The big gamble

Chapter 6

Homicides in Lincoln County were rare, so when Paul Hewitt arrived early at his office he fully expected major print coverage about the Ulibarri case. But he wasn't prepared to have it be front page news in the morning papers from El Paso to Albuquerque, Las Cruces to Roswell. Headlines read:

MURDER SUSPECT KILLED

TOP COP QUARREL IN LINCOLN COUNTY

ILLEGAL GAMBLING DEN UNCOVERED IN RUIDOSO

SUSPECTED KILLER SLAIN AT ILLICIT POKER PARLOR

RUDOSO SWAT TEAM FINDS MURDERED FUGITIVE

GAMBLENG DEN OPERATOR GOES FREE

There were sidebar articles about the Anna Marie Montoya and Joseph John Humphrey cases, and a story that summarized Ruidoso's well-deserved reputation during the Prohibition era as a wide-open boot-legging, speakeasy, and gambling town.

Although the quotes were anonymous, Hewitt figured the leak about Harry Staggs and his decision to keep the city cops out of the investigation came from the Ruidoso police chief. The man had been privately denigrating the sheriff's department for years, and resented Hewitt's role as the county's chief law-enforcement officer.

Fuming, he closed his office door, turned on a small portable television, and surfed the network channels for the early morning local newsbreaks. All of them featured the story at the top of the telecast, with video of the cabin where Ulibarri had been killed.

Tredwell called, pissed and wanting an explanation about how the story hit the papers. Hewitt told Tredwell he didn't control the news media and to direct his outrage at the Ruidoso police chief. The district attorney called, pissed and wanting a meeting so Hewitt could explain why he'd cut a deal with a felony suspect's attorney on his own authority.

Two county commissioners called to tell Hewitt the Ruidoso mayor was talking about asking for a grand jury probe of the sheriff's department. Reporters called wanting interviews. Hewitt put them off.

The only good news was Artie Gundersen's telephone report that the bloodstain on Ulibarri's boot, which Clayton had fished out of the dumpster behind the western-wear store, was a match to Humphrey's, as were the traces of blood on the knife found in cabin three. Additionally, Ulibarri's latents were all over the blade handle, and the murder weapon conformed nicely to the entry wound in Humphrey's chest.

Hewitt called the reporters back and issued a statement: forensic analysis of the evidence gathered by lead investigator Deputy Clayton Istee and state police crime technicians proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Ulibarri was Humphrey's killer, and the case had been closed. He gave specifics, brushed aside questions about the ongoing Montoya and Ulibarri investigations, hung up, and wrote a quick note for Clayton Istee telling him about Gundersen's findings.

He wondered what was bothering Clayton Istee. Over the last several days, he'd seemed wary and constrained in his dealings with others, including Dillingham and Quinones. Were his slipups troubling him? There were all kinds of judgment errors that could occur during a major felony investigation, and no cop was immune to them. But getting bogged down by becoming overly cautious or trying to be perfect could quickly derail an investigation, especially a homicide case where time was of the essence.

He decided to keep a close eye on his deputy, and went off to meet with the DA, wondering how hard it would be to get his butt out of the crack it was in. Fortunately, the DA was an old friend, a hunting buddy, and a member of the same political party. They actively supported each other in their races for office in every election. If necessary, he would call in every personal and political chit he possessed to make the problem go away.

The sheriff's note about the blood match on the knife and Ulibarri's boot didn't make Clayton feel any better about himself. If he had thought to search the resort parking lot for Humphrey's car, Ulibarri might still be alive and in custody, charged with murder one.

He started the day doing paperwork and writing reports. Assembling a homicide casebook was no simple task, and he worked hard to make it thorough, thinking he could at least put together a comprehensive file without screwing it up.

He filled out an offense report, his supplemental reports, the investigation worksheets, and a crime scene worksheet, and completed the last of his canvass field notes. He redrew his crime scene sketches, compiled a witness list, labeled and arranged in sequence all crime scene photographs he and the rest of the team had taken, and updated his investigative narrative. He played back the taped interview with Harry Staggs and decided he needed a better, more detailed description of Johnny Jackson.

