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.
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
