“You say he left yesterday?” Moses asked, handing back the photograph.
Clayton nodded.
“Let’s look at some security videotapes,” Moses said, “and then we’ll talk to some people.”
They viewed videos and found Ulibarri playing poker intermittently over a two-day span and mostly losing. In between long sessions at the card tables he drank in an upstairs café and broke even playing a row of quarter slots. In the last video, which Moses fast-forwarded, he won heavily at poker.
The sight of Ulibarri raking in a hefty stack of chips discouraged Clayton. His suspect was bankrolled again and possibly on the move. Was he heading back to Albuquerque or to one of the other Indian casinos in the state? Was he in Juárez drinking in a brothel?
Moses froze the tape. “Want to know what he cashed out?”
“Yeah,” Clayton said. “He seemed to be doing a lot of talking in the last tape. Do you know any of the people at his table?”
“Two of them,” Moses replied, pointing out two players on the frame. “Gus Hogan is a serious player. We comp him his room and meals. He comes up from El Paso about once a month. Sometimes he plays at the high-stakes tables, sometimes not. Jasper Nava is local. Everyone calls him JJ. He owns an appliance repair shop in Ruidoso. He’s here once a week usually. Comes in with a couple hundred in his pocket and plays until he either loses it or wins. He does pretty well most of the time, but won’t move up to any of the high-stakes games.”
“What does Hogan do for a living?” Clayton asked.
“Nothing. He’s a rich guy. I’ll get you his home address and phone number, if you want to talk to him.”
“Good deal,” Clayton said. “I’d sure like to know who else was at the table when Ulibarri won big.”
Moses shrugged. “Maybe the dealers know who they are.”
They walked from the lodge to the casino on a pathway that led them past the swimming pool, tennis courts, boathouse, and the restaurant that overlooked the golf course. It was too cool and early in the year for swimming, and the tennis courts were empty, but several foursomes were out on the greens.
At the casino Clayton learned that Ulibarri had walked away from his last poker game with seventeen thousand dollars. Two of the dealers who had had Ulibarri at their tables were on duty. They remembered Ulibarri when Clayton showed them his photograph, but didn’t know any of the other players by name. None had been regulars.
He got the names, phone numbers, and shift schedules for the three other dealers, said good-bye to Moses, and drove to the sheriff’s department in Carrizozo, where he put together an advisory bulletin. It read:
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING FELIX ULIBARRI FOR THE MURDER OF JOSEPH J. HUMPHREY
Subject is Hispanic male, age 43, DOB 3/03/59, height 5’8”, weight 148 lbs, brown eyes, brown hair, clean shaven, with a knife scar on right forearm approximately 2 inches below the elbow, approximately 3 inches in length. Recent photograph attached.
Subject is known to frequent casinos and is likely to be driving victim’s vehicle, a 1979 Mercury Cougar, two-door coupe, dark blue in color bearing New Mexico license 782 KCG. Subject’s driver’s license has been revoked for repeated DWI convictions. See attached arrest record.
Subject’s permanent address is 4 Camino Azul, Albuquerque, NM. Ulibarri is an alcoholic and is known to associate with prostitutes.
Subject last seen yesterday at the casino on the Mescalero Apache reservation, is presumably traveling alone, and may be currently using the alias of Fred Villanueva. Subject is known to have gambling winnings of $17,000 and could possibly be at or planning to visit other casinos in the region.
Victim was killed with a knife, type unknown. If located, detain Ulibarri for questioning, secure all evidence, and immediately contact the officer below at the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department, Carrizozo, NM.
Clayton spent the next hour faxing the documents to every law-enforcement agency, casino, and gaming establishment in New Mexico, West Texas, and Arizona. As he finished up, Paul Hewitt came into the room and read the advisory.
“You’re making some progress,” Hewitt said.
“Some,” Clayton replied.
“Is Ulibarri a solid suspect?”
“I think so.”
“What’s your next move?”