He called Harry Staggs on the phone and got him to answer specific questions about Johnny Jackson's physical characteristics. He recorded each response Staggs made on a blank piece of paper. Physical Description of Johnny Jackson Head-long amp; round in shape Eyes-maybe brown, oval, with small pupils Brows-straight, possibly thin Nose-narrow, not too large Mouth amp; upper lip-small or average Chin-square, no dimple noted, but possible Forehead-wide Hair-black, curly, full, cut short, with short sideburns, amp; no graying Facial hair-none Mole-small, possibly located just below right cheekbone Build-slim, weight about 140 to 145 Complexion-light skinned amp; tanned Other scars, tattoos, marks-none noted Age-Approx. 40 Height-5'6" to 5'7"

He placed the telephone in the cradle thinking that for somebody who'd repeatedly denied knowing Jackson personally, Staggs either had a remarkable memory for details or was lying through his teeth.

Clayton suspected the latter. He wondered if Staggs was leading him astray with a false description. Maybe the name was phony, too. If he could come up with an eyewitness who put Staggs and Jackson together, socially or otherwise, he might be able to break Staggs down and discover why he seemed so scared of a pimp, even a high-class one.

He worked up a wanted-for-questioning bulletin on Jackson, did the violent-crime analysis report for the FBI, called the Bureau to ask for an expedited comparison to any similar crime scenes, and left the completed paperwork with the sheriff's secretary, who started faxing it right away.

With the more detailed description Staggs had provided, Clayton used a computer program to create a composite likeness of Johnny Jackson's face. He printed it, made copies, gave some to Quinones and Dillingham, and asked them to start looking for Jackson.

Outside, the wind was blowing hard in an angry gray sky and snow clouds masked Carrizo Mountain. The bleak morning completely matched Clayton's gloomy mood.

He headed back to the Mescalero Reservation and the resort to begin his own search for the mysterious Johnny Jackson, thinking that if he turned out to be a figment of Staggs's imagination there would be hell to pay.

Paul Hewitt had a theory about how people became lawyers, and it had to do with the names parents gave their children. Hang a couple of colorful monikers on a newborn and it was a lead pipe cinch that another budding lawyer would eventually be launched into the world. In the DA's case, the name was Roland Hatley Moore, Hat to all his friends.

Hewitt sipped his coffee at a back table in the Dugout Bar amp; Grill, waiting patiently for Hat to make his appearance. The Dugout opened early for breakfast, which could consist of either the house special of home fries, eggs smothered in green chile with a side of bacon, or a double shot of whiskey for those who drank their meals.

A favorite local hangout, it also drew travelers passing through town. Bison, moose, and elk heads hung on the dark paneled walls, along with framed posters crusted yellow from nicotine smoke. Mismatched tables and chairs filled the dining area, and two pool tables were crammed into a small adjacent space next to some windows.

A see-through partition separated the dining area from the bar, which was festooned with old six-shooters and rifles. Fortunately, none worked, although the butt of one pistol recently had been used to quiet a rowdy customer.

With the town fathers and local real estate agents now touting Carrizozo as an arts and crafts community- which it really wasn't-a small group of newcomers had moved in. Most were retired baby boomers or senior citizens, pursuing their hobbies or artistic dreams and making a few bucks from the sale of their work.

Down the street a new restaurant had recently opened where you could get a gourmet sandwich with sprouts, a veggie burrito, a fancy pastry, lemon-flavored bottled water, an all-natural juice drink, or a decaffeinated latte, all while surfing the Internet.

In the year the place had been open, Hewitt had never seen one cowboy, rancher, or blue-collar worker cross the threshold.

Hat arrived, spotted Hewitt in the back of the room, and sat himself down at the table.

"What in the hell were you thinking?" he said as he unbuttoned his western-cut sport coat.

"I think you're getting a little thick around the middle, Hat. It's time for you to join the gym I go to in Ruidoso. We can work out together. It opens at six in the morning."

"I'm not even alive at six in the morning," Hat replied, leaning across the table to look Hewitt dead in the eye. "For chrissake, you can't let a felony suspect walk. That's not your prerogative. Do you know how many reporters have called me asking why I wasn't filing charges against Staggs?"

"How many?"

"Too many."

"Got any suggestions?"

"Arrest Staggs, discipline your deputy, and let me deal with Tredwell. Maybe I'll agree to a plea bargain."

"Can't do that. It was a false arrest to begin with. No exigent circumstances, no probable cause. Tredwell threatened a civil rights suit if we refused to cut Staggs loose, so we agreed that Deputy Istee had simply held Staggs in protective custody during a potentially dangerous felony arrest."

