The big gamble

Chapter 7

The regional airport sat on a mesa outside of Ruidoso a few miles northeast of Fort Stanton, an old army fort. As a child, Clayton had toured the fort with his uncles, to see the place the white eyes had built to wage war against the Mescaleros and confine them to the reservation.

Opened in the 1850s and decommissioned as a military installation just before the turn of the twentieth century, the fort had subsequently become a hospital for the treatment of tuberculosis, an internment facility for German prisoners during World War II, and a rehabilitation center for the developmentally disabled.

Situated near a river lined by ancient oak trees, the main fort consisted of beautiful old military buildings around a grassy quadrangle. Currently it served as a minimum security prison for women, and was probably one of the prettiest lockups in the entire country.

In an unusual way the fort had reverted to its original purpose, with one notable variation: women-not Apaches-were now imprisoned on the grounds. Clayton wondered if only the Mescaleros appreciated that irony.

At the airport, a facility that served mostly private planes, Clayton quickly made the rounds of everybody on-site, flashing Johnny Jackson's likeness and the grainy photographs of the blonde, and asking questions. He got a possible make on the blonde from an airplane mechanic.

"Maybe it's her," the man said, "but I can't say for certain. I only got a sideways look at her from a distance."

"Tell me about it," Clayton said.

The mechanic shifted his chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other. "The pilot wanted me to check the idle on his starboard engine. Said it sounded a little rough. The blonde-if that was her-stayed outside the maintenance hangar."

"Did the blonde arrive with the pilot?"

"I'm pretty sure she did. He landed, taxied right up to the front of the hangar, and came in to talk to me. Wasn't a minute or two before I saw her standing outside next to the plane. Nobody can get here walking from the terminal that fast."

"Who was the pilot?"

"Luis Rojas. He was right about the engine: it needed adjustment."

"From El Paso?"

The mechanic spit out some tobacco juice into a handkerchief. "Yeah, he flies in here pretty regular. Keeps a car in the parking lot."

"When did Rojas arrive?"

The mechanic rubbed his nose. "A few days ago. Let me pull the invoice."

He leafed through a folder smudged with greasy fingerprints and read off the date. "He rolled in here at about sixteen hundred hours."

If the blonde was the right one, it all jibed. She had been caught on videotape at the casino that very same night.

"Did the woman go with him when he left for El Paso?" Clayton asked.

"Nope, he flew out alone."

"You're sure of that?"

"Absolutely. After he paid, I walked him to his plane and showed him what I'd done. I watched him taxi and take off."

Before leaving the airport grounds, Clayton checked the thirty or so cars in the parking lot for a late-model Lincoln, found two, and ran the plates. Both were registered to prominent, well-known Ruidoso businessmen, neither of whom matched Staggs's description of Johnny Jackson. Jackson and his car were looking more and more like figments of Harry Staggs's imagination.

But the blonde and Luis Rojas were very real. It was time to find Staggs and lean on him harder.

Ramona Pino sat at the small conference table that butted up against Chief Kerney's desk and made her report. She finished to smiles and nods from Kerney and Lieutenant Molina.

"Good job," Sal Molina said.

"Interesting," Kerney said, sliding his chair back from the conference table so he could cross his legs. He dangled a foot over his knee and rubbed his leg to relieve the pain.

He'd changed out of his uniform during the day and now wore jeans, boots, and a blue shirt that matched the color of his eyes.

Pino found him rather good-looking for an older man. "Should I go back to meet with Cassie Bedlow?" she asked.

"First let's hear what Lieutenant Molina has learned," Kerney replied.

Sal consulted his notes. "The background checks on the people Osterman contacted after he returned to New Mexico weren't helpful, Chief. Of course, we haven't had a chance to dig very deep yet, but I don't see a killer lurking in their midst."

"What about Montoya's college roommates?" Kerney asked.

"She had four. We talked to three of them." Molina listed the women by name. "One lived with her for two years in a dorm until she moved off campus. During her junior and senior years, Montoya shared an apartment with two other students. None reported any love interest on Montoya's part involving a rich kid from Albuquerque."

"Who are we missing?" Kerney asked.

