Death Song

Chapter Seven

Hoping to locate Brian Riley quickly, Clayton ran down the cell phone number Riley had given Randy Velarde three months earlier. But the account had lapsed and the address Riley had used when purchasing the phone was nonexistent.

After confirming that Riley had paid cash for the motorcycle, Clayton tried to nail down the source of the money Denise had allegedly given the boy. But Denise’s financial accounts showed nothing more than normal credits and debits from direct deposit of her paychecks and the checks she wrote every month for routine bills and credit card payments. There was no record of her borrowing money or purchasing money orders. Additionally, none of the banks in Albuquerque or Santa Fe showed any accounts opened by Brian Riley.

If Riley had lied about Denise being the source of his money, then where did the cash come from? According to the North Carolina police, it didn’t come from Riley’s mother or any of his high school friends, and a check of pawnshops in Albuquerque and Santa Fe and those in Riley’s hometown also drew a blank. Brian had never done business with any of them.

That meant the source of the cash Brian had flashed to his chum Velarde and used to buy the motorcycle might not have been legit. What illicit activity could have provided Riley’s sudden windfall? Drug dealing immediately came to mind, but winnings from area casinos on tribal land couldn’t be discounted. That theory fell flat after calls to the casinos revealed no payouts had been made to Riley.

Before leaving Santa Fe, Clayton tapped into all the usual resources for tracing runaways and people who’d gone missing. The postal service, public utilities, Internet providers, phone companies, and various municipal agencies he called had no record of providing services to Riley. A more thorough state and national criminal records check showed no arrests, wants, or warrants. Motor Vehicles reported Riley as the owner of a Harley motorcycle bought last summer in Santa Fe. But the current registration listed Brian’s address as Cañoncito, which was no help at all. Because Riley owned the Harley outright, there was no lien on the cycle and thus no lender who might know where he was living.

Clayton checked for traffic violations and found none. He put out a statewide APB on Riley and the Harley, with an advisory that the boy was a person of interest in the investigation of the murders of his father and stepmother. To give his bulletin greater emphasis, Clayton personally called law enforcement agencies in the greater Albuquerque area to give them a heads-up about the search for Riley. He asked each high-ranking officer he contacted to query all sworn personnel to see if anyone had any knowledge whatsoever about the boy.

Still hoping to find an address for Riley, Clayton contacted the company that insured the motorcycle, called cable and satellite companies that provided home television and broadband services, and made inquiries at the circulation desks of local newspapers. He struck out every time and was left thinking that Riley was probably staying under the radar by living with someone—possibly a girl named Stanley.

But why? Was it a deliberate attempt to avoid being found, or simply the footloose lifestyle of a kid out on his own for the very first time? If Riley hadn’t hooked up and moved in with Stanley or some other college girl, Clayton couldn’t discount the possibility that the boy was either homeless or floating from one crash pad to the next in the subculture of dropouts that every college and university attracted. But he wasn’t about to start querying the social service agencies and emergency shelters in Albuquerque that served the down-and-out until all other possibilities were exhausted.

He kept working the phone. Major credit card companies reported nothing useful. No area detention centers had a recent arrest of a Brian Riley that had yet to hit the system. No cell phone providers had signed up a Brian Riley for new service. None of the dozen public, private, and for-profit universities, colleges, and trade schools in Albuquerque showed a past or present enrollment for Brian Riley or a female student with the unusual given name of Stanley.

Playing a long shot, Clayton asked Detective Matt Chacon to see if he could find a young female named Stanley in any state public records database. Matt told Clayton he’d give it a try, but not to hold out too much hope.

On that upbeat note, Clayton drove to Albuquerque, rented a room at a budget motel just off Interstate 25 close to downtown, and ordered a meal at a nearby family-style franchise restaurant. It was one of those places that offered breakfast twenty-four hours a day and made up silly names for their specialty menu items.

Except for the short trip down from Santa Fe, it was the first time Clayton had been alone all day, and it gave him a chance to catch his breath, set aside thoughts of the investigation, and mull over last night’s conversation with Kerney.

He’d jumped at the opportunity to take the search for Brian Riley out of Ramona Pino’s hands as a way to avoid spending a second consecutive night as Kerney’s houseguest. It wasn’t that Clayton was uncomfortable with Kerney and his family, or that he’d decided not to return as their guest. On the contrary, he’d felt welcomed last night and was happy that he’d finally broken the ice with Kerney.

But his oblique, partial apology for being frequently impolite, often brusque, and habitually standoffish to a man who’d never been less than gracious and generous wasn’t good enough. He had to do a better job of explaining his past bad behavior, and he wanted to think about how to approach it before proceeding.

