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"This break is old," Campbell said.

  "I'd say it happened in childhood and wasn't properly immobilized after the bone was set."

  "That's highly unusual," Melody said.

  "Only if you're applying Western standards of medidne.

  I think the injury was treated as a break, not a fracture.

  Whoever did it may not have had access to any equipment or facilities.

  It may not have been treated by a physician. I would imagine the victim probably had some chronic pain as a consequence."

  "With impaired mobility of the arm?" Melody asked.

  "Possibly. But what interests me most is the slight deformity here."

  He pointed to the joint end.

  "That's not from getting hacked up. Let's take a look at the bones."

  Campbell walked to the table and picked up the long bones.

  "There's the deformity again. Just the slightest bit of bowing in the humerus and femur. Run a phosphorus and caldum test on the bones. If the results show deficiencies, I'd say your victim had rickets as a young child."

  He picked up the pelvic bone.

  "A female, certainly."

  "Any guesses on race?" Melody asked, hoping Campbell would confirm her own assessment.

  Campbell measured the humerus and the femur.

  "I wish you had more of the skeleton for a comparison.

  But if we estimate her height at five feet, four inches, which I think is a good guess, then I'd say her legs were a bit shorter than normal.

  Not much, but a bit."

  He put the tape measure down.

  "It can't be anything more than speculation, but from what I've seen, I'd say this young woman was of mixed race, Hispano Indian probably from the southern part of Mexico or Central America. She suffered from poor nutrition, vitamin deficiency, and woefully inadequate medical care."

  "That's very helpful, doctor," Melody said.

  "Please, it's Campbell."

  "Are you and your family enjoying your time in Santa Fe›" Melody asked as she repacked the bones.

  "I'm divorced."

  Melody tried to look sympathetic.

  "Oh, I didn't know."

  "I'm fully recovered from it."

  She turned her attention to gathering up the evidence and repacking it.

  "Have you gotten out to see the sights since you've been here?"

  "Not as much as I'd hoped to. Do you have any suggestions?"

  "I can give you a year's worth of ideas. If you're free, we could discuss it over dinner tonight. I'm a fairly decent cook."

  "I'd like that very much," Campbell said.

  Melody gave him her address, directions to her house, and a thousand-watt smile.

  Post office records showed that a second individual, Isaac Medina, received mail at Santistevan's rural delivery address. Gabe stopped at the first occupied house in San Geronimo and asked the elderly woman who came to the door for directions. The woman pointed out a dwelling on a small hill behind her house. A pickup truck was parked in front of the house and smoke drifted from the chimney.

  "Isaac lives there," she said.

  "Butjoaquin Santistevan moved away some time ago. You have to go through the village to get to Isaac's driveway. Turn right at the old store. You'll see his gate halfway up the hill."

  Gabe called in his location before he entered Medina's driveway and drove toward the house slowly, scanning it as he approached. No one was in sight.

  He parked and waited a minute before getting out of his vehicle. The dwelling had a slanted tin roof that covered an enclosed porch with a row of waist-high windows.

  Through the windows, Gabe could see a line of upright freezers and refrigerators, all different shapes and sizes. On the ground in front of the house were a dozen or more old washing machines, clothes dryers, and dishwashers, some scavenged for parts and some intact.

  He knocked hard at the porch door and called out. A stocky, unshaven man with gray hair stepped out of the house and opened the porch door.

  "What do you want?" the man said.

  "Isaac Medina?" Gabe asked.

  The man nodded.

  Gabe showed his shield and ID.

  "I'm looking for Joaquin."

  "He doesn't live with me anymore."

  "Can you tell me where to find him?"

  "Is he in trouble?"

  "No."

  "What do you want to ask him?"

  "I want to talk to him about his truck," Gabe said.

  "You mean the accident?"

  "That's right," Gabe said.

  "Come," Medina said as he pointed to the side of the house.

  "I'll show you. He told me he wasn't going to report it to the police because his insurance rates would go up."