"Belinda Louise Nieto. She roomed with Anna Marie during a summer session."

"When was that?" Kerney asked.

"After Montoya's junior year," Molina replied.

"What do we know about her?"

"Now it gets interesting, Chief. Nieto was Anna Marie's cousin. She attended junior college in California for a year and then transferred to the university in Albuquerque. She was supposed to continue living with Montoya, but she never enrolled in the fall semester. When Montoya's old roommates returned, Nieto had already split."

"Where to?"

"Denver, supposedly, but nobody knows for sure."

"There's been no contact between Nieto and her family for over twenty years?" Kerney asked.

"There really isn't any immediate family left," Molina said. "Nieto was born and raised in California. Her father was the younger brother of Montoya's mother. He enlisted in the navy, pulled a tour in San Diego, and stayed there after his discharge. He married an Anglo girl and got a civilian job as a cargo specialist on the base. The marriage broke up when he caught the wife sleeping with a sailor. Guess she couldn't resist a man in uniform. The father got custody and the mother dropped out of sight."

Molina flipped a page. "Allegedly, Nieto had a wild streak, so she was sent to New Mexico by her father in an attempt to settle her down. Everybody thought Anna Marie would be a good influence on her. Three months after Nieto split, her father was killed on the docks while loading supplies on an aircraft carrier. The last time anyone saw her was at her father's funeral in San Diego. Anna Marie's mother said she showed up looking like a floozy."

"Mrs. Montoya is your informant?" Kerney asked.

Molina nodded.

"Tell me what she knew about the girl's wild streak."

"The usual stuff: boys, parties, drinking, staying out late, being rebellious," Molina said, passing Kerney a photograph. "She was quite a looker. That snapshot was taken right after she came to New Mexico. She was nineteen years old."

Kerney agreed with Molina's assessment. The photo showed a slender, very attractive young woman with high cheekbones, long curly dark hair and a well-proportioned figure. He passed it on to Detective Pino.

Pino rolled her eyes. "Five eight at least. God, I hate tall women."

"Why's that?" Molina asked.

"Because I'm not one of them," Pino said, dropping the photo on the tabletop.

"Hang on a minute," Kerney said as he searched his desk for Jeremiah Perrett's office phone number. He found it, dialed, then hit the speaker button, asked for Perrett, and the secretary rang him through.

"One question, Dr. Perrett," he said, "when exactly during Anna Marie's senior year did she talk to you about the young man we discussed?"

"Early in the first semester, as I recall," Perrett answered.

"Could it have been during the summer session?"

"That would depend on whether or not I was teaching that summer."

"Can you check on that?"

The three officers heard a sigh, followed by the sound of a squeaking chair.

"Let me look in my records," Perrett said.

The officers stared at the phone, listening to file drawers opening and papers being turned, before Perrett came back on the line.

"Yes, I did teach that summer," he said, "and Anna Marie was one of my students. We very well could have talked about the boy during that time."

"Thanks," Kerney said.

"Is there anything else, Chief Kerney?"

"That'll do it." He disconnected and looked at Pino and Molina. "Do we have a coincidence here?"

"Maybe more than that," Molina replied.

Kerney nodded. "Let's assume that Nieto arrives as Anna Marie's new roommate, gets right into the party scene, and pulls Anna Marie into it with her."

"Which leads to the appearance of a young man with money who puts the moves on our victim," Detective Pino said.

"A young man none of Anna Marie's friends or roommates know anything about because they were away for the summer," Molina noted.

"We should try to find Belinda Louise Nieto," Kerney said.

"I'll do a public-records search in Colorado," Molina said.

"What about the mysterious rich boy?" Pino asked.

Molina smiled. "Actually, I've got one identified-Cassie Bedlow's older brother. His name is Tyler Norvell. He lived in Albuquerque and went to law school at the same time his sister and Anna Marie were undergraduates. According to several people who knew him, he always had money to burn-not your average struggling grad student.

"He's now a four-term state senator from Lincoln County. Just got reelected last fall. Owns the biggest real estate agency in Ruidoso, a ranch, and he's a partner in a bank."

Kerney's expression brightened. As a state senator, Norvell would routinely come to Santa Fe for legislative sessions and other state business. "When was Norvell first elected?" he asked.

