Death Song (19 page)

Before leaving Santa Fe, Clayton tapped into all the usual resources for tracing runaways and people who’d gone missing. The postal service, public utilities, Internet providers, phone companies, and various municipal agencies he called had no record of providing services to Riley. A more thorough state and national criminal records check showed no arrests, wants, or warrants. Motor Vehicles reported Riley as the owner of a Harley motorcycle bought last summer in Santa Fe. But the current registration listed Brian’s address as Cañoncito, which was no help at all. Because Riley owned the Harley outright, there was no lien on the cycle and thus no lender who might know where he was living.

Clayton checked for traffic violations and found none. He put out a statewide APB on Riley and the Harley, with an advisory that the boy was a person of interest in the investigation of the murders of his father and stepmother. To give his bulletin greater emphasis, Clayton personally called law enforcement agencies in the greater Albuquerque area to give them a heads-up about the search for Riley. He asked each high-ranking officer he contacted to query all sworn personnel to see if anyone had any knowledge whatsoever about the boy.

Still hoping to find an address for Riley, Clayton contacted the company that insured the motorcycle, called cable and satellite companies that provided home television and broadband services, and made inquiries at the circulation desks of local newspapers. He struck out every time and was left thinking that Riley was probably staying under the radar by living with someone—possibly a girl named Stanley.

But why? Was it a deliberate attempt to avoid being found, or simply the footloose lifestyle of a kid out on his own for the very first time? If Riley hadn’t hooked up and moved in with Stanley or some other college girl, Clayton couldn’t discount the possibility that the boy was either homeless or floating from one crash pad to the next in the subculture of dropouts that every college and university attracted. But he wasn’t about to start querying the social service agencies and emergency shelters in Albuquerque that served the down-and-out until all other possibilities were exhausted.

He kept working the phone. Major credit card companies reported nothing useful. No area detention centers had a recent arrest of a Brian Riley that had yet to hit the system. No cell phone providers had signed up a Brian Riley for new service. None of the dozen public, private, and for-profit universities, colleges, and trade schools in Albuquerque showed a past or present enrollment for Brian Riley or a female student with the unusual given name of Stanley.

Playing a long shot, Clayton asked Detective Matt Chacon to see if he could find a young female named Stanley in any state public records database. Matt told Clayton he’d give it a try, but not to hold out too much hope.

On that upbeat note, Clayton drove to Albuquerque, rented a room at a budget motel just off Interstate 25 close to downtown, and ordered a meal at a nearby family-style franchise restaurant. It was one of those places that offered breakfast twenty-four hours a day and made up silly names for their specialty menu items.

Except for the short trip down from Santa Fe, it was the first time Clayton had been alone all day, and it gave him a chance to catch his breath, set aside thoughts of the investigation, and mull over last night’s conversation with Kerney.

He’d jumped at the opportunity to take the search for Brian Riley out of Ramona Pino’s hands as a way to avoid spending a second consecutive night as Kerney’s houseguest. It wasn’t that Clayton was uncomfortable with Kerney and his family, or that he’d decided not to return as their guest. On the contrary, he’d felt welcomed last night and was happy that he’d finally broken the ice with Kerney.

But his oblique, partial apology for being frequently impolite, often brusque, and habitually standoffish to a man who’d never been less than gracious and generous wasn’t good enough. He had to do a better job of explaining his past bad behavior, and he wanted to think about how to approach it before proceeding.

Clayton knew his shoddy behavior was a direct offshoot of a lifetime spent trying to deny his Anglo blood. Kerney had probably already sensed it, but it was Clayton’s responsibility to spell it out. How to do it without coming off as a complete pigheaded, prejudiced jerk was the question, and it was still bouncing around in his head unanswered when he looked up from his plate to see a long-haired, unshaven man dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and motorcycle boots approach his booth.

“Are you Sergeant Istee?” the man asked, flashing an APD shield.

“I am.”

“Santa Fe dispatch told me where to find you.” The officer sat across from Clayton. “Detective Lee Armijo, APD Narcotics.”

“I never would have guessed it,” Clayton said with a smile, shaking Armijo’s hand.