Clayton knew his shoddy behavior was a direct offshoot of a lifetime spent trying to deny his Anglo blood. Kerney had probably already sensed it, but it was Clayton’s responsibility to spell it out. How to do it without coming off as a complete pigheaded, prejudiced jerk was the question, and it was still bouncing around in his head unanswered when he looked up from his plate to see a long-haired, unshaven man dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and motorcycle boots approach his booth.

“Are you Sergeant Istee?” the man asked, flashing an APD shield.

“I am.”

“Santa Fe dispatch told me where to find you.” The officer sat across from Clayton. “Detective Lee Armijo, APD Narcotics.”

“I never would have guessed it,” Clayton said with a smile, shaking Armijo’s hand.

“I haven’t seen the kid you’re looking for,” Armijo said, “but I sure have seen his Harley.”

“Where?”

“First time, up by the university. We got a tip about a drug dealer who was selling product to college students out of a house near the campus. We ran surveillance on him for two nights, sent in an undercover officer posing as a student to make a buy, and as soon as it went down we busted the dealer and shut him down.”

“That’s solid police work,” Clayton said, “but how does it help me find Brian Riley?”

Armijo reached into a jacket pocket. “We photographed and identified everyone who went into the place during our surveillance. Ran license plate checks also.”

He handed Clayton a high-quality black-and-white photograph of a slender woman throwing her leg over the seat of a motorcycle. “That’s the bike plate on your ABP,” Armijo added.

Clayton nodded in agreement. The motorcycle make and model squared with the one Riley had bought in Santa Fe, and the clearly readable license plate matched the MVD registration records. The woman in the photograph had her face turned away from the camera.

“Please tell me this is a photo of a young woman named Stanley something,” he said.

Armijo laughed. “You ain’t heard the half of it. Her full legal name is Minerva Stanley Robocker. Quite the moniker, isn’t it? She’s a server at a downtown bar that’s popular with the college and young professional crowd. Age twenty-two, single, college dropout originally from a small farming town in Iowa. She’s been here about two and a half years. Has a clean sheet. No wants and warrants. No outstanding traffic citations. According to the dealer we busted, Minerva, aka Stanley, bought small amounts of pot from him on a regular basis, probably for her own use. But just to be sure she wasn’t reselling it to her customers at the nightclub, we kept a close watch on her for a while. As far as we could tell, Minerva is just one of the many young adults in our fair city who enjoy getting high on illegal substances during their free time.”

“Is Brian Riley staying with her?” Clayton asked.

Armijo shook his head. “Negative. Like I said, I’ve only seen his motorcycle, never him. In fact, Minerva seems to have taken full possession of the bike. It’s always parked at her place and she switches back and forth between driving her car or riding the Harley. I’m figuring Riley either sold it to her and she hasn’t reregistered it yet, he’s out of town and left it with her for safekeeping, or something else is going on that is yet to be determined.”

“That about covers all the bases,” Clayton said with a smile. “What else can you tell me about her?”

“She’s never been married, and lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment. When Stanley, as she likes to be called, isn’t serving drinks, she’s either sleeping, shopping, running errands, or clubbing with friends at some of the popular watering holes. Except for smoking pot, she’s not engaged in any other illegal activity we know about. But when it comes to men, Minerva isn’t a prude, that’s for sure. A couple of guys spent the night at her apartment during the short time we kept an eye on her. Of course, we can only assume what may have occurred.”

“Of course. Do you still have her under surveillance?”

Armijo shook his head. “Not even. Minerva Stanley Robocker is your typical recreational user. She isn’t going to lead us to any of the major traffickers along the I-25 drug pipeline.”

“Do you mind if I question her about Riley?” Clayton asked.

“Be my guest, although I’d like to tag along.”

Clayton motioned to the waitress to bring the check. “I’d appreciate the company.”

“Good deal,” Armijo said. “Now tell me why Riley’s a person of interest in these homicides. Do you really think there’s a chance he killed his father and stepmother?”

Clayton took the check from the waitress and handed her a twenty. When she walked away to make change, he said, “It’s impossible to say one way or the other.”

“Did he have motive, opportunity, and means?” Armijo asked.

Clayton put a healthy tip on the table. “Now you’re asking me those tough legal questions that never have any easy answers.”

Armijo chuckled and stood. “You don’t have squat on this kid, do you?” he said as the waitress brought Clayton his change.

“That’s exactly right.” Clayton pocketed several bills and left the rest. “Which is why he’s only a person of interest for now. Where will we find Minerva Stanley Robocker tonight?”

“Serving liquid refreshments to the sports crowd in the nightclub lounge while they watch college ESPN basketball on the fifty-inch high-definition, wall-mounted plasma television.”