"Jesus, you're kidding me. That's not what the news reports said."

"Consider the source."

"You've got to stop squabbling with the Ruidoso police chief."

"I will, as soon as he goes back to Houston, or wherever the hell he came from." Hewitt waited for the waitress to pour Hat a cup of coffee and move off. "Are you gonna help me out here?"

"I'm not going to lie for you, Paul."

"I'm not asking you to. Just say that you agree there was insufficient probable cause to warrant an arrest of Staggs by Deputy Istee."

"Why are you protecting this kid?" Hat asked.

"That's not what this is about."

Hat looked at his watch, slugged down his coffee, and stood up. "Get me copies of everything you have on Istee's investigations, plus I want a written statement from you detailing your conversation with Tredwell."

"You'll have it in two hours. Thanks, Hat."

"Don't thank me yet," Hat said as he adjusted his bolo tie. "I'll get back to you."

Relieved by the outcome of the meeting, Hewitt stayed behind and ordered breakfast.

Kerney went to work in his blues and spent the morning trying to concentrate. Pleased by the possibility of what a new artificial knee could mean, Kerney clock-watched as he ran through the paperwork on his desk, calling at the earliest possible moment to schedule the MRI test and then to speak to the architect about the swimming pool.

The architect said he'd get right on it and have a plan done by the end of the day. Kerney gave the architect the go-ahead to have a survey crew spot the corners for the house and hung up.

He visualized the setting. The house would be nestled below the ridge overlooking a red sandstone canyon capped with a thin line of gypsum rock. Large windows would face south down the canyon to a stand of old cottonwood trees and a meadow cut by a sandy arroyo. To the north, behind the ridge, an expanse of pastureland dotted with pinon and juniper trees undulated toward the foothills and mountains behind Santa Fe.

It would be fun to cut a new driveway from the nearby ranch road to the building site with a grader. Kerney had learned to operate one under the watchful eye of his father. He could probably borrow or rent a neighbor's machine and rebuild the entire ranch road from the highway to the house site by himself. He would crown it, slope it, cut bar ditches for runoff, and pack it down with base course gravel to make it all-weather. It would be a welcome change of pace from his normal routine and give him a feeling that the dream of actually owning a ranch was underway. He could get the job done over a couple of weekends if he planned it right.

In between administrative staff meetings he called the remaining names on Osterman's list and learned none of them had known Anna Marie in college-or so they said. After the last meeting, he walked to Lieutenant Sal Molina's office and asked for a few minutes. It was time to put his ego aside and let the department work the Montoya case instead of trying to do it all by himself.

Molina, the major felony unit supervisor, nodded and gestured at an empty chair. Kerney filled him in on his stunning lack of progress in the Montoya case.

"I'm kicking it back to your unit," he said, "but I want to stay in the loop."

"We'll start with background checks on Osterman and the people on the list he gave you," Molina replied, "just to see if anything unusual or kinky shows up."

"Do the same with Cassie Bedlow," Kerney said. "And see if you can find out who Montoya roomed with during her college years in Albuquerque."

Molina nodded. "Anything else?"

"Can you free up Detective Pino?"

Ramona Pino was Molina's only female detective. She was petite, cute, perky, and weighed all of a hundred and five pounds. Molina had watched Pino put a straight-arm takedown move on a perp almost twice her size. The perp had been too busy screaming in pain to be embarrassed.

"That's possible," Molina said.

"Send her undercover as a prospective student to Bedlow's modeling and talent agency," Kerney said. "I'd like her to get a feel for Bedlow's operation, and learn what she can about the freelance photographer Bedlow uses."

"You said the APD vice supervisor thought Bedlow was legit," Molina replied.

"Everybody's legit until they get caught," Kerney said, rising to his feet, his knee protesting as he did so. "I may be getting the leg fixed and losing the limp for good."

"Really?" Molina replied. "When?"

"Don't know. Soon, I hope."

Molina laughed. "That's good news for you and bad news for us, Chief."

"Now why would you say something like that?"

Molina thought about all the good things Kerney had accomplished in a very short time: pay raises starting in July, improved officer training, streamlined operating procedures, promotions based on merit, not politics. Department morale was soaring.

"Because nobody can keep up with you as it is."

"Are you turning into a brownnose, Lieutenant?"

