Hermit's Peak (11 page)

Although it was not what he had hoped to do on his first criminal investigation assignment, Thorpe nodded.

Gabe read the young officer's disappointment, and was about to react to it when Captain Garduno walked in.

“You'll want to see this stuff right away, Gabe,” Garduno said, dropping some pages in front of Gonzales. “It just came in from Chief Kerney's office.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Gabe said as Garduno left the room. He scanned the material in order, passing each page to Thorpe as he finished.

When Russell handed the last sheet back, Gabe asked, “What information would you act on first?”

“According to Motor Vehicles, the registered owner is Joaquin Santistevan. His driver's license photo doesn't match with the composite drawing of Rudy, and Wanda Knox's physical description is way off in terms of height, weight, and age. She said Rudy is in his mid-to-late thirties. Santistevan has a date of birth that makes him twenty-seven.”

Gabe nodded. “What else?”

“Well, the kid got the truck right. The make and model of Santistevan's vehicle corresponds with his description.”

“What would you do with this information?”

“Find and talk to Santistevan,” Thorpe replied.

“Why?”

“Eyewitnesses aren't always reliable. Maybe Santistevan and Rudy are one and the same person, maybe not.”

“And if they're not?”

Thorpe shrugged. “It could mean anything. Maybe Santistevan is just a pal or a relative who lent Rudy his truck. Maybe he's Rudy's partner in the poaching. Maybe Santistevan sold his truck to Rudy, who never bothered to register it in his name.”

“Those are all good questions that need answers,” Gabe said, holding up his hand to cut Thorpe off.

Thorpe smiled. “Did I pass the test, Sergeant?”

“Don't get cocky on me, rookie,” Gabe said. “Every day you're on the street, you'll be tested. You start independent patrol next week, and I want you to survive it.”

Thorpe coughed into his closed fist to hide his embarrassment. “Sorry, Sergeant.”

“No harm done,” Gabe said, handing Thorpe the motor vehicle report on Santistevan. “Get me a location for this guy. He's got a rural route address in the county. Do you know how to do that?”

“Through the post office,” Thorpe said as he got to his feet.

“What else should you do?”

Thorpe studied the report. “Run Santistevan's Social Security number, date of birth, and vehicle registration through NCIC.”

“That's right. If you get any hits, wants, or warrants, call the reporting department and get specifics.” Gabe held out Melody Jordan's follow-up report. “Have dispatch pass this along to Houge.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Thorpe took the file and turned to leave.

“Hey, Thorpe,” Gabe said.

“Sergeant?”

“I think you're going to work out okay.”

Thorpe nodded his thanks for the compliment, but Gabe didn't see it. His head was buried in the papers on the table.

After Thorpe closed the door, Gabe looked up and smiled. Coaching rookies was a lot like raising kids. The analogy made Gabe think about little Lane Knox in California, who was nuts about toy cars and trucks. At Lane's age, Orlando collected baseball cards. For years, Orlando had dragged him off every chance he got to buy more cards. He had been crazy about them. There were shoe boxes full of the damn things that Orlando had spent hours poring over, memorizing players' statistics.

Those were good years.

He opened the phone book, turned to the listings for firewood sellers, and started compiling a contact list, which he would give to Thorpe to finish as soon as the rookie returned.

 • • • 

At twenty-six, Agent Ben Morfin looked a good five years younger than his age. When he'd graduated from the academy at twenty-one, his youthful appearance
won him a special assignment as an undercover narcotics agent at an Albuquerque high school. During the year he spent back in public school, Morfin had busted a number of pushers and street dealers, which earned him a departmental citation.

After wrapping up his testimony in the court trials on the cases, Morfin put in almost four years as a patrol officer before returning to narcotics. Assigned full-time to the Las Vegas district, he'd been back in plainclothes for six months and loving it.

He parked behind the physical science building at New Mexico Highlands University and gave dispatch his location. Gabe Gonzales came on the horn and gave him a quick update on the information received from the Arcadia PD.