“Sounds like loads of fun,” Clayton said. “Lead on.”

“You can leave your unit at the motel,” Armijo said, “and I’ll drive you there.”

Clayton quickly accepted Armijo’s offer. He still wasn’t feeling all that comfortable about driving Tim Riley’s S.O. unit. The vehicle was one of the last things Riley had touched before his murder, and the thought that he might still be hanging around continued to creep Clayton out.

The downtown nightclub on Central Avenue was buzzing with a mixture of hip grad students from the university, young, single professionals, and affluent thirty-something couples. The décor was industrial chic, with exposed heating and air-conditioning ductwork suspended from the ceiling, high-tech halogen lights on long, flexible metallic elbows, steel girders painted a rust red, polished aluminum wall panels, and large mirrors strategically mounted to give patrons a view of themselves as they mingled and flirted. In the lounge area, two wide-screen wall-mounted high-definition televisions on opposite walls had attracted a noisy crowd of customers watching a basketball game. Three very attractive female servers dressed in tailored black slacks and tight-fitting scoop-neck tops dipped, scooted, and swerved their way around the patrons, delivering drinks and bar food.

Armijo pointed out Minerva Stanley Robocker, who was by far the best-looking server of the trio. She had curly blond hair, a slender body, and high cheekbones above full, rosy lips. “You’ll want to talk to her outside,” Armijo said. “I’ll bring her to you.”

Clayton nodded and watched Armijo intercept Robocker as she stepped to the bar to unload empty glasses and place a fresh drink order. She looked unhappy when Armijo flashed his shield, and then balked and shook her head when he pointed toward the exit. Armijo put his shield away, said something, and pointed at Clayton.

Robocker cast a frosty look in Clayton’s direction, put her tray on the bar, said something to the bartender, and walked with Armijo toward the exit. Clayton caught up with them at the door. Outside, with Armijo behind the wheel of his unmarked police car, Clayton joined Robocker in the backseat.

“This could get me fired,” Robocker said before Clayton uttered a word.

“Relax,” Armijo said as he cranked the engine, turned on the car heater, and switched on the dome light. “I’ll square it with your boss.”

“You’d better,” Minerva Stanley Robocker replied as she stared at Clayton. “So what kind of cop are you? Navajo Tribal Police? Isleta Pueblo? Something like that?”

“Why don’t you let me ask the questions?” Clayton countered.

“You look like one of the Indian policemen in the television movies that have been made from those Tony Hillerman novels set on the Navajo Rez. I saw a rerun of one on public TV recently.”

“My name is Sergeant Istee, Ms. Robocker. I’m with the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office and we’re investigating the murders of Brian Riley’s father and stepmother. Since you’ve been riding his Harley lately, we thought you might know where he is.”

Stanley put her hand to her throat. “His father and stepmother have been murdered?”

“Yes. We need to find Brian and tell him what’s happened.”

“He’s probably in North Carolina. He went back there to visit some friends.”

“When was that?” Clayton asked.

“Four weeks ago,” Stanley replied. “Maybe a little longer.”

“Have you heard from him since he left?”

Stanley shook her head. “No.”

“Have any of your friends?”

Her gaze shifted away from Clayton’s face. “No.”

“Okay,” he said, reading the lie. “Sometime last year you went up to Santa Fe with him. Tell me about that.”

Stanley shrugged a shoulder. “It was just a day trip. We rode up on his Harley. I’d only been to Santa Fe once or twice before, and he offered to show me around.”

“I was told he introduced you as his girlfriend.”

Stanley laughed. “That was a little fib on his part. I let him get away with it to impress a friend of his. Brian’s way too young for me. He’s like a kid brother, nothing more.”

“There’s no romantic involvement between the two of you?” Clayton queried.

Stanley waved her hand to dismiss the ludicrous notion. “No way.”

“Didn’t you tell Brian’s Santa Fe friends that you were a college student?” he asked.

“I don’t know where they got that impression. I may have said something about going back to school someday. What does any of this have to do with finding Brian?”

Clayton smiled. Stanley’s obvious irritation made him believe she was hiding something. He decided to see if he could annoy her some more. “I’m simply trying to get everything clear in my mind. How did Brian support himself?”

Stanley shook her head. “I don’t know. He didn’t talk about working or having a job, but he had money. Not a lot, but some.”

“Did he tell you where his money came from?”

“No. Listen, it wasn’t like I spent oodles of time with him, you know? Sometimes we would hang out together. I liked him because he wasn’t always coming on to me. We could just chill.”

Clayton couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard anyone use the word oodles. “How did you meet him?”

“At a party up by the university.”

