The Replacement Child - By Christine Barber Page 0,85

had ever filed a complaint against the boyfriend who had slapped her, which, according to Judy Maes, had happened three years ago. He already knew that there was nothing. The first thing he had done after Melissa’s death was to check her record. She had never been arrested or filed a restraining order against anyone. There wasn’t even a parking ticket. Now, he was rechecking.

He also was looking at statutory-rape offenders to see if any of the men might have come in contact with Sandra Paine—someone like a teacher or a friend of her father.

At least those were the reasons he had given the officers who had asked why he was in the office just after sunrise.

He checked his watch again—seven A.M. He still had an hour until the morning shift came in. He was really checking the arrest records of Officers Ron Baca and Manny Cordova, something he couldn’t do in a room full of officers. He had spent the first hour just trying to get organized. He had looked over Ron Baca’s reports but found nothing unusual.

He was just getting started on checking Manny Cordova’s reports when someone called his name. He quickly blanked out the computer screen before looking up.

Officer Joe Phillips tossed a Capital Tribune onto Gil’s desk.

“I thought you might be interested in that story,” Phillips said, pointing to an article.

Gil started to read it. As he’d expected, it was about the toxicology results on Melissa Baca. When he got to the fifth paragraph, he realized why Phillips was showing him the paper: “According to an agenda released by the Citizens’ Police Advisory Review Committee, Melissa Baca was scheduled to go in front of the committee on Monday.” The story didn’t say why Melissa had been going to the meeting.

Gil thanked Phillips and went in search of Mrs. Sanchez, the police-station receptionist who compiled the agenda for the police advisory committee.

He found her making copies, the Xerox machine humming loudly. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun and she had on her usual brown skirt and blouse. On weekends she was part of the Motor Maids, a national group of women motorcycle riders. Last year, Mrs. Sanchez had ridden to Palm Coast, Florida, on her Honda Gold Wing for the Motor Maids national convention. Gil had a hard time thinking of Mrs. Sanchez as a leather-clad biker. He suspected that was on purpose. Gil wondered if she played the part of the grandmother at work so that her biker hobby would come as more of a shock. Her voice always had a strange pitch to it, as if she was quietly laughing at everyone.

“Detective Montoya,” she said, greeting him. The copies were flying quickly off the machine and into the holding tray.

“Mrs. Sanchez, did you put together the agenda for next week’s Citizens’ Police Advisory Review Committee?” he asked.

“Was there a typo?”

“No. I had a question about one of the items. Number five on the agenda.”

“Yes. The young woman who wanted to complain to the committee about a police officer.” Gil wondered how Mrs. Sanchez had remembered that without looking it up.

“Can you tell me about it?”

Mrs. Sanchez stopped the copy machine and looked at Gil over the rims of her glasses. “The young woman, a Miss Baca, I believe …” She stopped, considering for a second before saying, “Ahh, yes. Now I see where you’re going with this. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. But Baca is such a common last name in Santa Fe. I assume my Miss Baca is the same Miss Baca who died this week? Interesting.”

Mrs. Sanchez continued, not expecting Gil to comment. “Miss Baca called last Friday to say she had a complaint to make against a police officer. I told her about the advisory committee, and she asked me to put her on the agenda. We didn’t discuss who the officer was or the circumstances of her complaint.” If Gil had actually become a lawyer, he would have wanted a witness like Mrs. Sanchez—precise and articulate.

“Did she say anything else?”

“She did not. That’s it. I mailed out the agendas as usual.”

“Including the ones to the newspapers,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course.” She realized the problem and looked at Gil accusingly. “Of course, at the time I mailed out the agendas to the newspapers, Miss Baca was still very much alive.”

“There’s an article about it today in the Capital Tribune.”

“That’s why they were calling me last night. I swear, they called every