Bad Samaritan (10 page)

“That's a tough question to answer, Sister. I know of some of the major players, but they're ones that the police know about, too, like the owner of the Alibi Inn.”

“That place sounds vaguely familiar.”

“It's between here and Corrales, in north Rio Rancho. Once or twice a week, the police arrest someone in their parking lot for dealing.”

“That place sounds too high-profile for the type of person we're looking for. Think strictly low-budget and small-time,” Sister Agatha said. “Like a high school or college kid who maybe deals on the side.”

Chuck considered it for a moment. Suddenly his expression changed from thoughtful to hopeful. “I know who we can ask. His name's Arnie Cruz. He's a professional student at UNM.”

“A what?”

“The guy's been going to the university since he was eighteen—and he's at least in his early forties now,” Chuck said. “He used to belong to a fraternity, but they eventually kicked him out because he never would graduate. Arnie works during the summer to pay for his classes in the fall. Right now, the university's in summer session, so he's got a full-time job.”

“Any idea where? I'd like to catch him when he's getting off work—today, if possible.”

“I should go with you. Cruzer—that's what they call him—has authority issues with nuns. He had a bad experience in Catholic school.”

“I gather you know him well.”

“Well enough. He's one of my university sources, but I should warn you. He can be temperamental.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Cruzer?” Chuck laughed. “No way.”

“Then let's take the bike, and you and Pax can squeeze into the sidecar.”

“If he doesn't mind, I don't.” Chuck picked up his tape recorder and pocket-sized notebook, then patted his pocket. “Cell phone—check. Now I'm ready to roll.”

A short time later, they pulled up next to the Bernalillo Community Center. It was close to 1:00
P.M.
now, and Sister's stomach growled loudly as she switched off the motorcycle's engine.

Chuck laughed. “Yeah, me, too. Let's go inside. There are always doughnuts or something at the snack bar, or maybe we can raid one of the vending machines.”

“What kind of work does Arnie do here?” Sister Agatha asked as they stepped into the lobby.

“Don't call him Arnie when you meet him, Sister,” Chuck said. “The only thing he hates more than that is Arnold. He prefers Cruzer—from cruising through life, get it?”

“Got it.” Sister Agatha had Pax on his leash and received only a casual glance from the security guard at the front desk. “So what's he do here?” she repeated. She turned a half circle, trying to figure out which direction to go.

“He's an artist and has been teaching disabled kids how to paint. At night, he teaches sculpture to adults with disabilities,” Chuck said, motioning her down a long hallway. “I did a piece on his classes, and what struck me most is that they're not really about painting or sculpture—they're about hope.”

“He sounds like a good man.” She looked through the open door into the gym, where about thirty children were playing volleyball.

“Cruzer's got a good heart, Sister, but he's also a little strange. He could be a lot of things—artist, teacher—but he never sticks with anything.”

Sister Agatha looked ahead, then back down the hall in the direction they'd come. “Where's his classroom?”

“I'm not sure. I figured we'd stop by the office and ask.” He pointed to a sign that read
MAIN OFFICE
on the wall at the end of the corridor.

As they approached, the brightly lit room reminded her of a high school office, with a long counter near the entrance, then several smaller workstations beyond. At the far corners were doors leading to internal offices.

No one was behind the big counter, but Sister Agatha immediately recognized the plump young woman seated at the first desk on her right. She'd known Tina Ansel and her family for
years. Tina had briefly considered becoming a nun, but her path had taken her in a different direction. She was now the mother of six girls. Tina worked hard at two jobs to make ends meet but never complained. She loved being a mom, as the photos all over her desk testified.

“Hey, Sister Agatha!” Tina greeted her cheerfully. “What brings you to the BCC?”

“We're looking for Mr. Cruz's art class. Do you happen to know where it is?” she asked.

“I think Cruzer took his students outside today, Sister.” Tina glanced up at the clock on the wall. “His class will end in another five minutes, and once things get put away, he'll be coming here. Why don't you stick around? Today's payday, and nobody in the summer program ever forgets to pick up their check.” She paused, then, giving Sister Agatha a worried look, added, “Nothing's wrong, is it?”