“I haven’t seen the kid you’re looking for,” Armijo said, “but I sure have seen his Harley.”

“Where?”

“First time, up by the university. We got a tip about a drug dealer who was selling product to college students out of a house near the campus. We ran surveillance on him for two nights, sent in an undercover officer posing as a student to make a buy, and as soon as it went down we busted the dealer and shut him down.”

“That’s solid police work,” Clayton said, “but how does it help me find Brian Riley?”

Armijo reached into a jacket pocket. “We photographed and identified everyone who went into the place during our surveillance. Ran license plate checks also.”

He handed Clayton a high-quality black-and-white photograph of a slender woman throwing her leg over the seat of a motorcycle. “That’s the bike plate on your ABP,” Armijo added.

Clayton nodded in agreement. The motorcycle make and model squared with the one Riley had bought in Santa Fe, and the clearly readable license plate matched the MVD registration records. The woman in the photograph had her face turned away from the camera.

“Please tell me this is a photo of a young woman named Stanley something,” he said.

Armijo laughed. “You ain’t heard the half of it. Her full legal name is Minerva Stanley Robocker. Quite the moniker, isn’t it? She’s a server at a downtown bar that’s popular with the college and young professional crowd. Age twenty-two, single, college dropout originally from a small farming town in Iowa. She’s been here about two and a half years. Has a clean sheet. No wants and warrants. No outstanding traffic citations. According to the dealer we busted, Minerva, aka Stanley, bought small amounts of pot from him on a regular basis, probably for her own use. But just to be sure she wasn’t reselling it to her customers at the nightclub, we kept a close watch on her for a while. As far as we could tell, Minerva is just one of the many young adults in our fair city who enjoy getting high on illegal substances during their free time.”

“Is Brian Riley staying with her?” Clayton asked.

Armijo shook his head. “Negative. Like I said, I’ve only seen his motorcycle, never him. In fact, Minerva seems to have taken full possession of the bike. It’s always parked at her place and she switches back and forth between driving her car or riding the Harley. I’m figuring Riley either sold it to her and she hasn’t reregistered it yet, he’s out of town and left it with her for safekeeping, or something else is going on that is yet to be determined.”

“That about covers all the bases,” Clayton said with a smile. “What else can you tell me about her?”

“She’s never been married, and lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment. When Stanley, as she likes to be called, isn’t serving drinks, she’s either sleeping, shopping, running errands, or clubbing with friends at some of the popular watering holes. Except for smoking pot, she’s not engaged in any other illegal activity we know about. But when it comes to men, Minerva isn’t a prude, that’s for sure. A couple of guys spent the night at her apartment during the short time we kept an eye on her. Of course, we can only assume what may have occurred.”

“Of course. Do you still have her under surveillance?”

Armijo shook his head. “Not even. Minerva Stanley Robocker is your typical recreational user. She isn’t going to lead us to any of the major traffickers along the I-25 drug pipeline.”

“Do you mind if I question her about Riley?” Clayton asked.

“Be my guest, although I’d like to tag along.”

Clayton motioned to the waitress to bring the check. “I’d appreciate the company.”

“Good deal,” Armijo said. “Now tell me why Riley’s a person of interest in these homicides. Do you really think there’s a chance he killed his father and stepmother?”

Clayton took the check from the waitress and handed her a twenty. When she walked away to make change, he said, “It’s impossible to say one way or the other.”

“Did he have motive, opportunity, and means?” Armijo asked.

Clayton put a healthy tip on the table. “Now you’re asking me those tough legal questions that never have any easy answers.”

Armijo chuckled and stood. “You don’t have squat on this kid, do you?” he said as the waitress brought Clayton his change.

“That’s exactly right.” Clayton pocketed several bills and left the rest. “Which is why he’s only a person of interest for now. Where will we find Minerva Stanley Robocker tonight?”

“Serving liquid refreshments to the sports crowd in the nightclub lounge while they watch college ESPN basketball on the fifty-inch high-definition, wall-mounted plasma television.”

“Sounds like loads of fun,” Clayton said. “Lead on.”