"The November before Montoya disappeared," Molina answered.

"I like that connection. Does his family have money?"

"Unknown," Molina replied. "I haven't gotten that far yet."

"What do you have on Cassie Bedlow?" Kerney asked.

"She seems clean," Molina said.

"Let's stay on her for a while." Kerney swung his gaze to Detective Pino. "Ask APD vice to assist. Maybe they can give you a heads up on what to look for, and how to go about it. Continue to play the eager student with Bedlow, and see what more you can find out about the blonde who got beaten up. She might be a source of information."

Pino nodded and scribbled herself a note. "What about Norvell?"

"I'll take the politician," Kerney said, holding out his hand to Molina. "Give me your fact sheet on him."

Molina passed it over. "On paper, he's a boy scout."

Kerney laughed. "So is every New Mexico politician, on paper."

Clayton joined up with Quinones and Dillingham to compare notes. They sat in a nearly empty diner by the racetrack and talked over coffee as long-haul trucks rattled by on the highway, the engine noise vibrating the plate-glass window.

Dillingham gave his brief report first, which consisted of nothing but goose eggs when it came to finding anything out about Johnny Jackson, then sat back to watch Istee and Quinones follow suit. After Quinones admitted to coming up empty, Clayton trumped them both with the thing about the blonde at the airport with Luis Rojas.

"Well, at least one of us got something," Quinones said.

"It's only a possible ID on the blonde," Clayton said, sliding the freeze-frame photos of the woman across the Formica tabletop. "I still have to confirm it."

"So how come Jackson's so hard to find, and this blonde pops up on the radar screen?" Quinones asked.

"Because Staggs fed me a line of bullshit about Jackson," Clayton answered.

"You're thinking Jackson is Rojas disguised?" Dillingham said.

Clayton nodded. "It's possible, and since the blonde didn't matter to Staggs, he didn't try to cover for her."

"Just another whore," Quinones said.

"Something like that."

"Let's go talk to Staggs," Quinones said suddenly.

"All three of us?" Dillingham asked.

"Why not?" Quinones answered, his eyes on Clayton. "We can overwhelm him with our collective charm."

Clayton wasn't sure if Quinones was simply making a suggestion or pulling rank and taking charge. Was he saying it's time to step aside, boy, you've fucked it up? Or was he just putting out a good idea?

With patient detachment, Quinones waited for a reaction. Since the sergeant hadn't jacked him around for stupidly falling for Staggs's fabrication, Clayton decided it wasn't a slam.

"Me and Dillingham will hold Staggs's hand while you take a crack at him," he said.

Quinones stood up and dropped some change on the table as a tip. "So, off we go to Casey's Cozy Cabins. Since you called this little meeting, you get to buy the coffee."

Clayton peeled off some singles, stuck them under the tab, and followed Quinones and Dillingham out the door.

For two hours they waited vainly for Staggs to show. Dillingham stayed in his unit concealed nearby to block off any retreat in case Staggs drove up and decided to bolt. Clayton and Quinones, who had checked each cabin carefully to make sure no one was about, passed the time in Clayton's unit doing paperwork.

Finished, Quinones dropped his clipboard on the floorboard, put his pen in his shirt pocket and said, "Let's take a look inside."

"That's illegal entry," Clayton replied.

"I'm concerned about Staggs's welfare," Quinones said.

"His car isn't here, the cabin is locked up, and nobody's around."

"All the more reason to worry. Could be that Staggs is a victim of a crime. Maybe somebody beat him up, ripped him off, and stole his car. Maybe he's lying inside badly hurt, in need of our assistance."

"I don't know," Clayton said, staring at the closed window curtains. He didn't need to make another dumb blunder.

"Don't you want to know if Staggs really duped us?" Quinones asked, reaching for the radio microphone.

Clayton laughed and opened the door. "Yeah, I do."

Quinones gave Dillingham a heads up on the plan, followed Clayton to the cabin, kicked in the front door right above the lock set, and went in first. The place was empty, but Staggs had cleaned out his clothes, all his small personal possessions, and whatever cash he had on hand. They found no papers or documents of any value.