Molina snorted. He'd worked with Kerney back in the old days and knew the chief's sense of humor well. "Yeah, that's me all right."

Action picked up at the slots and tables as the late-morning customers rolled out of bed and into the casino. From the video surveillance room, Moses Kaywaykla watched as Clayton approached the cashiers one by one, asking questions, and passing out something to each employee. He went out on the floor to investigate.

"Nephew," Moses said, steering Clayton away from a roaming security guard, "what are you doing?"

"Looking for this guy," Clayton said, holding up a sketch.

"You should have brought that to me," Moses said sternly.

"Are you pissed?"

"You're starting to act like a gringo. Let's talk upstairs in the cafe."

Clayton handed Moses the sketch after they were seated at a table. "Do you know him?"

Moses shook his head as he waved off the approaching waitress. "He doesn't look familiar."

"His name is Johnny Jackson. Five six or seven, about a hundred and forty pounds."

Moses studied the sketch more closely to satisfy Clayton's persistence. "He still doesn't look familiar."

Clayton pushed a driver's license photo across the table. "Him?"

"Harry Staggs," Moses said. "He comes in and plays poker occasionally when he's not busy entertaining his friends."

"You knew about his gambling parlor?"

"It was a well-kept secret until the morning paper appeared," Moses replied. "How come you didn't arrest Staggs?"

"For lots of reasons," Clayton replied brusquely.

"I'm sorry you put him out of business."

"Why is that?" Clayton asked in surprise.

"Some of the big winners would come here and keep playing after his game ended. We could usually count on a number of them to lose money at our tables."

"You had knowledge of his activities and did nothing?"

"If it doesn't affect Mescalero Apaches, I don't really care what happens off tribal land. Neither did you, until a short time ago."

There was nothing subtle about the criticism. In the Apache world, family came first and foremost, and that included the entire tribe. "Are you going to lecture me, Uncle?"

Moses smiled gently. "Not today. Do you have more questions?"

"This Jackson supposedly runs a stable of hookers at a nearby location, where important, well-known men are discreetly entertained."

Moses shook his head. "That's a new one on me."

"Never heard of it?"

"Never. About the only skin-trade action we get here is an occasional freelance hooker up from El Paso. I run them off as soon as they show up."

"It's that easy?"

"Bimbos are hard to miss."

"Anything like that happen recently?"

"My night shift supervisor thought he'd spotted one a couple of days ago. But she left the casino alone before he could approach her."

"What day, exactly?"

"I think it was the same night your murder victim was here," Moses said.

"Let's find out," Clayton said as he pushed his chair back.

In the video surveillance room, Moses checked the log and confirmed that the woman had been at the casino the same day as Ulibarri. He pulled a tape from the video rack and ran it fast-forward until a blonde with long curly hair and a lot of cleavage moved jerkily across the screen.

"She's new," Moses said as he reversed the tape and hit the remote play button.

They watched as she circled the poker tables, trying to draw interest. Ulibarri, who was at one of the tables, didn't seem to notice until she whispered something in his ear after he'd won another pot. He smiled, nodded, and watched her walk out the door.

"I don't remember seeing this when we first looked at the tapes," Clayton said.

"I think we skipped over it," Moses said.

"Can I borrow the tape?"

"No, but I can have a couple of stills made for you in less than a hour. I'll get you an enlarged profile and full-face head shot. Will that do?"

"Thanks, Uncle."

While Moses delivered the tape to a computer technician and went back to work, Clayton went to see if the lodge employees remembered anybody who looked like Jackson. No one did.

With the grainy but serviceable photos of the blonde in hand, he canvassed the lodge employees again, without success. He hurried to Casey's Cozy Cabins, hoping Harry Staggs could ID the woman as Jackson's companion.

Staggs wasn't home. From the front porch, he called Tredwell on his cell phone and asked the attorney where he could find Staggs.

"I don't baby-sit my clients," Tredwell said.

"He hasn't left town, has he?"

"Not as far as I know."

"You're a big help, Tredwell."

"Please, no thanks are necessary," Tredwell said.

Clayton punched the off button. A light snow was falling. Maybe it would be a wet year. The wildlife needed it. If he'd stayed with the tribal police, he'd be out checking boundary lines, reporting cattle that had strayed either on or off the reservation, posting new signs to replace the ones stolen by tourists, chasing off the occasional trespasser who had wandered onto Indian land by way of the national forest, and maybe breaking up a fight or a domestic squabble.