“No, not at all,” Sister Agatha assured her quickly.

“Good,” she answered, relieved, “because Cruzer's our resident miracle worker, Sister.”

“That's quite a title,” Sister Agatha said.

“He's earned it. One ten-year-old girl who had her arms crushed in a car accident came in so depressed she'd even stopped eating. Cruzer showed her how to paint by holding the brush in her teeth. That slowly brought her out of her shell, and now she's like a regular kid again. I actually heard her laughing with some of the other art students yesterday in the hall.”

Sister Agatha's opinion of Cruzer suddenly went up several notches. Even cruising through life, the man was doing God's work.

“Those cinnamon rolls sure look good,” Chuck said and sighed wistfully, seeing the half-full box on an unoccupied desk.

Tina laughed. “You're as subtle as a freight train, Chuck.”
She picked up the box and brought it over to Sister Agatha. “You get first choice, Sister. I baked them earlier this morning for the staff, but as usual I made way too much.”

“Thank you,” Sister Agatha said, picking up a roll.

“You're very welcome,” Tina said, then held out the box for Chuck, who promptly took two.

“I need to make copies in the other room,” she said. “Enjoy!”

Although there were no class bells, it wasn't long before children's voices filled the outside hall and people began to pass by.

“See him?” Sister Agatha asked, joining Chuck at the doorway.

“There he is. He's got thin red hair and is wearing a tie-dyed shirt. And there he goes. I think he saw your habit.” Chuck hurried out into the hall. “I'm going after him. Go out the door we came in and circle around the building, toward the west side—where the employees park. If we're lucky, we'll catch him between us.”

Sister Agatha hurried out, Pax at her side, then headed west. Just as she reached the corner, she saw a man fitting Chuck's description of Cruzer coming down the sidewalk.

Cruzer stopped in midstride and stared at her in surprise.

“Hello. You must be Cruzer,” she said pleasantly. “I'm Sister Agatha from Our Lady of Hope Monastery.”

“Nuns . . . I should have known I couldn't ditch you,” he muttered with a scowl. “You guys have always been able to read my mind. Ever since high school. Spooky—real spooky. Is this about that donation I was going to make for Father Rick's chapel project? Things are really tight for me this month—”

Sister Agatha held up one hand. “That's strictly between you and Father Rick.”

“Oh, good,” he said, visibly relieved.

Seeing Chuck come out the front door, Sister Agatha waved at him.

“Yo, Cruzer,” Chuck said, joining them.

“Hey,” he muttered as the two greeted each other with fist bumps. “You with Sister A?”

“Yeah, she's the one I told you about, remember? The ex-journalist. Sister Agatha basically saved my life a few years back when I got into trouble with the wrong people.”

“I'm impressed. Good for you, Sister A. So what's going down?” he asked, looking back at Chuck.

“We just wanted to ask you a few questions about stuff you might have seen on the Fourth,” Chuck said.

He rolled his eyes. “Here we go. This is about the hot dogs again, isn't it?” he asked, looking at Chuck, then back at Sister Agatha.

“Hot dogs?” Sister Agatha asked, more curious than ever. “What do you mean?”

“The deputies and that state cop have been questioning everyone who worked the booths on the Fourth. If I'd known that Mayor Garcia and his bean counters were going to have their eye on every bleeping hot dog . . .” He looked at the ground and shook his head.

“What exactly have they been asking you?” Sister Agatha pressed, keeping her voice as casual as possible.

“They want to know who ordered hot dogs, who was watching the condiments, and if we saw anyone tampering with the food, or maybe just hanging around. Like that.” He graced them with a martyred sigh. “So okay. Call the law. I confess. I gave a few hot dogs away. Scout, that homeless guy who hangs around, kept looking at people stuffing their faces, then going back to the trash and looking for food there. After a while I couldn't stand it anymore,
so I took him a bag of unopened hot dogs. There were plenty to go around. No one went away hungry. The Garcias in particular stuffed themselves silly, taking away four or five at a time. RJ, the son of the guy who ended up dead, came by three times.”