While Quinones kept searching Clayton punched the last-number-called buttons on the telephone, jotted down the information and ran it. It came back listed to the El Paso company owned by Luis Rojas. He told Quinones.

"Well, well," Quinones said, "duped we were, so it seems. I'll fill Hewitt in, and let him know you're heading to El Paso."

"Thanks."

"Hey, Clayton."

At the door Clayton paused and looked back. "Yeah, Sarge."

"This is a mother of an investigation. You nail the perp's ass and believe me nobody's gonna sweat the small stuff. Talk to Captain Vincent Calabaza with the El Paso PD before you go to see Rojas. He's an old friend of mine. Maybe he can give you some inside skinny on the guy. I'll let him know you're coming."

Clayton felt himself loosen up. A grin spread across his face as he waved good-bye to Quinones.

Harry Staggs was petrified, almost unable to speak in complete sentences. Sitting in Luis Rojas's living room, he got the story out in spurts, telling him about Ulibarri's murder, the police SWAT team, and his interrogation by the local sheriff and the sidekick Indian deputy.

While Staggs gulped and talked Rojas asked no questions, made no comments, showed no sign of annoyance. He sat on a pale green couch and listened thoughtfully, occasionally lifting his hand to brush an imaginary stray hair away from his forehead.

Seconds ticked off in silence after Staggs concluded his monologue. Desperate for a reaction, he said, "What d'ya think?"

Rojas decided it wasn't a stray hair on his forehead, it was an itch. He scratched it. "Ingenious," he said, "but it would have been better if you'd left the girl out of the story."

"I was thinking on my feet," Staggs replied, "trying to cover for you."

Rojas smiled at the stupid little man who had told the police too much. He stood up and patted his flat stomach. At six two and two hundred pounds, he still had the body of the wide receiver he'd been in college, although he'd lost a step or two over the years. "I appreciate that," he said. "Would you like a drink?"

Staggs nodded and felt some of his apprehension fade. Maybe Rojas wasn't gonna grind him up and feed him to the dogs after all. "Yeah, Scotch, neat."

Rojas poured two drinks at the built-in bar and brought one to Staggs. "The police already know that I was gambling at your place, and that I was in my office at the time of the murder, so there's nothing to worry about."

"Except I'm out of business," Staggs said after he knocked back the Scotch, "and it's gonna take me a while to sell the cabins and get the money I need to relocate permanently and set up shop again. By that time, I'll have lost all my regulars."

"Are you going back to Ruidoso?"

"Not a chance," Staggs replied. "I gave my lawyer a power of attorney to handle the property sale. He says it's best if I don't show my face around there again. The cops would be all over me."

"Can you trust him?" Rojas asked as he poured Staggs another shot.

"As much as you can any lawyer. I get to review and approve any offers before he can close the deal."

"That's smart," Rojas said, returning to the couch. "Did you tell him where you were going today?"

"Nope."

"Why don't you set up shop here, in El Paso? The Indian casino outside of the city is starting to draw a lot of high rollers. I'm sure many of them would find their way to you, once the word got out."

"Like I said, it takes money."

"Let me help you with a loan. When you sell your property, you can pay me back the principal with no interest."

"We're talking two hundred fifty thousand, minimum."

"I'll still come out ahead," Rojas said with a shrug. "Some of your customers are going to want some female companionship, right?"

Staggs smiled. "Like always."

"So, let's do it."

"That's damn good of you, Mr. Rojas."

Rojas raised his glass. "Then it's settled. Do you need a place to stay?"

"I thought I'd get a motel room for the night."

Rojas shook his head. "That won't do for my newest business partner. I've got a nice house that isn't being used in a good neighborhood in Juarez. You can stay there until you get settled. It's fully furnished and supplied. I'll have Fidel drive you there in your car, so you don't get lost. In the morning, we can talk again to finalize things."

Staggs got a little leery, wondering who the fuck Fidel was. "You don't have to go to any trouble on my account."

"It's no trouble," Rojas said, reaching for the telephone.

He asked Fidel to come to the living room and in less than a minute a well-groomed, smiling, skinny kid no more than twenty years old arrived. Staggs stopped feeling wary. Polite introductions were made, Fidel was given his assignment, and Rojas said good night.