But he didn't have time to ruminate about the past or feel sorry for himself. If he wasn't going to catch a break, he'd have to make one for himself. How to do that was the question.

In college Detective Ramona Pino had taken a few drama classes and appeared in several student plays. The experience had served her well in police work. During her time on the force, she'd worked an undercover narcotics assignment and posed as a fence for stolen goods, both with success, so she knew the value of convincing performances.

She'd called ahead to schedule an appointment with Cassie Bedlow and now knocked tentatively on the woman's open office door.

Cassie Bedlow smiled at the young woman standing nervously in the doorway. Somewhere in her mid to late twenties, she was no more than five three and was wearing a short skirt that displayed well-toned, nicely formed legs and a knit sweater that indicated shapely breasts in proportion to her body. Her face was classic northern New Mexico Hispanic, with arched eyebrows, large pupils, dark round eyes, small, thin lips, high cheekbones and even features.

"You must be Ramona," Bedlow said, moving from her desk to a tan leather couch. "Come in and sit with me."

Detective Pino caught the calculating, appraising look in Bedlow's eyes. She sat on the couch, her back straight, knees together, hands in her lap and gave Bedlow the once over. There was nothing flashy about the woman. In fact, just the opposite: she was round, wide in the hips, and had a matronly air.

"So, you're interested in modeling," Bedlow said.

"I shouldn't be wasting your time," she said, giving Bedlow a wistful glance.

There was a breathless, little-girl quality to Pino's voice that Bedlow liked a lot. Costumed correctly, with her small size, pretty features, and tiny voice, Pino would draw plenty of attention from men who liked the innocent schoolgirl look.

"Why do you say that?" Bedlow asked.

"I've always wanted to try modeling," Ramona said as she pouted slightly and looked around the office. "But you probably think I'm too old and too tiny to be a model."

A bookcase along a side wall held large photo albums and casting directories. On the top shelf was a chamber of commerce membership plaque and a silver-plated presentation bowl from a community charity fund-raising organization.

"That simply isn't true," Bedlow replied. "I use models of all sizes, ages, and ethnic backgrounds. For example, you'd make an excellent junior-size catalog model. With the right training, you wouldn't lack for work."

Ramona beamed enthusiastically. "Really?"

"Yes, if you're photogenic, and I have no doubt that you are," Bedlow said. "Did you bring any photographs?"

Chagrined, Ramona furrowed her brow. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't think about that."

"Do you have any handy?"

Ramona shook her head. "Not really. I just moved here from Durango, and I left a lot of my personal things behind in storage."

She looked at the wall of framed photographs of attractive young women behind Bedlow's desk. Some were runway shots, but most were studio photos of women with their hands on their hips or their butts stuck out in provocative poses not unlike those in glossy fashion magazines. They pouted, smiled, or looked haughty for the camera.

Ramona's expression brightened. "Maybe I could use one of your photographers. Those are great pictures. I'd be willing to pay, if it isn't too expensive."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me about you."

Ramona sketched her fictitious past: born in Taos, raised in southern Colorado, high school graduate, work experience in boutiques and women's clothing stores, divorced with no children, new to Albuquerque with no friends or relatives close by.

"So, you know something about fashion," Bedlow said. "That's a plus. Now tell me why you'd really like to be a model."

Ramona gave Bedlow a shy glance. "I guess I'm bored. I want to do something exciting, have an adventure, meet interesting people. I got married too young and now that I'm divorced I'd like to have some fun before I get too old. That's one of the reasons I decided to move to Albuquerque."

"Modeling is hard work."

"I've worked hard all my life," Ramona replied.

Bedlow smiled. "Are you working now?"

"I'm looking. I wanted to find out about your agency before I took a job, so I can fit the classes into my schedule if you decide to accept me. How expensive is the program?"

"The classes run for twelve weeks and cost three thousand dollars."

"Oh," Ramona said. "I don't have that kind of money."

Bedlow patted Ramona's knee. "Don't be discouraged, I sometimes offer a tuition loan to a student I think has potential. You would have to sign a contract with the agency and agree to repay your tuition from your earnings after graduation. But with your looks that shouldn't be a problem."

"You'd do that for me?"