  Gabe followed Medina to the back of the house where a three-quarter-ton Chevy truck with a caved-in front end and smashed windshield was parked.

  "What did Joaquin tell you about the accident?" Gabe asked as he walked around the vehicle. No winch, no hydraulic lift in the bed, no wrought-iron side rails, and the truck was gray in color, not dark blue.

  "He didn't have to tell me nothing; I was with him.

  We hit a deer. See for yourself. There's still blood, skin, and fur on the grille and bumper. It happened a mile from the house. We walked home, got my truck, towed the Chevy here, and then we butchered and dressed the deer. I still have some venison steaks in the freezer."

  Gabe looked and saw blood splatter, flakes of hide, and small strands of fur embedded in the grille.

  "When did the accident occur?"

  "Late October, last year."

  "Where's the license plate?"

  "Joaquin took it on" the truck."

  "How can I contact Joaquin?"

  "You're not here about the accident," Medina said.

  "His license plate was reported by a witness to a crime."

  "Joaquin is no criminal. What kind of crime?"

  "Wood poaching."

  Medina laughed, showing a row of crooked lower teeth.

  "He doesn't need to steal wood from anybody. His father owns the biggest wood lot in the county."

  "You know that for a fact?"

  "Sure I do. I'm his uncle. His mother is my sister."

  "What's the name of his father's company?"

  "Buena Vista Lumber and Supply."

  "Why was Joaquin living with you?"

  "He was separated from his wife for almost a year.

  Now they're back together."

  "What's his wife's name?"

  "Debbie."

  "Is she one of the Romero girls?"

  "No, her maiden name was Espinoza."

  "Where can I findjoaquin?"

  "He works at the wood lot for his father, Philip Santistevan."

  "Thanks, Mr. Medina."

  "Does this have anything to do with the gringo who got murdered at the cabin?" Medina asked.

  "That's a completely different case," Gabe said, quite sure that Medina would be on the phone to his nephew as soon as he drove away.

  At midmorning, the US. Attorney called Kerney from Albuquerque. She wanted a face-to-face afternoon meeting on a joint task force bribery and conspiracy operation involving Sodal Security Administration employees and Motor Vehicle Division workers who were under investigation for selling driver's licenses and Sodal Security cards to illegal, undocumented aliens.

  There was no way Kerney could refuse. He hung up, called Sara, explained the situation, and told her their camping trip would have to be delayed.

  "There's no need to apologize," Sara said.

  "We'll simply do it some other time."

  "I should be home early in the evening." Silence greeted Kerney's comment. He waited for a response and none came.

  "Sara?"

  "This conversation is starting to sound much too domestic," she said.

  "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing."

  "Am I missing something here?"

  "Everything's fine."<
br />
  "It doesn't sound that way to me."

  "Stop it, Kerney. I'll see you when you get off work."

  Kerney hung up the receiver, wondering what in the hell was going on.

  He waited a minute, dialed his home number again, and got a busy signal.

  There wasn't time to brood over it. in five minutes he would be taking a phone call from a newspaper reporter about the early morning discovery of an elderly woman who had been raped and murdered at a remote farmhouse in southeastern New Mexico.

  The department's public information officer had set up the call. Kerney buzzed him and asked for the fact sheet on the case.

  The lieutenant came in, gave Kerney the sheet, and sat.

  Kerney read it quickly, "m other words, we've got nothing so far."

  "What we've got is heat. Chief. I just got off the phone with the county sheriff. The victim was the grandmother of the chairman of the county commission. The sheriff wants the department to offer all possible assistance."

  "Has he talked to the newspapers about it?"

  "Of course he has. He's a politician. He'll do his best with the limited resources available. But without the department's help-you know the rest of it."

  Kerney nodded. Laying off responsibility to the state police for major case investigations was standard procedure for sheriffs who had limited budgets, few personnel, and no technical specialists.

  "I've got a TV reporter and another print journalist standing by to speak to you after this interview is finished.

  They're covering the same story."