In the car, Staggs asked Fidel if he was from Mexico.

Fidel smiled at the question. "Nope, born and raised in El Paso."

"What do you do for Rojas?" Staggs asked.

"I'm an errand boy, mostly," Fidel replied. "I pick up his laundry, get his cars serviced, take him to the airport when he's flying on a commercial plane-stuff like that. It's only part-time, because I go to college a couple days a week. I've got an apartment over the garage. No rent. It saves me a lot of money."

"Sounds like a good deal," Staggs said.

"It's the best."

"What are you studying?"

"Business administration."

They passed through customs and drove over the Rio Grande into Juarez along a main street teeming with cars. Locals and tourists strolled past gaudy storefronts, neon signs blinked out messages, loud mariachi music blared, and food vendors hawked their specialties on every corner.

Fidel's cell phone rang. He flipped it open and said, "What's up?"

"Kill him," Rojas said.

"That's cool," Fidel said enthusiastically.

"Lose the body, lose the car, and everything in it. Any money he has with him is yours."

"No kidding? That's great. I'll talk to you soon. Bye." He disconnected and smiled at Staggs. "My girlfriend just found out one of our favorite groups is going to be in concert here soon. She's already scored some tickets for us."

"You got a girlfriend, do you?" Staggs said.

"Yeah, a real hot chiquita, and smart as a whip," Fidel said as he made a turn that would take them toward the Juarez dump. "We'll be there in a few minutes."

Staggs leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. Everything was going to be just fine.

Back in Albuquerque late in the afternoon, Detective Ramona Pino sat next to Sgt. Jeff Vialpando in front of a computer screen. A supervisor in the Albuquerque PD vice unit, Vialpando talked as he moved the mouse around and clicked on some of his favorite sites stored in memory. They ranged from adult porno sites to escort services to personal ads.

"Computers have changed everything," Vialpando said, "and the day is gonna come when street-walkers will go the way of dinosaurs. Well, maybe not entirely: there will always be guys looking for action on the streets. But they'll be the real low-end shoppers."

A really gross photo of a man and a woman came up on the screen. "This is what you do all day?" Pino asked. "Cruise the Internet and look at dirty pictures?"

Vialpando chuckled. "Not all day. Not even every day. Some of it's pretty disgusting. A lot of the porno stars are traveling hookers. They come into the city for a month or two, sometimes on a regular basis, rent a furnished pad, and ply their trade. The adult sex sites are a good way to get a make on those girls when we get a tip. A john who feels ripped off will call anonymously, a landlord might complain about a tenant, or a neighbor will report unusual activity at an apartment. We'll go out, take a few photos of the lady in question, or get a name and a good description, and see if she pops up on the Internet as a wet and wild one. Sometimes we get lucky."

He enlarged a photograph of a naked woman on a bed with her legs up in the air giving the camera a come-hither look. "That's Brenda. We got her for soliciting. It was her first bust, so she walked with a fine. But she won't be back in Albuquerque, at least not anytime soon."

"Charming," Pino said.

"Did you know that adult porn sites are the biggest Internet moneymakers, worldwide? What does that tell you about civilization as we know it?"

"There must be a lot of horny sick guys out there," Pino said.

"And women." Vialpando clicked on another favorite, an escort service. "We check escort services all the time. There are some local sites we keep an eye on, but the really big ones are out of state. They offer the full menu: fetishes, S and M, bondage, domination, threesomes, bisexual encounters, and your straightforward heterosexual party girl. Some of these women work part-time, usually away from their home territory. If you've got the cash and are willing to pay, they'll fly in for an overnight or even for a week. It can cost anywhere between a couple of thousand for a night, to fifteen grand or more for a week of intimate companionship."

"That's what I paid for my car," Pino said as she read the bio on Tammy the Temptress, who was twenty-four and was studying for an advanced degree. Tammy was proud to be a courtesan, and loved romantic evenings with generous, virile gentlemen.

"Tammy the T is out of Houston," Vialpando said. "We missed her by a day last time she was here, but we're hoping she comes back soon. The airport cops are keeping a watch out for us. Want to visit her photo gallery?"