Ben signed off, scribbled some notes, got the flat of cactus plants out of the backseat of his unmarked unit, and walked across the parking lot.

In the heart of Las Vegas, the campus was situated on a small hill bisected by city streets containing row after row of Victorian houses and cottages. With brick facades, flat roofs, and low parapets, most of the campus buildings had a territorial appearance.

Morfin found Professor Ruth Pino's office, put the tray containing the cactus on a hallway chair, and knocked on the door.

Professor Pino opened the door and looked Ben up and down. “I'm sorry, but I only see students during normal office hours,” she said, “unless it's an emergency. I don't believe you're in any of my classes.”

“I'm not,” Ben said, showing his shield and ID. “I'm
Agent Morfin with the state police. I called you earlier this morning.”

“You don't look old enough to be a policeman,” Pino said as she turned away and walked toward her desk. “Come in.”

“I get that all the time,” Ben said as he picked up the container of cactus plants and followed Pino inside. A petite, middle-aged Hispanic woman no more than five-two, Professor Pino wore blue jeans, hiking boots, and a lightweight sweater that didn't detract from her still-youthful figure.

“So, you have some plants you think might have hallucinogenic properties,” Professor Pino said.

“I'm hoping that's what you can tell me.” Ben put the plants on her desk.

Ruth Pino turned, looked at the plants, and gave Morfin a startled glance. “Where did you get these?” she asked sharply.

“At a marijuana grower's greenhouse.”

Pino made a closer inspection. The clustered stems were about an inch tall, the spines about a half-inch long, and the fruit was green. She reached for her handbook of rare endemic plants and paged through it. “Do you know where these were harvested?”

Morfin caught the excitement in Pino's voice. “In a canyon near San Geronimo.”

“Who collected them?”

“A woman who lived with the marijuana grower.”

Pino studied a page in the handbook and looked at the cactus plants one last time. “I need exact information on the location, Agent Morfin.”

“Wait a minute, Professor. Back up. What has you so excited?”

“The common name of this plant is Knowlton's cactus. It's on the federal biologically endangered species list. There is only one known area in northwestern New Mexico where this cactus has ever been found.”

“Ever?”

“In the world. The Nature Conservancy owns the land. It's on a secret preserve.”

“A secret preserve for cactus?” Ben asked.

Professor Pino nodded. “Probably no more than three thousand plants exist in the wild. It's a variety treasured by collectors. One cactus can bring up to hundreds of dollars, depending on its size. The Knowlton's cactus has been reduced to near extinction. It's illegal to harvest it. If these truly came from a second site, you've made a very significant discovery.”

“Are you saying I don't have a plant that produces any mind-altering substances?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. How soon can you get me a specific site location?”

“It may take a while.”

“That won't do. Who can I talk to about giving my request priority?”

“The sergeant in charge of the case and my captain.”

“Give me their names,” Professor Pino said, reaching for a pen.

“Sergeant Gonzales and Captain Garduno.” Ben picked up the tray of cactus plants.

“Leave those with me please,” Ruth said.

“They're evidence in a criminal investigation.”

“I understand that. But I don't think you know how to care for those plants, and I won't have you negligently harming them.” Ruth Pino smiled. “Tell you what: I'll give you my husband and firstborn son as hostages in exchange for the Knowlton's cactus.”

Morfin shook his head in mock disbelief. “I guess I could transfer them to your custody for further analysis.”

“I'll care for them lovingly.”

“You'll have to sign some paperwork. Are you always so hard-nosed, Professor?”

Ruth Pino laughed. “I'm the toughest instructor in the department, Agent Morfin, and proud of it.”

 • • • 

“I just got off the phone with my wife's first cousin,” Captain Garduno said when Gabe walked into his office. “She teaches at the university.”

“Would that be Professor Ruth Pino?”

“Morfin called in the information to you, I take it.”

“He left out the part about your family ties.”