  "Don't schedule any more for me," Kerney said.

  "I'll handle whatever else comes in." The lieutenant glanced at his wristwatch.

  "Your first call should be happening right about now."

  The phone rang and Kerney picked it up.

  Buena Vista Lumber and Supply, ten miles south of Las Vegas on a state road, contained hundreds of cords of dry and green split firewood, stacks of peeled vi gas used for roof beams in Santa Fe-style homes, and virtually every type of fencing material imaginable. A chain-link fence enclosed the lot.

  Gabe drove to the office trailer in front of a large metal storage building and parked. He found Joaquin Santistevan inside the trailer at a desk, giving a telephone quote to a customer. On the desk was a framed photograph of a young, pretty Hispanic woman.

  Santistevan finished the call and turned to Gabe. He had the same lean build as Orlando and looked to be about the same height.

  "What can I do for you?"

  Gabe showed Santistevan his credentials.

  "I'm looking for a woodcutter who drives a dark blue, three-quarter-ton Chevy with a winch on the front bumper, side rails, and a hydraulic lift in the bed."

  "I see trucks like that in and out of here all the time.

  Do you have a name?"

  "Rudy" "That's it?"

  "That's it," Gabe said, handing Santistevan the composite drawing.

  "Does your father have an employee named Rudy?"

  "No/"Joaquin looked at the drawing and gave it back.

  "Maybe he does contract woodcutting for your father."

  "I handle that end of the business. Nobody who looks like that cuts wood for us."

  "What did you do with the license plate from the truck you left at your uncle's place?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "It was reported to be on a vehicle used in a crime."

  "Somebody needs glasses." Santistevan stood up.

  "We've got a wall of old license plates in the storage building. I added it to the collection. It's been there for months. Want to see it?"

  "I do," Gabe said, followingjoaquin out of the office.

  The license plate collection ran the length and width of two frame walls of a corner office. It included plates from the 1930s right up to the present, in chronological order.

  "It's right there," Santistevan said, pointing to his plate.

  "The tag doesn't even expire until August. What kind of crime are you investigating?"

  "Wood poaching. You wouldn't knowingly buy firewood that's been illegally harvested, would you?"

  "I can account for every cord in the yard, either by Forest Service permit or a contract with a private landowner."

  "Thanks for your time."

  Gabe left, parked down the road where he could see traffic leaving the wood lot and tried to figure out what in the hell was bothering him. It was something about the photograph of Santistevan's wife and her maiden name. Isaac Medina had said it was Debbie Espinoza.

  Shit, he knew the Espinoza family, he thought to himself.

  He pulled out the composite drawing and studied it.

  It was Debbie Espinoza's brother, Rudy.

  He called dispatch.

  "Go to Channel two," Gabe said.

  Channel 2 was the secure broadcast frequency not picked up by police scanners.

  "Ten-four," the dispatcher replied, switching over.

  "Run a check on Rudy Espinoza. Keep it local. I busted him about four years ago for driving under the influence."

  After a long wait, the dispatcher came back on the air.

  "He's done six months' probation for a second DWI since then, and he was booked and released for lack of evidence on a breaking-and-entering charge."

  "Where?"

  "San Geronimo, last summer."

  "When was the DWI bust?"

  "June of last year."

  "What was he driving?"

  "Hold on."

  Gabe could hear the dispatcher's keystrokes as she entered the search into the computer.

  "A nineteen-ninety-four Chevy three-quarter-ton pickup, blue in color.

  Tags are expired. Plate number Two-six-six CJR."

  "Got an address?"

  "Anytime you're ready."

  Gabe took down the information, signed off, and made contact with Duran, Houge, and Morfin on Channel 2 as he pulled onto the highway and started rolling toward the interstate.

  "I've got a possible suspect in the Boaz murder," he said as he hit the switch to the overhead lights and floored the unit.

  "Go," Duran said.

  "Rudy Espinoza. He matches the information supplied to us by Boaz's ex-girlfriend and son. So does his vehicle. I may have tipped my hand."