"First things first," Bedlow said, rising to gather a brochure, a student application, and an agency contract from her desk. "Let's get you started on enrolling, and have some photographs taken."

Ramona stood and took the forms from Bedlow's hand. "This is so much fun," she said breathlessly. "Can I fill these out while I'm here?"

"If you like."

"I've just moved into an apartment and I don't have a phone yet. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all."

"Where should I go to get the pictures taken?"

Bedlow gave her a business card for a photographer, and directions to get to his home studio in a residential area not far away. "He does all my photography work. I'll call and see if he can fit you in today. He'll do some proof sheets, which you can bring back to me this afternoon."

"That would be super," Ramona said, flashing a big smile. "Thank you, thank you."

Bedlow laughed. "We'll talk again soon, later in the day."

Left outside Bedlow's closed office door, Ramona sat on the edge of a carpeted raised platform and looked through the application forms and tuition loan contract. The contract had a clause that required the immediate full repayment of the tuition loan with interest if the student refused to accept any assignment arranged or sponsored by the agency.

It seemed straightforward enough, but Ramona wondered why the clause didn't specify modeling assignments, given the detailed legalese of the rest of the document.

As she was filling out the application a car pulled to the curb and a young blond woman got out. Dressed in tight jeans and a bulky sweater, the blonde was thin and leggy. She took two last puffs on a cigarette, ground it under the toe of a spiked-heel red boot, and pushed her way inside. There was a welt under her eye, a bruise on the chin, and one cheek was puffy and swollen.

The blonde glanced at Ramona and started pacing back and forth. "Is she in?" she asked, her words slightly slurred.

Ramona nodded. "On the phone."

"Shit."

"What happened to you?" Ramona asked, oozing sympathy.

"Boyfriend," the blonde replied after a slight hesitation. "He's history."

"That sucks."

"Tell me about it," the blonde answered, agitated.

"Did he hurt you bad?"

The blonde laughed harshly and pushed up the sleeve of her sweater. There were bruises on her forearm.

"How did it happen?" Ramona asked.

Nervously eying the office door, the blonde shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, pointing to her face. "It hurts too much."

"Sorry." Ramona returned her attention to the application. The blonde sat on a leather ottoman that had been used as a prop in some of the photographs on Bedlow's wall.

"I'm Ramona," she said when the blonde looked at her.

"Sally."

"Are you a model?"

"Yeah. You gonna take the course?"

Before Ramona could answer, Bedlow appeared, and Sally stood up.

"I gotta see you now," Sally said.

Bedlow's voice dripped honey. "Of course, dear girl. Come in."

Sally flew by Bedlow into the office.

Bedlow smiled sweetly at Ramona. "My photographer can take you right away. Will that do?"

"Oh, yes," Ramona replied. She dropped her voice to a whisper and glanced at Bedlow's office. "That poor girl."

"It's very unfortunate," Bedlow replied. "Come back with the proof sheets after lunch."

"I haven't finished the application," Ramona said, hoping she could stick around and do some eavesdropping.

"Don't worry about it now," Bedlow replied rather shortly, holding open the front door.

"Okay," Ramona said cheerily. "See you in a little while."

She made her exit and memorized the license plate on Sally's car as she passed behind the vehicle.

Raised in Albuquerque, Ramona knew the city well. Bedlow's photographer, Thomas Deacon, worked out of his home in an older neighborhood of postwar Southwestern-style cottages near Carlisle Boulevard. The house stood out as the only one on the street with a neglected front yard. A converted garage with a private side entrance served as the studio.

Deacon met Ramona at the door and gave her the once-over. She did the same to him, keeping an eager smile plastered on her face. He was in his forties, tall, with a straight, narrow nose, a long chin, and wide, down-turned lips. He had long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore jeans and a lightweight cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He was hard looking in a way that some women found exciting. To Pino he seemed like a middle-aged white guy who needed to be seen as hip, cool, and on the fringe. In Pino's experience, the kind of man who usually turned out to be an emotional adolescent.

"Yeah, come on in," Deacon said.

Ramona caught a whiff of marijuana as she stepped inside the studio. She checked his pupils; they were slightly dilated.

"Proof sheets only, right?" Deacon said.

"Yes," Ramona said brightly. "That's what Ms. Bedlow wants."

Deacon grabbed a camera from a table, turned on some stand lights, and pointed at a white screen at the back of the studio. "Go over there and try to do what I tell you."

