaching a forbidden subject with her got you an icy stare or the cold shoulder. If it was a serious infraction, you could be completely frozen out of her life for months at a time until she decided to forgive you.”

  “And the family tolerated this behavior?”

  “She could also be charming, loving, and irresistible, Kerney. She was the eccentric, uncontrollable kid sister who got to break all the rules.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Ruben,” Kerney said. “Thanks.”

  “Is there anything you want me to tell Helen?”

  “Just let her know that we’re still looking for Brian Riley and I’m taking Denise’s letters to the state crime lab for analysis.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ruben.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

  Ruben laughed. “Yeah, sure.”

  Kerney disconnected, put Denise’s letters in a large, clear plastic evidence folder, and made the quick drive from police headquarters to the Department of Public Safety, the umbrella organization of the New Mexico State Police.

  Once buzzed past reception, he first went to check in with his old friend, Chief Andy Baca, and found him behind his big desk signing paperwork. Andy looked up, grinned, and waved him in the direction of the couch that faced the desk.

  “What’s that in your hand?” Andy asked, sweeping the paperwork to one side.

  Kerney sat on the couch and put the evidence envelope on the coffee table. “Letters from Denise Riley to her sister Helen that I’d like the Questioned Documents Unit to look at pronto.”

  Andy joined him on the couch. “You got it, amigo. Cop killings go to the front of the line at our crime lab, no questions asked. Now that there are two dead officers, everything else goes on the back burner.”

  “I know that, but a phone call from you while I’m on my way over there will surely add to their eagerness to be helpful.”

  “No problem.” Andy eyed Kerney speculatively. “Do you really hope to break this case before you retire?”

  Kerney nodded. “But it’s looking less and less likely.”

  “And are you sure retiring is what you want to do? You’ve been in law enforcement your entire adult life. It’s not that easy to walk away from something you enjoy doing. Believe me, I know.”

  Andy had retired from the state police as a captain, found it not to his liking, got himself elected as a county sheriff for two four-year terms, and had returned to Santa Fe after being appointed chief of the state police by the governor.

  “I’m ready for a change,” Kerney said.

  “That’s not the same thing as saying you’re ready to stop being a cop.”

  “I’m going to find out what it’s like to be an American living in London. We’ll tour the continent as time allows, and when Sara is busy at work, I’ll take Patrick fishing.”

  “You don’t even like to fish.”

  “Don’t take what I’m saying literally. I’m talking leisure time, recreational activities, sightseeing, expanding cultural horizons, soaking up European history.”

  Andy grunted and got to his feet. “Save me from grand tour of the continent rap. Connie called me a while ago to report that Sara has invited us to your house for dinner on Saturday night.”

  Kerney raised an eyebrow. Since coming home, Sara had showed little interest in food and virtually no interest in cooking. This was good news.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Nope, but I’m damn glad to hear it.”

  “She’s coming along okay?”

  Kerney laughed. “Seems the more I stay out of her hair the better she gets.”

  “Well, that’s a no-brainer,” Andy replied as Kerney headed for the door.

  At the crime lab, Kerney met with the Questioned Documents expert and her assistant, who took the packet of letters and envelopes and immediately began recording the transfer of the evidence to the lab on an official form.

  “Is there anything special we should be looking for?” Claire Paley asked.

  In her fifties, Claire was rail-thin, wore bifocals that perched on the end of her small nose, had long dark hair pulled back in a bun that was always unraveling, and talked in a voice that was childlike in tone. As a result, she came across as a woman on the verge of becoming completely undone, but she was highly competent and extremely bright.

  “Look at everything,” Kerney replied. “From what I can tell, the victim used several types of stationery. If possible, identify the makers and check any watermarks against the FBI database. Also, I’d like to know if the stamps and cancellation marks are authentic, and there are a few strike-outs and cross-overs I’d like you to analyze. If you can read any impressions on the paper under the handwriting, that could be very helpful. Run a test on the inks used. I’m particularly interested in knowing the origin of the paper, envelopes, and ink. Are they of domestic or foreign manufacture?”

  “What else?” Claire asked.

  “I’ve included a recent sample of the victim’s handwriting for comparison to help you determine if any of the letters were forged. To my untrained eye, it looks like the letters are all in the victim’s cursive script, but that may not be so.”

  Claire’s assistant handed her a letter and envelope that Kerney had placed in clear plastic sleeves, and she gave them both a long look.

  “Excellent cursive wri
ting,” Claire said. “I’d bet that she was educated in Catholic schools.”

  “And you’d win,” Kerney said. “How could you tell?”

  “Because except for the Catholic schools, teaching cursive penmanship is fast becoming a lost art.”

  “You’re probably right. But then so is letter-writing. Send everything to latent prints when you’ve finished. I’ll drop off fingerprint cards to them on my way out.”

  “Chief Baca called to say you want results quickly.”

  “Burn the midnight oil, Claire. We need a break on this case. Two police officers and two civilians have been murdered in cold blood, an eighteen-year-old boy has gone missing and is on the run, and we’ve yet to nail down one substantial bit of evidence that can point us in the right direction.”

  “You’ve got it, Chief. After all, we can’t have you looking like you’re up shit’s creek without a paddle,” Claire said sweetly in her breathless twelve-year-old-girlish voice.

  On the drive to Santa Fe, Clayton listened carefully to APD and state police radio traffic in the hope that Brian Riley would be taken into custody and thus make the search of the Cañoncito property unnecessary. But by the time he climbed La Bajada Hill, Riley was still at large.

  Although the sky in Clayton’s rearview mirror was a crisp, cold, clear winter blue, facing him was a ground-hugging storm that blanketed Santa Fe, hid the mountains, and swept wind-driven snow across the Interstate, slowing traffic to a crawl. He switched on his overhead emergency lights, headlights, and warning flashers, and kept moving, passing motorists stalled on the side of the highway and a jackknifed semi that had wound up on its side in the median.

  Clayton stopped to check on the trucker. He made sure the man was unhurt, determined that the load was not hazardous—the driver was hauling kitchen appliances—set out flares behind the trailer, and called regional dispatch to send assistance.

  Clayton bundled the trucker in a blanket and sat with him in his unit with the heat cranked up, waiting for the state police and a wrecker to arrive.