“Who threw it?” Clayton asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where was it held?”

“I don’t remember,” Stanley replied, sounding testy. “I just heard there was this party and I crashed it.”

“You crashed it alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

“How did you come to have possession of his Harley?”

“He left it with me while he’s gone. Is there some kind of law against that?” she snapped. Clayton smiled again. Her strong reaction convinced him that she wasn’t being completely truthful. He reached across her and opened the car door. “You can go back to work,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”

“That’s it?” Stanley asked.

“For now.” Clayton gave her his business card. “I may need to talk to you again, but in the meantime call me if you see Brian or if he gets in touch with you or any of your friends.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stanley replied.

Armijo gave Clayton a quizzical look as the young woman hurried toward the club entrance. “You know she’s lying,” he said when Clayton joined him in the front seat.

“Yeah. Do you want to stick around and see what she does next?”

Armijo nodded and killed the dome light. “It’s going to be a while before she gets off work.”

“I’ve got nothing better to do, have you?” Clayton asked.

“Not since my wife left me for the assistant manager at our local supermarket. And I thought she was just forgetful when it came to getting stuff we needed at the grocery store. Boy, was I stupid.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Clayton said.

Armijo put the car in gear. “Let’s find a place were we can stake out the front entrance without being spotted, and get some people over here to cover her car and the staff entrance.”

“Can you free someone up to keep an eye on her inside the club?” Clayton asked.

“Good idea.” Armijo reached for the radio microphone.

While Armijo was calling for assistance, Clayton looked up and down the street. There were no crowds standing outside the nightspots waiting to get in; foot traffic was almost nonexistent along the avenue, and only a few cars were stopped at the intersection waiting for a light to change. Except for the smattering of bars and clubs on both sides of the street, most of the businesses were closed and dark.

“So where’s the big-city nightlife?” he asked.

“Except for the weekends, you’re looking at it,” Armijo replied with a chuckle as he pulled away from the curb. “It really gets your party juices flowing, doesn’t it?”

“Big-time,” Clayton said.

Armijo found a spot behind a parked pickup truck that gave them good concealment, and after the officers called to assist were in place, the two men passed the time in bursts of silence and conversation.

Two hours into the stakeout, the detective inside the nightclub called Armijo and told him a customer had just walked in, slipped a small envelope to Stanley, and was on his way out the front door.

“He’s six-one, about one-eighty, mid-thirties, clean-shaven, brown and brown, wearing a suede leather jacket and blue jeans,” the detective said.

“I see him,” Armijo said as he cranked over the engine. “You couldn’t make him?”

“Negative,” the detective replied. “He’s not one of the usual suspects.”

“Stay on Stanley,” Armijo said. “We’ll cover the customer.”

The man outside the nightclub walked quickly to a new silver Ford Mustang and got behind the wheel.

“Are you going to stop and question?” Clayton asked as Armijo eased into traffic one car behind the Mustang, heading east on Central Avenue.

“Is that want you want to do?”

Clayton shook his head. “Let’s see where he takes us.”

“I like your style, Sergeant.” Armijo nodded at the laptop computer that was attached by a mechanical arm to the dashboard. “Do you know how to use that thing?” he asked.

Clayton nodded. The laptop was tied into motor vehicle records and federal and state crime information systems. He had a desktop computer at work with the same capacity, but the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office had no money to put laptops in its vehicles, which put the department further behind the pack when it came to state-of-the-art technology and equipment.

Armijo swung the laptop so that Clayton could easily reach the keyboard. “Have at it,” he said

By the time they had passed under the railroad tracks on Central Avenue and were climbing the hill toward the university, Clayton had the name of the registered owner and his DMV driver’s license photo on the laptop screen. They were following Morton E. Birch, age thirty-two, with a home address that Armijo said was in the opposite direction.

As they passed by the university, where all the streets were named for elite private eastern colleges, Clayton accessed NCIC and state crime data banks for wants and warrants on Birch. He got no hits.

“Apparently, Mort is clean,” Clayton said, glancing at the street signs, which now carried the names of dead presidents. “At least, so far.”

“That only makes me believe that he’s guilty of something,” Armijo said as he glanced at the dashboard clock. “Our friend Minerva clocks out of work in an hour. What would you like to do about her?”

“Let’s have her picked up and held for questioning. I want to know what’s in that envelope.”

Armijo nodded in agreement. “No problem. If she balks, we’ll arrest her on the old pot charge and hold her incommunicado until we get tonight’s excitement sorted out.”

“You’re having that much fun, are you?” Clayton asked, tongue in cheek.

“You’re a bright spot in my otherwise dull, mundane existence, Sergeant,” Armijo replied.