“Ulibarri mostly played poker while he was at the casino and won big,” Clayton replied. “We need to talk to a few more off-duty poker dealers to learn if he got friendly or talkative with any other customers. Sergeant Quinones and Deputy Dillingham are following up that angle, plus trying to contact two possible informants. I wanted to get the advisory out ASAP in case Ulibarri has already hit the road.”
“Makes sense,” Hewitt said. “Have you got reports ready for me to read?”
“Not yet,” Clayton said. “I’ll leave them on your desk before I go home tonight.”
Hewitt clapped Clayton on the shoulder. “That’ll be soon enough. Good job, Deputy.”
Clayton shrugged off the compliment. “I haven’t made an arrest yet, Sheriff. Is anything happening with the Montoya case?”
“Not as far as I know. Just stay focused on what you’re doing. I’ll keep you informed if I hear from Chief Kerney.”
Clayton nodded, gave the dispatcher a copy of the bulletin to enter in the national and state crime information data banks, and started in on his reports.
Kerney picked up the paper on his way out the front door and glanced at the front page, which featured the discovery of Montoya’s body. The headline read:
MURDERED BODY OF LOCAL WOMAN FOUND
The body of Anna Marie Montoya, reported missing from Santa Fe over eleven years ago, was discovered in the basement of a burned-out building after a recent fire in Lincoln County. According to Deputy Police Chief Larry Otero, autopsy results of the remains indicate a strong possibility that Montoya was murdered. “We’re treating it as a homicide,” Otero said, “and cooperating with Lincoln County law-enforcement officials in a joint investigation.”
He quickly read through the rest of the story, which gave the facts of Montoya’s disappearance, and glanced at the sidebar articles. One summarized information about six other women who’d been reported missing from the Santa Fe area over the last decade and never found, and the other quoted the spokesperson of a women’s criminal justice coalition, who took the department to task for “not caring enough to provide sufficient resources and personnel to locate these missing women and end the unnecessary suffering of families and friends.”
Yeah, right
, Kerney grumped silently as he closed the door of his unmarked unit and tossed the paper on the passenger seat. He forced down his irritation. Unsolved missing-person cases, especially those involving women and children, always sparked criticism of law enforcement. Kerney understood people’s fears that they would never see their loved ones again, fears that were all too frequently and tragically realized. But it irked him when civilians thought that cops didn’t care about the mothers, wives, and children who’d gone missing, never to be found.
At the office, he shut his door and started working the list of Anna Marie Montoya’s old friends, colleagues, ex-employers, and graduate student classmates. As he’d suspected, many had moved on, changed jobs or residences, or were no longer living in Sante Fe. He spoke to a few, left phone messages for others, and got leads on a couple of the people who’d moved out of state.
Larry Otero, his second in command, popped in briefly to get approval to hire a new civilian crime scene tech. Kerney signed off on the paperwork. With slightly more than two months in his present position, Otero had been cautiously feeling his way in his new job.
Kerney’s decision to appoint Larry had been challenged by the city manager, who for political reasons had tried to torpedo Otero’s career shortly before Kerney became chief. He’d placated the city manager by putting Otero in the job on a sixty-day trial period. He’d said nothing to Larry about it, and now the probationary time was up.
“Did we screen, test, interview, and conduct a background investigation on this candidate?” Kerney asked, handing Otero the signed personnel action form.
Larry looked nonplused. “Of course. We do it with every new hire. It’s procedure.”
“My point exactly,” Kerney said. “I’d like to review applications and meet prospective employees once they’ve been selected. But unless either of us sees a problem, in the future just sign these things yourself.”
He leaned back and gave Otero a smile. “From now on, think of your job this way: When I’m not here, you’re the chief. When I’m sick or on vacation, you’re the chief. When I don’t want to be found, bothered, or I’m out of town on business, you’re the chief. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
Otero smiled back. “I do. What happens when I get my ass in a sling?”
“Then I’m the chief,” Kerney said with a laugh, “and I get the privilege of taking full responsibility for all the screwups, including yours and mine.”
“So, it’s full speed ahead,” Otero said.
“Yeah, your honeymoon is over,” Kerney replied.