He adjusted the lights, circled around her, gave directions, and took a bunch of head shots.

"Do you just do studio work?" Ramona asked, tilting her chin up.

"Hold still," Deacon said, clicking the shutter. "No, I do a lot of location work."

"That must be fun."

Deacon gave her a sarcastic look. "It's work. Loosen up, will you?"

"Sorry," Ramona said. "I bet you get to see a lot of exotic places."

Deacon snorted as he backed away. "Oh, yeah, lots of exotic places. I'm gonna need to take some full-body shots. Lose the skirt and sweater."

Ramona stifled a desire to protest, pulled off her sweater and stepped quickly out of her skirt.

"Not afraid to show your body," Deacon said approvingly, reaching for another camera. "That's good. Bend over and put your hands on your knees."

"Do you do a lot of location work for Ms. Bedlow?" Ramona asked, showing her cleavage.

"All of it," Deacon replied. "Pout for me."

Ramona pouted and Deacon fired off a bunch of frames. He put a straight-back chair in front of the screen. "Sit, spread your legs, and press your arms against your breasts."

"Like this?" Ramona said, assuming the position.

"Yeah. Now, look tough. Can you do that?"

Ramona put on her cop face.

"That's good." Deacon took shots from different positions and angles, and lowered the camera. "Get dressed."

Ramona wanted to jump into her clothes, but held back. She put a hand on her hip. "We're done?"

"Yeah," Deacon said.

"How did I do?"

"Okay," Deacon replied, walking toward a darkroom in a corner of the studio. "You've got a tight little body. But you gotta learn to relax. You'll get used to it. I'll have the proof sheets ready in a few."

Ramona dressed and looked around the studio. A long table held a dozen or so neatly arranged manila folders. She flipped through them and found eight-by-ten glossies of young women, some rather so-so looking, dressed in trendy western-wear outfits-lots of fringe leather jackets, long skirts or designer jeans, Indian jewelry, and custom cowboy boots.

There was a folder featuring Sally, the girl with the bruises. Buxom, blond, tall, and unbattered, she was the most striking model in the group. Her photographs were exterior shots, taken on a patio of what appeared to be either a resort or an expensive private residence. The patio had a Santa Fe feel to it, although the pictures could've been taken at any number of locations throughout the Southwest.

She heard the darkroom door open, turned to see Deacon, and smiled charmingly at him. "These are wonderful photographs. You're very talented. I hope you don't mind my looking at them."

"That's cool," Deacon said.

"Are they recent?" Ramona asked, placing Sally's folder on the table.

"Yeah, I shot them several days ago."

"Where?"

"Down at the lodge on the Mescalero Apache Reservation."

Ramona nodded. "It's so beautiful down there."

"Yeah," Deacon said, handing her a manila envelope. "Here you go. Take these to Cassie. You owe me a hundred bucks."

Ramona paid Deacon with five twenties. "Thanks for doing this on such short notice," she said.

"Yeah," Deacon said as he stuffed the bills in his pocket and opened the studio door. "Later."

Before returning to the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency, Detective Pino ran the plates on Sally's car and the full-size van that had been parked in front of Deacon's house. The car was registered to Sally Greer and the van to Thomas Deacon.

Pino drove by Sally's place of residence, which turned out to be an apartment complex in the northeast heights. A "Now Renting" banner hanging from the roof of the building fronting the street advertised move-in special rates with a phone number to call.

She dialed up the leasing agent, who gave her a pitch on the special rates and the available amenities, and some information about the tenants. Most were young professionals, consisting of a mix of single persons with roommates, and married couples without children.

Characterizing herself as a single woman planning to live alone, she asked about safety and security, and was told that the tenants were quiet and peaceful.

Pino swung by the nearest city police district office and found no record of recent domestic disturbance calls at Sally Greer's apartment. In fact, according to the patrol supervisor on duty, there had been no problems or crimes reported at the apartment complex in the six months it had been open.

She ran Greer and Deacon through the APD computer system and got no hits on wants, warrants, outstanding traffic violations, or prior arrests.

A few minutes past the lunch hour, Pino arrived at the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency to find it locked up tight. She hung around for a half hour and then blew it off. She'd done all that Lieutenant Molina had asked. She decided to go back to Santa Fe, report in, and let the brass decide if they wanted her to take the investigation any farther.