The traffic had thinned on Central Avenue, and Armijo stayed two cars behind the Mustang to avoid detection. “Looks like Birch is heading toward the Four Hills neighborhood,” he said as they approached the foothills. “Wasn’t there a John Birch Society that was active forty or fifty years ago? If I remember correctly from a political science class I took in college, it was an ultraconservative organization of hawks who hated communism, wanted to dismantle the United Nations, and hoped to spread capitalism and democracy throughout the world. Whatever happened to it?”

“The society members and their clones are now running the country,” Clayton replied.

“Don’t you want an America that’s strong, safe, and secure?” Armijo asked with passionate conviction.

Clayton decided to avoid a political debate on the off chance he had misread the sarcasm in Armijo’s voice. “Absolutely,” he said with equal sincerity.

Armijo gave him a quizzical look and said nothing more. The Mustang turned onto Four Hills Road, and they entered a subdivision that had all the trappings of an established high-end neighborhood, with big houses on large lots, quiet streets with mature trees, and expansive front lawns.

Armijo explained that Four Hills had been the first foothills subdivision built in the city, back in the 1960s, and that it came complete with its own country club and golf course. On the empty residential streets, he killed the headlights and slowed, but kept the Mustang’s taillights in view. Up ahead the car turned into a driveway. Armijo pulled to the curb and turned off the engine.

The houses on either side of the street were almost entirely obscured by evergreen trees and shrubs. Most of the houses were dark, with only a few showing some interior lights veiled behind drawn curtains and barely discernible through the branches of the trees.

“What now?” Armijo asked.

Clayton opened the passenger door. “Let me do a little sleuthing.”

“Does that mean you’re going to trespass on private property without reasonable suspicion or probable cause?” Armijo asked.

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

“I’m liking your style more all the time, Sergeant Istee,” Armijo said with a laugh. “And if Birch leaves while you’re out sleuthing?”

“Follow him,” Clayton said, “and give me a call.” He rattled off his cell phone number.

Armijo popped open the glove box and gave Clayton a night vision scope. “Here. You’ll need it.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t get caught sleuthing.”

Clayton stepped out of the vehicle. “Not a chance, Detective.”

Canyon winds coursing down from the mountains had dropped the temperature considerably. Clayton quietly closed the car door, zipped up his jacket, and turned up the collar, then scooted between two houses and paused behind a tree to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. From some distance away a dog barked lethargically, paused, barked again, and fell quiet.

The houses on either side of Clayton showed no sign of life. Moving low and slow anyway to avoid rousing any light sleepers, he passed into a backyard, staying as far away from the houses as possible. Hunched over, he took careful steps to the back end of the lot, where he found concealment behind a stand of trees that graced an empty stone pond.

Clayton froze at the close yelp of a coyote. Lackluster barks from the dog resumed. In the dim moonlight he saw the coyote quickly lope across the lawn in the direction of the barking dog. The coyote vanished, and Clayton moved on to the house where Birch had parked the Mustang. From a safe distance he made a full three-sixty reconnaissance. The house, on a double lot of at least half an acre, sat at the edge of a hill that dropped off steeply. There were no houses behind it, and thick stands of trees on either side blocked views from the adjacent houses. A high privacy wall ran from the driveway of the attached garage across the front of the house and severely restricted Clayton’s view. No lights showed at any of the windows.

Along with the Mustang, two other cars were parked in the driveway. From across the street, concealed behind some shrubbery, Clayton used the night scope to read the license plates. A late-model Audi coupe carried Canadian plates from British Columbia, and a domestic minivan had California tags. He called the information in to Armijo, switched his cell phone ringer off, and considered what he’d seen.

The house was a mid-sixties modern, with a vaulted roof, an expanse of glass windows that overlooked the backyard, and a soaring stone fireplace that rose above an elevated deck positioned to take in the city views below. There were no lights burning inside and no sign of activity.

He decided to take another tour of the property and crept through the trees on the north side of the house to the backyard. A closer look at the rear wall of glass through the scope revealed that some kind of material had been used to cover all the windows as well as the glass doors that opened onto the raised deck and the backyard patio. He checked all the windows on both sides of the house and found the same thing. It was impossible to see inside the house.

From the back of the lot Clayton mulled over the implications. Even though the house was almost completely secluded from prying eyes, every window had been blacked out. That meant the occupants were very serious about not wanting people to know what was going on inside. Also, the grounds at the back of the house were badly neglected, which didn’t fit with the character of the neat and tidy upscale neighborhood. But at the front of the house the grounds were well cared for, which meant that the occupants were hiding whatever they were doing in plain sight.

