can I get your business card? I’m sure I’m going to have to call to get more information once the investigation gets started.”
Mike pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to Gil, saying, “Thanks.” He stopped to shake the hands of the Protectores before getting in his truck and speeding off.
Gil went back over to Liz, who was packing up her gear. “How’s Shelly?” he asked, just to make small talk, hoping the normalcy of it would quiet his worms of worry.
“She was fine until she got a bug up her butt about moving out to Eldorado after your wife told her how good the schools are,” Liz said. “Have you and Susan found a place up there yet?”
“We have to wait until we sell our house in town.”
“Did you do the upside-down statue of St. Joseph?” Liz asked. “My cousin did that and he didn’t even have to list his house. Some guy out of the blue comes up to him wanting to buy it.”
“Yeah, we did that.”
“Did you bury it in the backyard, not the front?”
“Yeah, it’s just the market,” Gil said. “Susan wants us to buy a place in Eldorado even if it doesn’t sell.”
“And leave you with two mortgages? Hell no.”
Gil was helping Liz load her equipment back into her van when Santa Fe police chief Bill Kline pulled up in his black SUV. Kline got out, along with Captain Paul Garcia, who was the department spokesman.
He heard Liz say, “The big boys are here,” as the men came walking over.
Kline said, “Liz,” as a way of greeting. Gil told the men all that he knew: It was the skull of a small child who did not die in the fire.
Kline nodded, saying, “How long will it take to get an ID?”
“I don’t know,” Liz said. “It’s an hour drive down to Albuquerque, and then I’ll have to call in our skeletal specialist . . . it’ll be at least two hours or probably closer to three before I can tell you anything. An ID is probably going to take a lot longer, until at least next week. We could end up with inconclusive results because the bone sample was too weathered or damaged in the fire. Who knows. This is going to be a mess no matter how we slice it.”
“If it’s her . . .” Garcia said, trailing off.
If it was her, all hell would break loose.
CHAPTER THREE
Friday Morning
Santa Fe Municipal Court Judge Victor Otero pulled yet another paper from the stack and firmly, without flourish, signed his name. He flipped the paper smoothly over onto a pile laid neatly next to his elbow. He checked his watch. It was 7:55 A.M. Time to head into court. He was starting court early today because of fiesta. Most city workers had the day off. Since he was one of the Protectores de la Fiesta, he had been at Zozobra until almost 2:00 A.M., but he didn’t feel tired.
He stood, sliding his chair neatly under the huge oak desk, which had been used by every municipal judge since 1902. It had been his since 1994. He would move it to his office at home when he retired.
He took his robe off the coat hanger and zipped it up. He headed to the bathroom off his office to check his reflection. He looked intently at himself in the mirror. He straightened his red tie, just visible under this robe. His hair was less than a quarter inch from touching his ears. He would need to get it trimmed within the next week. He always went to Earl’s Barbershop, as his father and grandfather had before him. The Earl in charge now was Earl Junior. Earl charged him seven dollars for a trim and sold some of the best green chile in town, but the judge went there mainly for information, as did state senators, the police chief, and the mayor. Or used to. In the past twenty years, things had changed. Only the old-timers still went to Earl’s.
He glanced at his watch. Precisely eight o’clock. He took one last look in the mirror, then one last look at his office, making sure everything was in its place before going out into the courtroom.
Lucy stared down at the ground. Tiny rocks of every hue pockmarked the pink-beige earth. Periwinkle blue, dark chocolate, butterscotch. They were like a scattering of jelly beans from a knocked-over box. Bite-sized and smooth. She bent down and picked up a