“So? I’m dying of curiosity since you described the search as ‘interesting.’ Can you tell me about it?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Okay. Does it involve the bloody trench coat that was found at one of my properties? Doesn’t that make me involved, just a little?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” He grinned and flicked at her chin.
“I can make it a hundred questions if you’ll let me.”
“Uh-huh. Well . . . no.”
“Beau! At least tell me whether you have a suspect. I already know what the MI said.” She looked around, realized that they were standing right in front of the sheriff’s office. People were coming and going, although most were scurrying along to get out of the chilly November wind. “Can I take you to lunch?”
He glanced at his watch. “I don’t have much time. There’s a lot of evidence to process.”
Another car pulled in beside Beau’s in the spots reserved for Sheriff’s Department vehicles. Lisa, the technician who always helped gather evidence at crime scenes. She had the knowledge and basic equipment for performing a few limited tests locally, but more complicated tests such as DNA and tissue matching were always sent to the state crime lab in Santa Fe. She greeted Sam as she walked to the back of her large SUV and began to pull boxes and bags from the back. Beau walked over and spoke to her for a moment.
“Okay,” he said, turning back to Sam. “Let’s take a quick lunch break.”
They headed for a place two blocks over, a spot known for its hearty soups, which seemed perfect for a day like this. On the way, Beau began to talk.
“I found a heavy nylon bootlace that I think might be the murder weapon,” he said. “Came across a pair of boots at the bottom of a hall closet, one is missing the lace but the other one indicates that the laces are pretty new, in good condition, thick and strong. So, I ask myself where’s the other one? If someone used it to strangle Elena, what did they do with it? Didn’t take too long to find it in a garbage bag out at the curb. Funny how people don’t think things through.”
“And you’re pretty sure it’s the one?”
“Without getting too graphic about it, let’s just say that there’s evidence of that, yes.”
Sam pictured blood or tissue, but she stopped her thoughts right there. “So, you’re thinking Carlos Tafoya?”
“The boots were a man’s size nine, which fits with the other shoes in the home that belong to him. But—” he held up an index finger. “We don’t yet have any proof that someone else didn’t pull that lace and use it. A defense attorney would point out that anyone entering that house could have access to boots in the front hall closet.”
“And Carlos wasn’t home that night so it probably was someone else.”
“Only the evidence will say for sure. A killer could have easily left his own DNA on the cord. Even with gloves there might be some traces of fibers or something like that.”
Sam puzzled over that as they walked.
“There were a lot of different fingerprints in the master bedroom and bath, places you would normally only associate with the owner of the house. We finally got the maid to agree to being printed, for elimination purposes. The woman is Tewa, from the Pueblo, and I guess she believed that somehow the ink pad was going to read her spirit or some such thing. Lisa soft-talked her and took the prints right there at the house. We can find Tafoya’s from our databases because all public employees have prints on file.”
“What about other items? I’m still trying to work out how Fenton’s coat got to Cheryl Adam’s house on the south side of town.”
“In one of Carlos’s coat pockets, I did find Fenton’s business card. It’s the first real proof that the two men had contact, although it’s a far cry from showing that Carlos actually hired Fenton to track Elena. I gathered up most of the bills and other paperwork from his desk, just to see what we come across.” He held the door to the restaurant for Sam. “Oh, one other thing you might find interesting. Elena kept a journal.”
They stepped into the crowded room and a hostess immediately greeted them. Sam fidgeted, wanting to question him about the journal. Their table in a back corner afforded some privacy and people at the adjacent tables were engrossed in their own conversations.
“Could I see her journal?” Sam asked, shrugging off her winter coat. “I might be able to spot a clue in it, something that stands out because of the conversation we had, that final night.”
He chewed at his lip, debating. “Normally, I’d say no way. Letting a civilian handle evidence can get into some sticky issues.”
“But you deputized me, remember? Way back when . . .”
“I know.” He stared at the menu without really seeing it. “We’ve already dusted it for prints. And I’m really short-handed this week. Would you promise not to bend, fold or mutilate—or jot notes in it? And wear gloves while you handle it.”
She sent him a look to let him know she wasn’t that stupid.
“It’s in my cruiser, unless Lisa finished carrying all the stuff we collected inside. I’ll get it for you after lunch.”
She smiled at him. “I really hope I can help.”
Their server stopped by again, order pad at the ready, and they both chose the homemade vegetable soup.
“So, do you think there’s any chance you’ll have answers before the election?” she asked, once the server walked away.
“Not really. Anything going to the state crime lab will probably take weeks. I can always hope that we can match some fingerprints from our local databases.”
“Maybe somebody will just show up and confess.”
“I’d give better chances to a snowball in hell, Sam. Those things don’t happen except on television. Especially if it involves somebody like Tafoya—no way a guy like that isn’t going to lawyer up immediately.”
Sam caught a sharp glance from one of the women at the next table, late twenties, dark hair cut in a sleek page, an oversized handbag on her lap where she was rummaging for something. Suddenly, their conversation felt a little too public. She tapped Beau’s boot under the table. They started talking about the weather, and the dark- haired woman and her companion left a few minutes later. Sam watched them go outside and get into a blue sedan parked at the curb.
Their bowls of soup arrived just then and Sam gave her attention to eating, still mulling over what Beau had told her. She couldn’t believe a married woman—a smart married woman—would actually reveal anything in writing, but there was always the chance of some little clue that would lead the investigation somewhere in a new direction.
Once they stepped back out on the street, Sam brought up the subject that had brought her to Beau’s office in the first place.
“I’m worried about you on this investigation, Beau.”
He draped an arm around her shoulders and brought her close to him. “So far, I haven’t gotten any real sense of danger, Sam. Heck, this is a whole lot tamer than patrolling back streets where the drug gangs hang out.”
“I know. But be careful. Please.”
They walked the two blocks back to his office, pulling their coats tight against the increasing wind. Gray clouds sat low over the face of the mountains and tiny grains of sleet spat down in gusts. Beau located Elena’s journal and handed it to Sam, extracting another promise that it would remain safe and intact. At her car, he paused and kissed her lightly.
“If this little sleet turns to snow, I want you to go home early. No sense being out in it.”
“You too. You’ve got a lot farther to drive than I do.”
His expression told her that leaving early was a dream. “If I get home late I’ll call ahead and just tell Kelly to stay in our guestroom. It wouldn’t be good for her to be out on bad roads either.”
“Not for a girl who’s spent the last ten years in southern California. Thanks, Beau.”
Sam started her van and pulled onto the street, giving Beau a quick wave as he headed into the county building. She was nearly a block away when she spotted the blue sedan with the young, dark haired woman who had been sitting near them in the restaurant.