"No thanks," Pino replied.

"Next up are the Internet personal ads." Vialpando clicked one up. "There are two types we scan: the blatant come-ons and the intimate encounters. Just about every site has both."

"Why do you look there?" Pino asked.

"The escort services and sex sites are getting more sophisticated in their marketing strategies. They know cop shops are monitoring them. Placing personal ads for individual girls not only gives them another venue, but it also makes our job tougher. There's gotta be millions of women looking for love or whatever through the Internet."

"So, how do you score a hit?" Pino asked.

"You've never cruised the personals?" Vialpando asked.

Pino shook her head.

Vialpando looked her over and smiled. "I guess you don't need to."

Pino had noted the absence of a wedding ring on Vialpando's hand. "Do you?"

"No way," Vialpando said, laughing. "Anyway, you can narrow the field if you've got a make on a subject. Just use the subject's physical description as your preference for what you're looking for in a woman. Height, weight, age, hair and eye color, body size. For location you can search city, state, region, or you can go national or international if you like."

"It's as easy as that?"

"It gets you closer. Then you scan the ads, looking for suggestive content. A lot of them come with pictures. You can forget the ones that are posted with casual snapshots, unless they're just totally shameless. Instead, concentrate on the professional or slightly provocative photos. We put two freelancers out of business last month by mining the personals."

"How did you do that?"

"By responding to their ads. Would you like a hard copy of the Web sites we use the most?"

"That would be a big help. Do you keep tabs on any local smut photographers?"

Vialpando printed out the hard copy, signed off, and shut down the computer. "Give me a name."

"Thomas Deacon."

He reached over, got the sheets off the printer, and handed them to Pino. "I'm not familiar with the gentleman's work."

"How should I proceed with Cassie Bedlow?"

"If she really is a front for a prostitution ring, she'll be looking for girls who are vulnerable-down on their luck, out of a job, hurting for money. Girls that are estranged from their families or far away from home."

"That's good to know. I told her I was divorced, I'd just moved here from Durango, didn't have a job yet, and was pinching my pennies," Pino said.

"Nicely done," Vialpando said with genuine sincerity. "Are you?"

"Am I what? Pinching pennies? What cop doesn't?"

Vialpando laughed. "Are you divorced?"

Pino studied Vialpando. In his early thirties, he was way beyond average looking, with intelligent brown eyes, no receding hairline, and a slightly turned-up nose. She shook her head. "You have to get married to do that, and I'm not. How about you?"

"You know the old saying: become a detective and get a divorce."

"That must have been tough," Pino said.

Vialpando shrugged. "Fortunately, it ended before we'd started a family."

Pino waited a beat for more, like perhaps an invitation to grab a cup of coffee. Nothing came. "Thanks for the tour of the wonderful world of vice," she said.

"Any time," Vialpando said with a laugh. "Will you need backup tomorrow?"

"I don't think so."

"What time are you coming down?"

"I've made an appointment with Bedlow for ten o'clock."

Sergeant Jeff Vialpando smiled shyly. "If you'd like, I'll buy you lunch and you can tell me what you've learned about my backyard."

"That would be very nice," Detective Ramona Pino said demurely.

Clayton didn't like El Paso very much, not even with a pretty sunset in full view on the western horizon. A hundred and twenty miles south of Ruidoso, it was sandwiched between the New Mexico state line and the Mexican border city of Juarez, across the Rio Grande. In spite of new shopping malls, spreading residential subdivisions, and a partially revitalized downtown area, El Paso held no appeal for him. Perhaps it had something to do with geography. It was the westernmost city in Texas, much closer to the New Mexico state capitol in Santa Fe than to white-bread Austin. It was a gateway city, heavily populated by native Hispanics, as well as a growing number of both legal and illegal immigrants from Mexico and Central America. It was a desert city with blistering wind-storms, little rain, and brain-deadening hot summers. But most of all, it was an industrialized city, filled with warehouses, freight companies, NAFTA maquiladoras just across the border, wholesale distribution centers, and major drug runners operating out of Juarez.

The interstate and major railroad tracks cut through the city. Endless truck stops, gas stations, and vast, fenced storage yards lined the highways. Squalid barrios on both sides of the border spread way beyond city limits. All of it gave Clayton a dismal feeling.

