'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
