Down These Strange Streets

while, even now they’ve got the whole system cross-referenced.”

“It shouldn’t take a while to get something. Everyone leaves footprints. The question is, my friend, should we be thinking of this as an arson case, or some sort of kidnapping? Scorned boyfriend revenge thing, he burns the house and snatches her?”

“A little early for that.”

Cesar grinned and showed his notepad, a picture of an elderly but wellmaintained Prius. “Abandoned car on Palace, ticketed and towed about an hour ago. Registered to—”

“Ellen Tarnowski.”

“So maybe, it’s not so early.”

Salvador’s notepad beeped. “Well, fuck me. Take a look.”

The picture was from the security cams at Albuquerque Sunport, the airport in the larger city an hour’s drive south; the face-recognition software had tagged it.

“That’s Brézé and our mystery man with the gun, all right. Still in the black leather outfit. Nine thirty to San Francisco last night, just opened up and the request got it. Wait a minute—”

He tapped at the screen. “Fuck me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“They didn’t have tickets. Look.”

“Could be tickets under someone else’s name.”

“No, there were two vacant first-class seats according to the ticketing record. But look, when they cleared for takeoff they recorded all the first-class seats as full. But there aren’t any names attached to these two. Which isn’t supposed to be possible. Breaks three laws and twenty regulations.”

Cesar made a hissing sound of frustration. “Mierda, for a second I thought we’d get a name on Mr. Shotgun. What about the other end?”

“Flight got into San Francisco International . . . nothing on the surveillance cam there, and it should have got them.”

The younger man grinned. “Maybe they got out on the way, sí?”

“Yeah, at forty thousand feet. At least we can retire the kidnapping theory, Cesar. But Tarnowski’s still missing, even if Mr. Boyfriend didn’t snatch her. Or I suppose he could have a third party holding her.”

“Okay, we got her last known location in Santa Fe. Here.”

The building that housed La Casa Sena and several upscale shops was mainly nineteenth century, adobe-built with baked-brick trim, rising around a courtyard-patio that featured a pool and a huge cottonwood. Originally it had comprised thirty-three rooms of living-place-workroomstoreroom-quasi-fortress that presented a blank defensive wall four feet thick to the outside, intended to repel Apaches, bandits, rebels, and tax collectors whether Mexican or gringo. Now there was a wine boutique, several stores selling upscale jewelry and froofraw, and the restaurant occupying two sides of the rectangle.

Iron tables stood out under the cottonwoods, vacant this time of year; the flower beds were sere and brown as well. A glassed-in box near the entrance covered the original well that had supplied water to the complex. He glanced at the menu posted beside the door; they weren’t open for lunch yet.

“Ever eaten here?” he asked.

“Twenty-five for a ham sandwich?” Cesar said, peering at the prices. “You loco?”

“I had dinner here once. An anniversary, the last one before Julia divorced me. The food was actually pretty damn good.”

“Jesus, if lunch is like this, what’s dinner for two cost?”

“About the price of a trip to Paris.” Salvador grinned and read the small print: “And the ham sandwich has green chile aioli, ciabatta, aged Wisconsin Gouda—”

“It’s still twenty-five dollars for a fucking ham sandwich. Okay, a ham and cheese. I don’t care if the butter was made from the Virgin’s milk.”

“Can I help you?” a young woman in a bow-tie outfit said, opening the door. “Lunch doesn’t start seating until—”

They flashed their badges. “The manager, please.”

That brought quick action: “I’m Mr. Tortensen—”

After the introductions, the manager showed them through to his office, though Salvador felt as if half the contents of his wallet had vanished just stepping over the threshold of the front door into the pale Taos-style interior. Even the office was stylish. The man was worried, brown-haired, in his thirties, lean to the point of emaciation, and licking his lips.

“What can I do for you, officers?” he said.

Salvador leaned back in the chair. He knew he could be intimidating to some. People who’d led sheltered lives particularly. He didn’t have to do anything in particular, even if they were people who’d consciously think of him as something they’d scrape off their shoe on a hot day.

“You had two guests at dinner yesterday,” he said. “From a little after five thirty to seven thirty. Ellen Tarnowski and Adrienne Brézé. I’d like some details.”

The man started very slightly, and then his mouth firmed. “I’m afraid our clients’ confidentiality is—”

Cesar cut in smoothly: “Ms. Tarnowski’s house burned down last night, and there’s suspicion of arson. Her car was found and towed from a parking spot not too far from here. We have independent confirmation that she was here last night, and she’s a missing person with this as her last known location.”

Salvador nodded. “So we’d really appreciate your cooperation in this arson and possible kidnapping investigation.”

The manager started; short of shouting terrorism it was about the best possible way of getting his attention.

“Let me make a few calls,” he said, pulling out his phone.

Cesar worked on his notepad. Salvador crossed his arms on his chest and enjoyed watching the manager sweat as he tried to get back to his routine. People came in to talk to Mr. Tortensen about purchasing and things that probably made perfect sense. At last, a harassed-looking man in his early twenties came in; he was slimly handsome, but looked as if he really wasn’t used to waking up this early. Which, with a night-shift job like waiting tables, he might not be.

“Ah, this is Joseph Morales, officer,” Tortensen said. “He had A17 . . . their table . . . last night.”

Maricón, Salvador thought—clinically, he wasn’t bothered by them. There had been one he knew who was an artist with a Javelin launcher. He could put a rocket right through a firing slit, which has a good dirty joke in it somewhere.

“Pleased to meet you,” Morales said to the policemen with transparent dishonesty, but he was at least trying to hide it. “How can I help you?”

The restaurant manager started to speak, and Salvador held up a hand. “We’re interested in a party of two at one of your tables last night.”

He held up his notepad with Tarnowski’s face.

The waiter laughed—it was almost a giggle. “Oh, them. Yes, I remember them well. They ordered—well, Ms. Brézé ordered—”

He rattled off a list of things, most of which Salvador had never heard of. He held up a hand.

“What did that come to?”

“With the wines? About . . . twenty-five hundred.”

The manager was working his desktop, and nodded confirmation. Cesar gave a smothered sound that had probably started as an agonized grunt, passed through indignation, and was finally suppressed with a tightening of the mouth.

“Tip?”

“Very generous. Seven hundred.”

Outside, Cesar shook his head. “Seven hundred for the tip? And you went there?”

“I was starting to get worried about Julia, wanted to show her I thought about something besides my job.