“I can handle that,” Larry said. “How’s the Montoya case going?”
“I could probably put thirty people on it with the same results,” Kerney replied.
“Nothing?”
“Zilch, but there’s still a lot of ground to cover,” Kerney said.
He waved Otero out the door, made a few more phone calls, and left to visit with Anna Marie’s brother and sister, who’d agreed to meet him at their parents’ house.
Cars parked along the narrow lane forced Kerney to leave his unit at the corner. A somber group of visitors filled the small porch and spilled onto the lawn in front of the Montoya residence. Kerney approached slowly, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. His uniform drew some questioning looks as he walked up the pathway, and a few people deliberately turned away. Anna Marie’s brother waited for him at the door.
“I’ve come at a bad time,” Kerney said, looking into the crowded front room.
“We can talk in my mother’s craft studio,” Walter Montoya said shortly, “although I don’t see what good it will do. My sister’s waiting for us there.”
Platters of food filled the coffee table, and empty plastic cups littered the lamp tables bracketing the couch. A framed photograph of Anna Marie, surrounded by lit candles, was centered on top of the television. Mr. and Mrs. Montoya sat on the couch in the company of a priest. Kerney paused and paid his respects as friends and family watched.
“I won’t take much of your time,” Kerney said, after stepping away from Anna Marie’s parents.
“Does that mean you have no leads?” Walter Montoya replied, loud enough to hush a couple standing nearby.
“Let’s talk privately,” Kerney said, touching the man’s arm to quiet him down.
Walter pulled his arm back and led Kerney to a small bedroom that had been converted into Mrs. Montoya’s studio, where Carmela, Anna Marie’s sister, waited. A long worktable with folding legs held neat stacks of fabric, swaths of canvas, and a sewing machine. Within easy reach of a second-hand secretarial chair was a clear plastic four-drawer cart on rollers, filled with yarns, spools of thread, scissors, and embroidery needles.
Both siblings were in their late thirties. Walter, the older by a year, now sported a receding hairline and a mustache that showed a touch of gray. Carmela, who had been married when Anna Marie disappeared, no longer wore a wedding ring. Slim and tense, she shook Kerney’s hand reluctantly.
“To have so many show so much sympathy and support must be very heartwarming to you and your parents,” Kerney said.
His attempt to be conciliatory fell flat. Carmela nodded tensely as though an invisible wire inside her neck had been pulled, and said nothing.
“When will you find the person who killed her?” Walter asked, dismissing Kerney’s words.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough, Chief Kerney,” he snapped.
“Let me tell you what we’re doing,” Kerney said. He took them through the investigative drill, noting how a lack of evidence and the absence of a targeted suspect made for slow going.
“We’ve heard those same rationalizations from your department for eleven years,” Walter said when Kerney finished. He pointed a stern finger at the window, where in the backyard a bare-branched apple tree had yet to announce the arrival of spring. “My sister’s killer is out there a free man, and you’ve done nothing to catch him.”
“Don’t lose hope,” Kerney said, skirting the criticism. He took out a pocket notebook. “I have a list of people we originally interviewed who have left Santa Fe. It would be a big help to me if you or your sister might know where some of them are currently residing.”
“What good will that do?” Walter demanded.
Kerney ignored the remark and read off the list. Carmela gave him the locations of two out-of-state people in a flat voice that didn’t quite mask her anger.
“Anyone else?” Kerney asked, glancing at Walter.
He shook his head. “But some man called me at home one night about two months ago, asking if I was Anna Marie’s brother. He said he’d just moved back to the area and wanted to get in touch with her.”
“Did he give his name?”
“I don’t remember it, but it was an Anglo name and he called himself doctor.”
“Did he say what kind of doctor he was?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him how he knew Anna Marie?”
“I didn’t ask, but he said he’d once been her coworker.”
“How did he take the news of Anna Marie’s disappearance?”
“He sounded shocked and caught off guard.”
From the notebook Kerney rattled off the complete witness list.
Walter shook his head. “None of those names ring a bell.”
“With a little legwork I should be able to locate him,” Kerney said.