Clayton was pondering the possibilities when a car engine kicked over. He stayed put until the sound of the departing vehicle faded in the distance and then made his way to the street, staying in the shadows of a big tree. The Mustang was gone, which meant that Armijo should be tailing Birch. A text message on his cell phone told him that was exactly what Armijo was doing.

He decided to stake out the front of the house to see what happened next, and hunkered down under some low branches with his back against the trunk. All stayed quiet until the sound of a squealing, frightened dog pierced the silence and abruptly stopped. Within minutes Clayton saw the coyote come into view as it padded down the middle of the street carrying the limp body of a small dog in its tightly clamped mouth. A negligent owner had provided the coyote with a tasty meal.

Coyote, according to the Mescalero creation story, was a jokester put on the earth to remind human beings of their weaknesses and foolish ways. Almost without thinking, Clayton silently raised his chin to acknowledge the animal. The coyote glanced in his direction and passed by without pause, trotting toward the mountains that loomed above the Four Hills neighborhood and the city below.

Among the Mescalero, if you carried out a devious trick, such as trespassing on private property without cause, which was what Clayton was doing, or if you accomplished a stellar prank, it was called “pulling a little coyote.” The fact that the jokester had caught him red-handed almost made Clayton chuckle out loud.

The sound of an approaching car drew his attention back to the street. Headlights came into view and a vehicle passed by, continued up the road, and disappeared around a bend. Except for the canyon winds whistling through the trees and occasional traffic sounds that drifted over from Interstate 40, all was quiet for the next half hour. In spite of the growing cold and the deepening of the darkness, Clayton remained motionless, watching the darkened house for any sign of life, wondering what was inside.

Was it a safe house for illegal immigrants smuggled across the Mexican border? Was it a drug house run by a trafficker? Or a warehouse to store product for distribution along the infamous I-25 drug corridor? Maybe Birch and his buddies were operating a meth lab inside. Or a prostitution ring could be using it as a bordello, or to house sex slaves brought in illegally from one of the Eastern European countries. And what was with the Canadian and California license plates?

The sound of an automatic garage door opener drew Clayton’s attention back to the house. No lights went on as the door rose on its tracks, but a figure emerged from the darkness, got into the minivan, drove it into the garage, and immediately closed the door.

His curiosity aroused, Clayton decided to get closer to see if he could learn more. He crossed the street, approached the garage at an angle, and pressed his ear against the door. He could hear some movement—maybe boxes being lifted—and muffled voices, but couldn’t make out what was being said.

The sound of the van doors being slammed shut caused Clayton to back off quickly into the deep shadows at the side of the house and call Detective Armijo.

“Where are you?” he asked when Armijo answered.

“Still following Birch,” Armijo answered. “He’s made three quick stops since he left Four Hills. One at a house near the university, and two at Northeast Heights apartment complexes that cater to young singles. I’ve got addresses but no names yet. Right now I’m following him across the Rio Grande heading in the possible direction of Paradise Hills or Rio Rancho.”

“Has our gal Minerva Stanley Robocker been questioned?” Clayton asked.

“She’s being interrogated right now. The envelope Birch gave her contained an ounce of grass. She swears he’s just a good friend who gave her some of his stash to tide her over until she could score. She also believes in the tooth fairy, as do I.”

“Has she said anything that’s useful?” Clayton asked.

“That I don’t know. But she’s not going anywhere until we see what shakes out with Mort Birch tonight. You’ll get another crack at her if you need it.”

“What about the DMV checks on the two vehicles?” Clayton asked.

“Neither vehicle has been reported stolen,” Armijo replied. “Registrations show the owners, both male, to be of Vietnamese extraction. One is an immigrant to Canada with permanent resident papers, the other is a native-born U.S. citizen originally from Los Angeles now living in San Francisco. No rap sheets, wants, or warrants on either man. I’ve asked federal and Canadian cop shops for any intel they might have on the two subjects, but I don’t expect to hear back soon. What has all your sleuthing uncovered?”

The garage door opened to the squeaky sound of metal wheels on the steel track. “Hold on,” Clayton replied. “How fast can you get a unit to the Four Hills Road?”

“A couple of minutes. What’s up?”

Through the scope Clayton watched the minivan back out of the garage and drive away. “The minivan with California tags just left the house headed east with two occupants, both male.”

“Perhaps our Vietnamese friends,” Armijo said. “I’ll put a tail on them.”

“Be advised they loaded something in the vehicle before leaving.”

“Like what?”

“Unknown,” Clayton replied. “They moved the minivan into the garage and closed the door before loading it, so I was unable to see.”

“How devious,” Armijo said. “What else can you tell me?”

“All the windows have been covered over, so whatever is going on inside the house the occupants don’t want anyone to know about. There’s more evidence to suggest that something isn’t kosher, but I won’t go into it right now.”