  "Is he running?" Houge asked.

  "Could be. Look for a dark blue Chevy three-quarter-ton with side rails, front-end winch, and hydraulic lift in the bed. Plate number Two-six-six CJR, tags expired."

  "Where?" Morfin asked.

  "Ojitos Prios. ID any other moving vehicle that looks suspicious."

  "Armed and dangerous?" Duran asked.

  "Roger that," Gabe said.

  "Run Code three, lights only, and stay on the air. Give me locations and ETAs."

  "I'm at Boaz's cabin," Morfin said.

  "Five minutes to Ojitos Prios."

  "Ten to fifteen minutes," Houge said.

  "I'm on the interstate proceeding south past the cutoff to Villanueva State Park."

  "I'll play catch up," Duran said.

  "I've got to get off this stinking mesa first."

  "I'm on Highway Eighty-four, five minutes from the Romeroville interstate ramp," Gabe said.

  "Give me sixty-second microphone checks-two clicks each."

  The dispatcher came on.

  "This channel is cleared of all other traffic. Additional units are responding; SP 218, SP 376, and SP 101."

  "SP 218 take state road 283."

  "Ten-four."

  "SP 376, ETA to Highway 84?"

  "Three minutes."

  "Patrol Eighty-four south of Buena Vista Lumber."

  "Ten-four."

  "SP 101."

  "Go," said Captain Garduno.

  "Are you assuming command?" Gabe asked.

  "I'm along for the ride. Sergeant."

  "ETA?" Gabe asked as he reached the overpass to the interstate.

  "I see you crossing the bridge now," Garduno said.

>   "One minute."

  "Ten-four. Join up."

  "Give me your fucking car keys," Rudy Espinoza said as he hung up the phone.

  "Use your own truck," Angle said.

  "I've got to go to town later."

  Rudy dumped the contents of Angle's purse on the kitchen counter, found the keys, and pulled all the cash out of her wallet.

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" Angie asked, grabbing for her purse.

  "Nothing," Rudy said as he pushed her away and walked into the bedroom.

  "If the cops come, you haven't seen me."

  "I don't know why I ever took you back," Angle yelled at him.

  "You're no fucking prize yourself," Rudy said, sticking the thirty-eight and a handful of folded bills in his jacket pocket.

  "I'll call you later."

  "Don't bother."

  He got in the Mustang, fired it up, and peeled out of the driveway.

  Angle stood on the front step giving him the finger as he swung onto the county road.

  If the cops were looking for him like Joaquin said, it was time to go south.

  Ben Morfin topped the hill into Ojitos Prios and saw a car throwing up a dust cloud on the county road at the far end of the valley.

  "Someone is coming your way. Sergeant," he said into the microphone.

  "I'm too far back to ID it, but he's moving fast."

  "Location?" Gabe snapped.

  "About a mile outside Ojitos Frios."

  "Shut down your Code Three and close up."

  "Ten-four."

  Gabe keyed his hand microphone again, slowed his unit, and killed the overhead lights.

  "SP 101."

  "I'm on your tail," Garduno said.

  "Block the road behind me."

  "Roger."

  "I'll join with SP 101," Houge said.

  "ETA five minutes."

  "Ten-four. All other units, stay on station," Gabe said.

  "Let's see what we've got."

  "We've got a tan Mustang," Ben Morfin said.

  "Can't read the plate. He's spewing up so much dust he can't see me.

  I've got him docked at seventy-five."

  "Lights and siren, Ben. See if he stomps it."

  "He just goosed it."

  "Pall back and give him some slack," Gabe said. He swung his vehicle into the center of the road where the shoulders fell off sharply, un racked the shotgun, and called dispatch.

  "Go ahead, SP 126."

  "SP 126 will be attempting a traffic stop of an unknown vehicle speeding on County Road A-twenty."

  "Traffic stop. CR A-twenty. Ten-four. Fourteen-twenty-three hours."