“He didn't know. Ruth is hot to visit the site where the cactus was found. She's even cancelled her classes for the day to do it. Didn't you send Thorpe over there to collect evidence?”

“I did.”

“Can you spare him to show Ruth around?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I'll let her know. What do you have on Santistevan?”

“He's got a clean record. No wants, warrants, or
arrests. No military service. One speeding ticket in the last three years. He paid the fine. His mail is delivered to a neighborhood postal box in San Geronimo.”

“Is there any evidence that Santistevan is tied to the crimes?”

“Not yet. All I've got is an eight-year-old kid's description of a truck, a license plate number, and a composite drawing along with a physical description of Rudy that doesn't correspond to Santistevan at all,” Gabe said.

“That's a start.”

“Maybe. But we're not lacking for evidence, Cap. The ballistics report came in a few minutes ago: a thirty-eight caliber bullet killed Boaz. Also, the lab lifted a clean fingerprint from the oil container found at the poaching site. The print isn't in the computer, but the lab can match it when we find the perp. We've got a good tool mark from the barbed wire samples we collected, and some good plaster-cast tire impressions. The tread marks left at the cabin gate and the clear-cut area are identical.”

“So, go arrest somebody,” Captain Garduno said jokingly, knowing full well that solid evidence without a suspect was always a frustrating dilemma.

Gabe cracked a small smile. “I'll get right on it.”

 • • • 

Melody Jordan timed her departure from work to allow for a quick change of clothes before her scheduled meeting with Dr. Campbell Lawrence at the School of American Research. She switched to a pair of dress slacks and a top that fit just tightly enough to give an understated
suggestion of her breasts. She would change back again before returning to work.

Campbell Lawrence was a good-looking man in his late thirties who didn't wear a wedding ring. At the conclusion of his seminar last fall, Lawrence had joined Melody and some of the other students for drinks. She had found him witty, charming, and—she liked to think—more than passingly interested in her.

Now Lawrence was back on a year's sabbatical. She had seen him only once since his seminar, when he spoke at a noontime colloquium at the school. Time didn't permit more than a brief exchange after his presentation, but Lawrence had seemed genuinely pleased to see her again.

She checked her hair, flew out the door of her house, and drove hurriedly to the campus. She eased into a parking space, gathered up the X-ray envelope and the box of bones, and walked down the crushed gravel path toward the Indian Arts Research Center.

The school, located on the grounds of an old estate near the historic Canyon Road and Acequia Madre district, was a lovely collection of adobe buildings behind high walls, spread over beautifully landscaped grounds. The compound contained a library, administrative offices, cottages for scholars in residence, an artist studio, and a priceless collection of Native-American arts and crafts housed in a high security building.

The school had been started early in the century as an archaeological field research facility, long before most colleges offered courses in the subject. It soon earned a prestigious reputation as a renowned anthropological
and humanities research and study center, and nowadays drew visiting scholars to the campus on a year-round basis. It even had its own publishing house.

Melody found Campbell Lawrence in the small lab inside the Indian Arts Research Center.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” she said.

“You caught me at a good time,” Campbell said with a smile as he shook Melody's hand. “Show me what you've got.”

Melody handed Campbell the X-ray envelope and started placing the bones on an examination table. Finished, she turned to find him studying the X rays on a wall-mounted fluoroscope.

While Campbell concentrated on the X rays, Melody looked him over. He had a full head of curly brown hair cut short and a neatly trimmed mustache. His hair line, low on his forehead, drew attention to his gray eyes. He was, Melody thought, very attractive.

“This break is old,” Campbell said. “I'd say it happened in childhood and wasn't properly immobilized after the bone was set.”

“That's highly unusual,” Melody said.

“Only if you're applying Western standards of medicine. I think the injury was treated as a break, not a fracture. Whoever did it may not have had access to any equipment or facilities. It may not have been treated by a physician. I would imagine the victim probably had some chronic pain as a consequence.”