“I sense cunning criminal minds at work here,” Armijo said. “I’m sending detectives and my lieutenant to your location. ETA ten minutes or less.”

“Roger that. No lights, no sirens, and tell them to park away from the house and come in on foot. I’ll meet them at the bottom of the street.”

“Affirmative. You do good sleuthing, Sergeant Istee.”

The first to arrive at Clayton’s location was Lee Armijo’s lieutenant, Doug Bromilow, a tall man with a narrow face and a protruding lower lip that gave him a perpetually disgruntled look. Clayton filled Bromilow in on what he’d observed, walked him up the quiet street to take a look at the front of the house, and suggested where to deploy the officers for the stakeout. After everyone was in place, Clayton and Bromilow stationed themselves across from the house under the tree. An hour later Detective Armijo joined the party.

“Under watchful eyes, Mort Birch has tucked himself in for the night at his North Valley condo,” he said, “and the two gentlemen in the minivan are indeed our Vietnamese friends from British Columbia and California. Apparently, they were unloading—not loading—items from the minivan in the garage. I know this to be so because while the gentlemen where having a leisurely late night meal at a restaurant, I took a peek inside the van. It was empty. Right now our suspects are at an all-night supermarket stocking up on groceries and household products. I expect they’ll be arriving here in the next ten minutes or less.”

Bromilow snorted. “You’d better have more to tell us than that.”

“I do, LT,” Armijo replied. “Facing jail time, Minerva decided to tell the truth. Mort is her new dealer. For the past month, he’s been selling high-quality grass to her and her party animal friends. According to the county clerk’s computer records, Mort owns this house. He inherited it by way of a special warranty deed from a bachelor uncle who died in a nursing home last year.”

“Is there any connection between Riley and Birch?” Clayton asked.

Armijo nodded. “You bet there is. When his money ran out, Riley went to work for Mort, making drug deliveries on his Harley. According to Minerva, Mort advanced Riley the cash for his trip back to North Carolina, and he’s way overdue returning to Albuquerque. She said Mort told her Riley had called him and said he wasn’t coming back to Albuquerque until summer, and that she should just keep using the Harley until she heard from him directly.”

Armijo stopped talking as the minivan approached and turned into the driveway. Two men got out and hurried inside the house carrying a number of plastic grocery bags.

“Now that the pantry is stocked, do we go in without a warrant, LT?” Armijo asked. “Or do we wake up the DA and a judge and wait for the wheels of justice to grind on ever so slowly?”

Bromilow stomped his feet against the cold that had settled into his bones. “Why don’t we ask Mr. Birch nicely if we can search his house?” Without waiting for a response, he flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “Arrest Morton Birch and bring him to my twenty, pronto. Lights and sirens if you please.”

He disconnected and smiled at Armijo. “I want the people Birch visited while you had him under surveillance picked up and questioned right now. Send two detectives to each address.”

“And if they won’t let us in?”

“Arrest them.”

“On what charges?”

Bromilow looked thoughtful. “Make something up.”

Armijo smiled. “I’ve always admired your ability to see the bigger picture, LT.”

Bromilow grunted. “Don’t try to be a kiss-ass, Armijo. It doesn’t suit you. Just go get it done.”

As Armijo hiked down the street toward his unit, Bromilow went into action, and it was soon clear to Clayton that the lieutenant had a flair for the dramatic. First, he ordered uniformed officers who were standing by to position their units in front of the house with headlights and spotlights trained on the building and emergency lights flashing. Then, using a bullhorn, he asked the occupants inside the house to join him on the street. Other than attracting a growing number of neighborhood residents, the invitation got no response.

When Mort Birch arrived on the scene accompanied by two arresting officers, Bromilow met him in the middle of the street directly in front of the house. The flashing emergency lights were almost blinding, the house was bathed in the glare of spotlights, and the uniforms were in cover positions behind their marked police units. It was pure theater.

Bromilow gave Birch a friendly smile. “I’m Lieutenant Bromilow.” He pointed at Clayton, who stood at his side. “This is Sergeant Istee. Thanks for coming.”

Hands cuffed behind his back, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a lightweight shirt, Birch shivered in the cold night air. “What are you doing here at my house?” he asked.

Bromilow nodded his head at the house. “Waiting for you. This is your place and so I need your permission to enter and search it. The people inside won’t even come to the door. I can only assume that they’re either very reclusive or extremely rude.”

“If my renters won’t let you in, that’s no skin off my back,” Birch said.

“Legally, as the owner of the premises, you can let me inside, and that would be a huge favor to me, Mort. In fact, if you give me your permission, I promise to do everything in my power to convince the district attorney to plea-bargain your case.”