Captain Vincent Calabaza of the El Paso Police Department headed up an intelligence unit that was part of a multiagency drug interdiction task force. Housed in a new building built with federal funds, the task force consisted of agents from DEA; FBI; Immigration and Naturalization; Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms; and a host of state and local officers.

A heavyset man in his fifties, Calabaza listened while Clayton asked about Luis Rojas, and ran down the reasons for his inquiry.

"Are we talking about the same Luis Rojas?" Calabaza asked when Clayton finished.

"He owns a trucking company," Clayton said.

"And you think he may be a party to a homicide?" Calabaza asked. "Or running whores in Ruidoso?"

"Is he a friend?" Clayton asked, reading Calabaza's skepticism.

Calabaza snorted a laugh. "I don't travel in such heady social circles, Deputy. Rojas chairs the citizen advisory board for the police department and serves on the mayor's downtown redevelopment committee. If he's dirty, it's a big surprise to us."

"You're that sure?" Clayton asked.

Calabaza opened a desk drawer, removed a file, and gave it to Clayton. "Take a look yourself. Everyone on the citizen advisory board goes through a thorough background investigation before being appointed by the chief."

Clayton read the intelligence report on Rojas. He was single, never married, born and raised in El Paso. Father was a construction worker, mother a hotel maid. Played high school football, made all-state his senior year as a first team wide receiver, attended the University of New Mexico on an athletic scholarship, and graduated with a degree in marketing. Parents deceased, five siblings-two brothers and three sisters. The brothers, two sisters, and a brother-in-law worked for the trucking company Rojas owned. One sister lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico-forty miles north-and currently served on the county commission.

Clayton scanned the financial data. Rojas had an eight-figure personal net worth, and aside from the trucking company, was a one-fifth partner in a privately owned local bank, owned an office building leased by a state agency, and held shares in an investment firm.

"A real rags-to-riches story," he said, studying Rojas's photograph. He didn't come close to matching Harry Staggs's description. Light brown hair, full nose, no mole on the right cheek, wide, full lips.

"That's right," Calabaza replied.

The report documented that Rojas liked to gamble occasionally at the nearby Indian casino and enjoyed piloting his own plane. Interviews with women Rojas had dated revealed nothing out of the ordinary in his personal relationships. The list of Rojas's friends and associates included corporate executives, area politicians, civic leaders, and wealthy patrons of the arts, all of whom gave Rojas high marks as a businessman, friend, and upstanding citizen.

After college and before returning to El Paso, Rojas had lived in Denver for a number of years working for an advertising agency that was no longer in business. A criminal- and traffic-records check in Colorado had come up empty, as had inquiries to various federal law-enforcement agencies.

Clayton read the narrative report filed by the investigator who'd interviewed Rojas. Rojas had cooperated fully, allowing the officer access to his personal income tax statements and corporate financial records. Everything checked out.

"Do you see anything in that report that's illicit, immoral, illegal, or of dubious character?" Calabaza asked.

"He looks like Mr. Clean," Clayton replied as he wrote down Rojas's home address and closed the file.

"I don't know much about the New Mexico criminal statutes," Calabaza said, "but in Texas, illegal gambling is a Class C misdemeanor that carries a five-hundred-dollar fine. Are you going to file charges?"

"Right now, he's just a possible witness," Clayton answered.

"Well, if you do charge him, let me know. My chief will want his resignation from the citizen advisory board."

"Thanks, Captain," Clayton said.

Calabaza nodded. "Give my best to Oscar Quinones."

Mansion was the only word that came to mind when Clayton arrived at Rojas's house. He'd never seen anything like it. The semicircular driveway was paved with brick, and an attached six-car garage had a second story accessed by an exterior stairway. The entryway, illuminated by soft lights, was a series of arches under a covered portal. Above the portal four double-sash doors opened onto a roofed balcony with a lacy cast-iron railing. The place looked like a Spanish villa.

Motion-sensitive lights came on as Clayton walked up the pathway to the house and Luis Rojas greeted him at the door. Clayton went through the formality of identifying himself and showing his shield.