“You can leave your unit at the motel,” Armijo said, “and I’ll drive you there.”

Clayton quickly accepted Armijo’s offer. He still wasn’t feeling all that comfortable about driving Tim Riley’s S.O. unit. The vehicle was one of the last things Riley had touched before his murder, and the thought that he might still be hanging around continued to creep Clayton out.

The downtown nightclub on Central Avenue was buzzing with a mixture of hip grad students from the university, young, single professionals, and affluent thirty-something couples. The décor was industrial chic, with exposed heating and air-conditioning ductwork suspended from the ceiling, high-tech halogen lights on long, flexible metallic elbows, steel girders painted a rust red, polished aluminum wall panels, and large mirrors strategically mounted to give patrons a view of themselves as they mingled and flirted. In the lounge area, two wide-screen wall-mounted high-definition televisions on opposite walls had attracted a noisy crowd of customers watching a basketball game. Three very attractive female servers dressed in tailored black slacks and tight-fitting scoop-neck tops dipped, scooted, and swerved their way around the patrons, delivering drinks and bar food.

Armijo pointed out Minerva Stanley Robocker, who was by far the best-looking server of the trio. She had curly blond hair, a slender body, and high cheekbones above full, rosy lips. “You’ll want to talk to her outside,” Armijo said. “I’ll bring her to you.”

Clayton nodded and watched Armijo intercept Robocker as she stepped to the bar to unload empty glasses and place a fresh drink order. She looked unhappy when Armijo flashed his shield, and then balked and shook her head when he pointed toward the exit. Armijo put his shield away, said something, and pointed at Clayton.

Robocker cast a frosty look in Clayton’s direction, put her tray on the bar, said something to the bartender, and walked with Armijo toward the exit. Clayton caught up with them at the door. Outside, with Armijo behind the wheel of his unmarked police car, Clayton joined Robocker in the backseat.

“This could get me fired,” Robocker said before Clayton uttered a word.

“Relax,” Armijo said as he cranked the engine, turned on the car heater, and switched on the dome light. “I’ll square it with your boss.”

“You’d better,” Minerva Stanley Robocker replied as she stared at Clayton. “So what kind of cop are you? Navajo Tribal Police? Isleta Pueblo? Something like that?”

“Why don’t you let me ask the questions?” Clayton countered.

“You look like one of the Indian policemen in the television movies that have been made from those Tony Hillerman novels set on the Navajo Rez. I saw a rerun of one on public TV recently.”

“My name is Sergeant Istee, Ms. Robocker. I’m with the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office and we’re investigating the murders of Brian Riley’s father and stepmother. Since you’ve been riding his Harley lately, we thought you might know where he is.”

Stanley put her hand to her throat. “His father and stepmother have been murdered?”

“Yes. We need to find Brian and tell him what’s happened.”

“He’s probably in North Carolina. He went back there to visit some friends.”

“When was that?” Clayton asked.

“Four weeks ago,” Stanley replied. “Maybe a little longer.”

“Have you heard from him since he left?”

Stanley shook her head. “No.”

“Have any of your friends?”

Her gaze shifted away from Clayton’s face. “No.”

“Okay,” he said, reading the lie. “Sometime last year you went up to Santa Fe with him. Tell me about that.”

Stanley shrugged a shoulder. “It was just a day trip. We rode up on his Harley. I’d only been to Santa Fe once or twice before, and he offered to show me around.”

“I was told he introduced you as his girlfriend.”

Stanley laughed. “That was a little fib on his part. I let him get away with it to impress a friend of his. Brian’s way too young for me. He’s like a kid brother, nothing more.”

“There’s no romantic involvement between the two of you?” Clayton queried.

Stanley waved her hand to dismiss the ludicrous notion. “No way.”

“Didn’t you tell Brian’s Santa Fe friends that you were a college student?” he asked.

“I don’t know where they got that impression. I may have said something about going back to school someday. What does any of this have to do with finding Brian?”

Clayton smiled. Stanley’s obvious irritation made him believe she was hiding something. He decided to see if he could annoy her some more. “I’m simply trying to get everything clear in my mind. How did Brian support himself?”