“What case?” Birch snapped.

“Surely the officers told you the charges,” Bromilow replied.

Birch laughed. “Yeah, a trumped-up drug bust because I stopped off at a nightclub and gave a friend of mine some grass.”

“It’s so much worse than that,” Bromilow said gravely.

“How so?” Birch demanded.

“You’re facing a major drug trafficking fall, Mort.”

As far as Clayton knew, Bromilow’s ploy was total poppycock. The lieutenant had sent Detective Armijo off with a half-dozen narco cops to illegally arrest citizens in the dead of night without probable cause. Narcotic cops had a reputation for playing fast and loose and covering up their maneuvers that violated the rule of law. What Bromilow had done tonight could easily be challenged in court if word of it ever got out. Clayton wondered what he’d do if he was subpoenaed to testify on Mort Birch’s behalf.

“That’s nonsense,” Birch said.

“Try to show a more cooperative attitude,” Bromilow replied in a chiding tone.

Birch replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Like I told these officers who brought me here, I rent this place out. Whatever is going on inside, I know nothing about it.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind us taking a look.”

Birch hesitated and shook his head. “Get a search warrant. I want a lawyer.”

Bromilow sighed and shook his head sadly. “Of course, but not just yet. You’ll be allowed to call a lawyer after you’ve been booked into jail.”

Birch nodded. “Then take me to jail. I’m freezing out here.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Bromilow said.

“Get what?” Birch answered.

“We’ve had a tail on you all night,” Bromilow said. “All those people you visited after you left here. Well, they’re talking.”

Birch gulped hard.

“So you and I are going to stay right here until I hear what they told my people.” Bromilow pointed in Clayton’s direction. “By the way, where can we find Brian Riley? Sergeant Istee would like to know.”

Birch glanced at Clayton. “Who?”

“Brian Riley,” Clayton said. “Minerva Stanley Robocker’s friend.”

“The teenage kid she hung out with?”

“That’s him,” Clayton said.

Birch shook his head vigorously. “How the hell should I know where he is? I met him maybe twice.”

Bromilow’s cell phone rang. He answered quickly, listened intently, thanked the caller, and disconnected. “Okay, Mort,” he said. “This is the way it’s gonna go down. I’ve got five people in custody who say you’ve been dealing drugs to them. That’s a major trafficking beef. Now, I’ve been in this cop business for a long time, so I know you’re a new player in town and maybe not totally clued into what happens when you get busted, convicted, and sent to the slam. But the bottom line is, you’re going to lose everything, Mort: your freedom, your Mustang, your condo, this house. Think about that, and think about what you can do to make your immediate future a little less bleak.”

Mort Birch’s bravado began to waver.

“I know you’re probably thinking you can make bail,” Bromilow continued, “and keep your freedom while the lawyers try to work some magic on your behalf. But I’m not going to let that happen, Mort. My people are going to work overtime from the moment you’re booked to find, tie up, and seize every asset you have, so that no bondsman will want to take a chance on you. And believe me, I’ll make sure the DA asks the judge at your preliminary hearing to set a hefty six-figure cash bond. Have you got half a million, six hundred thousand lying around?”

Mort shook his head.

“As a first-time offender who cooperated with the police, you might get a lighter sentence at a minimum security prison. Let’s say five years, but out in two and a half with good behavior. Plus guys don’t get raped that much in the minimum lockups.”

Bromilow paused to let his words sink in. “What’s going on inside the house, Mort?”

“It’s a marijuana factory,” Birch replied. “A pot hothouse.”

“How many people are inside?”

“Two.”

“Two Vietnamese men?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they armed?”

“Probably.”

“How do they figure in this?”

“They’re part of a West Coast gang that was buying me out. A week from now they would have been back on the West Coast with the grass from this harvest and the title to the house, and I would have been completely out of the business.”

Bromilow nodded sympathetically. “Sometimes it’s a damn shame the way things turn out. Do I have your permission to enter the premises?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Mort.”

Bromilow passed the word about the possibility of armed suspects to the officers and detectives on scene before hitting a button on his cell phone and requesting a SWAT team at his location pronto. He turned Birch over to a nearby officer and gave Clayton a concerned look as they walked out of the street and climbed into Bromilow’s toasty-warm unmarked vehicle.

“It doesn’t appear that we’re going to find who you came for, Sergeant Istee.” Bromilow blew into his cupped hands to warm them. “But thanks to you, we can score one for the good guys tonight.”

“Let’s see how it plays out,” Clayton replied, thinking it had been a night filled with all kinds of jokesters and tricksters and it wasn’t over yet.