"By all means, come in, Deputy," Rojas said pleasantly. A couple of inches taller than Clayton, Rojas wore a lightweight crewneck sweater and a pair of casual slacks.

In the living room Rojas directed Clayton to a sitting area in front of a window that looked out on a lighted landscaped interior courtyard with a fountain.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"Have you seen Harry Staggs today?" Clayton asked.

"No, but he called me to apologize for any trouble he might have caused. I told him he'd done the right thing by talking to the police. After all, a man has been murdered. That's far more serious than getting busted for playing an illegal game of chance. Are you here to arrest me?" Rojas smiled charmingly. "I must tell you my reputation will suffer if you do."

Clayton shook his head. "That's not my intention."

"What a relief," Rojas said with a chuckle, as though it was all a big joke.

"Did Staggs tell you what his plans were?"

"I didn't know Harry had any plans, other than to obey all the gambling laws in New Mexico. He told me you'd shut down his operation."

"We think he's left Ruidoso," Clayton replied.

"I wouldn't have any idea where he might have gone," Rojas said.

"Do you know a man named Johnny Jackson?"

Rojas shook his head. "Sorry, I don't. I'm not very helpful, am I?"

"Do you know this woman?" Clayton said, holding out the blonde's photograph.

Rojas took it. "She doesn't look familiar."

"You were seen with her at the Ruidoso airport."

Rojas didn't blink. "That's not possible." He rose from his chair. "Excuse me for a minute. I think I can clear up the confusion."

He came back in the company of a strikingly attractive blonde. "Deborah, this is Deputy Sheriff Istee. He wants to ask you a few questions. Deborah is my girlfriend."

Deborah smiled at Clayton with pretty blue eyes, shook his hand, and answered all his questions. Yes, she'd flown to Ruidoso with Rojas. No, she wasn't at the poker game. She'd spent that night at Rojas's vacation home, and stayed over an additional day after Luis had returned to El Paso.

"Did you go anywhere, see anybody, do anything?" Clayton asked.

"I took several hikes by myself," Deborah replied. "But I didn't see anybody. Other than that, I didn't go out at all."

"How did you get back to El Paso?"

"I drove Luis's SUV. That's why I went with him. He's trading it in for a new one, and he asked me if I'd like a few days in the mountains in exchange for doing him a favor. I jumped at the chance to get out of the city and be by myself for a while."

"What kind of vehicle did you get?" Clayton asked Rojas.

"I'm still shopping around," Rojas replied, "although I'm considering a Mercedes. It's a civilian version of a military vehicle used by the German army. Are you familiar with it?"

Clayton had read somewhere that the movie stars who made action flicks and owned ranches in Montana all had them. He'd seen photographs. They were macho adult toys that went for about a hundred thousand dollars. Almost four times his annual salary.

"Yeah, I've seen pictures," Clayton said, concentrating his attention on Deborah. "Are you sure no neighbors saw you at the vacation house?"

"I have no neighbors," Rojas said. "It's very secluded."

"Where is it?"

"I've had a map drawn up for friends," Rojas said, "so they won't get lost when they visit. I'll give you a copy."

He opened an end-table drawer and handed Clayton the map. The retreat was on private land surrounded by national forest, northeast of the village of Alto.

"That's deep in the mountains," Clayton said.

"Which is why I need good transportation to get to it," Rojas said. "Especially in bad weather."

"I bet you do," Clayton said as he folded the map into his shirt pocket and looked at Deborah. "I'll need to see your driver's license, miss."

"What on earth for?" Deborah asked.

"My report."

Deborah smiled. "Of course. I'll get my purse."

She fetched her purse and handed Clayton her license.

"You have your own place?" Clayton asked, noting the address on the license.

"Yes, but I'm here a lot," Deborah said, sliding her arm around Rojas's waist.

He made sure all the license information was current, got a work and home phone number, and closed his notebook. "I doubt that I'll have to bother you again."

"It's been no bother," Deborah said.

"None at all," Rojas said, giving Clayton a hearty handshake. "Good luck with your investigation."

Outside, Clayton walked to his unit thinking how convenient it was that the girlfriend had been on hand to confirm Rojas's story.