“Is that what you think this is about—hot dogs?” Chuck asked him, surprised.

“Well, isn't it?”

Sister Agatha didn't answer. “Did you talk to him? Scout, that is.”

“Talk?” He shook his head. “No, it wasn't like that. I spotted him hanging out behind the trash cans, and Mike Herrera, who was working the concession stand with me, saw him, too. He tossed me the pack of hot dogs and told me we could afford to lose a bag. I went over to where Scout was to hand it to him, but as I got close, he gave me this panicked look and started backing off. I knew he was about to bolt, so I broke eye contract, placed the bag of hot dogs on the trash lid, and walked off. When I looked back, Scout and the hot dogs were gone.”

“I'm glad you were both watching out for him,” Sister Agatha said.

“Mike and I figured that the town wouldn't miss one bag, but judging from the way the cops have been coming down on everyone, I guessed wrong. Who'd have thought our city would actually try to track down a few hot dogs?” He shook his head. “Look, Sister, all this is penny ante, if you ask me, but I really need the job here at the center. If you turn us in, Mike and I will probably get fired. Mike will be okay, but I need the money. Summer jobs are hard to find this year, and tuition's going up again.”

“You help us, and we'll help you,” Chuck said, taking over. “We actually need a line on someone who's dealing drugs on the side—date-rape drugs, stuff like that, nothing hard-core. Most
likely an amateur. Can you nose around and see what you can find?”

“Anything specific—Rohypnol, GHB, or ketamine?” Cruzer asked.

“Huh?” Chuck asked.

“Sorry. I have fifteen hours in chemistry, and those are three of the most common benzodiazeprines—date-rape drugs.”

“Now we're on the same wavelength,” Sister Agatha said with a nod.

“So
that's
what this is all about? Someone drugged one of the ladies the other night and tried to get personal? That makes a whole lot more sense than the township getting sore over some hot dogs.” He glanced at Sister Agatha, then back at Chuck, and nodded. “Yeah, sure I'll help you.” Cruzer paused, then added, “Hey, you don't think Mike had anything to do with drugging some babe's hot dogs, do you? If you do, that's way off base.”

“Why's that?” Sister Agatha asked, allowing Cruzer to think they had something other than Robert Garcia's murder in mind.

“Mike's not only got a sweet deal with his rich new wife, but he actually loves the girl. He'd never even think of cheating on her. Besides, his father-in-law,
el mayor,
would come unglued. JD told Mike he'd bury him alive if Mike ever hurt his daughter in any way. He wasn't kidding.”

“Could be that one of Mike's friends drugged the hot dogs,” Chuck suggested, not correcting any of Cruzer's assumptions. “Or maybe put stuff in the mustard.”

“No way. I was standing there almost all the time, and when I wasn't, there were dozens of other people around us keeping watch. The mayor insisted we follow all local ordinances. We had to wear hats or hairnets, those stupid latex gloves, and keep the water at just the right temperature. He made it crystal clear
that nobody was going to get sick and blame the Garcia administration.”

“Yet you still managed to grab some hot dogs for your welfare operation,” Sister Agatha said.

“Slipping away with a bag of hot dogs from the cooler is a lot easier than drugging a hot dog on the production line. Everyone's watching you there, giving you instructions on how much mustard they want, hold the onions, more ketchup, stuff like that. You couldn't fiddle around with the food once it was on the counter, either. Half a dozen people would see you for sure.”

“Okay, Cruzer, we believe you,” Sister Agatha said. “Will you keep an eye out for anyone who's dealing and pass on any information you get?”

“Sure. I'll do my best to get a name to you in a few days.”

As they headed back to the newspaper office, the roar of the chopper would have made conversation impossible even if they hadn't been wearing helmets.

Sister Agatha parked a short time later, and Chuck climbed out of the sidecar. “Sister Agatha, I've been giving this some thought, and I'm going to stay away from you at the funeral tomorrow. Marquez is bound to be there, and it'll be better if he doesn't link us.”

“Good thinking—and thanks for your help today, Chuck.”

“No problem.”