The Replacement Child - By Christine Barber Page 0,102

he planted the drugs in Melissa’s car.”

Adam Granger had called back while they were interviewing Manny Cordova to confirm that the dirt on the syringe in Melissa’s car could have come from the Bacas’ backyard. Gil figured that Ron had planted the syringe and heroin in Melissa’s car after leaving his mother’s house. But Granger admitted that the dirt had very few unusual characteristics, so it could have come from more than a dozen places in Santa Fe—something any good defense lawyer would point out. Or Melissa could have simply dropped the needle in her yard before putting it in her car.

Pollack continued his rant. “If we’re really lucky, we can get Ron Baca on accessory for Melissa’s murder. But as it stands, with the evidence we have right now, we’re looking at conspiracy. A goddamn conspiracy charge. He gets out in time for the Super Bowl next year—hell, he may not even do time—and Manny Cordova gets to rot behind bars.”

“How many guys do you have out looking for Ron Baca?” Gil asked.

“Pretty much everybody we could scrape up.”

“How about a search warrant on Ron’s trailer and his car?”

“We’re working on it.” Pollack started snapping again. “You know, I get why Cordova did it. I get why Strunk did it. I just don’t get Ron Baca. I mean, he helped his sister’s killer clean up. He must really be a helpful kinda guy. How does Manny’s conversation with him go: ‘Hey, Ron, I’m really sorry, dude, I killed your sister. Can you give me a hand?’”

Gil thought he might ask Mrs. Baca to explain it.

Lucy flipped through stacks of pictures in the photo department at the Capital Tribune. She had been searching for ten minutes but still hadn’t come across the photo of Scanner Lady that Mrs. Schoen had dropped off. The newsroom was deserted. It was late Saturday afternoon. No one would be in for hours yet. It had taken her a while to get used to a newsroom that basically shut down on the weekend, but Santa Fe was a small town. The newspaper didn’t need to have a staff twenty-four/seven.

She finally found the photo five minutes later in a mailbox marked TO BE ARCHIVED. The picture showed Patsy Burke sitting at a kitchen table with three other women, playing what looked like a card game. Oh, that’s right. Mrs. Schoen had said they had a bridge team. Mrs. Schoen sat across from Patsy Burke, smiling into the camera. Lucy went into the darkroom and got out a photo-magnifying glass. She peered at the face of Patsy Burke. Lucy had remembered right. Scanner Lady’s eyes were brown. Her hair was full gray. Lucy frowned. She had thought that Mrs. Burke’s hair was darker. Maybe she had dyed it recently. Lucy flipped the photo over to see if the date was written on the back. It wasn’t—but the names of the other players were. It took a second for the names to jar Lucy’s memory. When they did, she almost had to keep herself from yelling out.

She felt the need to batter her head against something. She had been the worst type of racist—someone who believes she’s not a bigot but still completely buys into the ethnic stereotypes. She had assumed that the bridge club Mrs. Schoen mentioned was made up of all Anglo women. Hispanic women don’t play bridge, right? Her and her stupid southern mentality. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Lucy glanced again at the picture on the desk. A smiling Patsy Burke sat across from her bridge partner, a smiling Claire Schoen. And seated between them were two women Lucy had never met, but she knew their names. An unsmiling Veronica Cordova sat across from her partner, a smiling Maxine Baca.

As Lucy dialed Claire Schoen’s number, she knew that she should have been calling the sheriff’s office or Detective Montoya. But that meant having to endure long conversations with them and the hope that they would call her back and tell her what Mrs. Schoen had said. It meant waiting. She couldn’t wait. Mrs. Schoen picked up on the third ring and Lucy asked her about the bridge club.

“Well, yes, I told you we were widows. I’m almost positive I said we were a bunch of police wives. All of our husbands were police officers. I said we were blue widows, right? I’m sure I did. That’s what we call ourselves, you know. It’s a dumb name, if you ask me, but all the other ladies liked it.