Death Song (26 page)

Denise had indeed used repetitive phrases and stock comments throughout her letters. No matter where she’d roamed, all the men she’d hooked up with were outdoor type guys who loved sports. Almost universally, she would characterize them to Helen as “footloose and fun-loving—not ready to settle down.” When she worked, her jobs were always “boring, but paid the rent.” When she wrote about adapting to new customs, struggling to learn foreign language phrases, describing the people she encountered, recounting an excursion to a landmark destination, experiencing exotic cuisine, very little detail went with it. It was as though Denise had lifted her imagery, facts, and experiences from travel guides.

There were seventy-eight letters in total, some of them lengthy, many of them short, but only five letters had any cross-outs or strikeovers, and the total number of misspelled words could be counted on both hands.

Was Denise Riley one of the most exacting and error-free correspondents ever? It was possible, but Kerney doubted it. The era of letter-writing was long gone, a victim of computers, the Internet, and e-mail. Even if Denise was a throwback inclined to write leisurely letters to her older sister, surely once in a while a note home would have been dashed off in a scribbled hurry. There was none of that in the packet of correspondence.

Kerney suddenly realized that not once in any of her letters did Denise refer to sending home snapshots of the places she’d visited, the people she’d met, or the men she’d supposedly fallen in love with. He picked up the phone and dialed Helen Muiz’s number. Ruben answered.

“How are things going?” he asked.

“I’ll be honest with you, it’s been rough,” Ruben replied. “Just getting her up and dressed in the morning is turning into a major feat. I’ve talked her into letting me make an appointment for her to see a therapist.”

“That’s a wise thing for her to do. How are you holding up?”

“I’m hanging in. Do you need to speak to Helen?”

“Maybe you can answer my question. In Denise’s letters home, did she ever enclose any photographs of the places she’d lived, her boyfriends, the excursions she’d made, or the tourist attractions she’d visited?”

“Never. She said she was too busy, felt that a camera made her look like a tourist and that she just wanted to blend in and experience the world rather than taking pictures of it.”

“There’s no explanation of that in her letters to Helen.”

“Helen had a phone conversation with Denise about a year or two after she’d left Santa Fe. That’s when the subject came up.”

“Didn’t you or Helen or the other family members think it odd that Denise wouldn’t want to share a photograph or two of her world travels and adventures, the men she lived with, the new friends she’d made?”

“Of course, but you have to understand that Denise had a habit of completely shutting down on a subject once she decided she didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It was one of her ways of establishing limits. Broaching a forbidden subject with her got you an icy stare or the cold shoulder. If it was a serious infraction, you could be completely frozen out of her life for months at a time until she decided to forgive you.”

“And the family tolerated this behavior?”

“She could also be charming, loving, and irresistible, Kerney. She was the eccentric, uncontrollable kid sister who got to break all the rules.”

“You’ve been a big help, Ruben,” Kerney said. “Thanks.”

“Is there anything you want me to tell Helen?”

“Just let her know that we’re still looking for Brian Riley and I’m taking Denise’s letters to the state crime lab for analysis.”

“Okay.”

“Ruben.”

“What?”

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

Ruben laughed. “Yeah, sure.”

Kerney disconnected, put Denise’s letters in a large, clear plastic evidence folder, and made the quick drive from police headquarters to the Department of Public Safety, the umbrella organization of the New Mexico State Police.

Once buzzed past reception, he first went to check in with his old friend, Chief Andy Baca, and found him behind his big desk signing paperwork. Andy looked up, grinned, and waved him in the direction of the couch that faced the desk.

“What’s that in your hand?” Andy asked, sweeping the paperwork to one side.

Kerney sat on the couch and put the evidence envelope on the coffee table. “Letters from Denise Riley to her sister Helen that I’d like the Questioned Documents Unit to look at pronto.”

Andy joined him on the couch. “You got it, amigo. Cop killings go to the front of the line at our crime lab, no questions asked. Now that there are two dead officers, everything else goes on the back burner.”

“I know that, but a phone call from you while I’m on my way over there will surely add to their eagerness to be helpful.”

“No problem.” Andy eyed Kerney speculatively. “Do you really hope to break this case before you retire?”

Kerney nodded. “But it’s looking less and less likely.”

“And are you sure retiring is what you want to do? You’ve been in law enforcement your entire adult life. It’s not that easy to walk away from something you enjoy doing. Believe me, I know.”

Andy had retired from the state police as a captain, found it not to his liking, got himself elected as a county sheriff for two four-year terms, and had returned to Santa Fe after being appointed chief of the state police by the governor.

“I’m ready for a change,” Kerney said.

“That’s not the same thing as saying you’re ready to stop being a cop.”

“I’m going to find out what it’s like to be an American living in London. We’ll tour the continent as time allows, and when Sara is busy at work, I’ll take Patrick fishing.”

“You don’t even like to fish.”

“Don’t take what I’m saying literally. I’m talking leisure time, recreational activities, sightseeing, expanding cultural horizons, soaking up European history.”

Andy grunted and got to his feet. “Save me from grand tour of the continent rap. Connie called me a while ago to report that Sara has invited us to your house for dinner on Saturday night.”

Kerney raised an eyebrow. Since coming home, Sara had showed little interest in food and virtually no interest in cooking. This was good news.

“You didn’t know?”

“Nope, but I’m damn glad to hear it.”

“She’s coming along okay?”

Kerney laughed. “Seems the more I stay out of her hair the better she gets.”

“Well, that’s a no-brainer,” Andy replied as Kerney headed for the door.

At the crime lab, Kerney met with the Questioned Documents expert and her assistant, who took the packet of letters and envelopes and immediately began recording the transfer of the evidence to the lab on an official form.

“Is there anything special we should be looking for?” Claire Paley asked.

In her fifties, Claire was rail-thin, wore bifocals that perched on the end of her small nose, had long dark hair pulled back in a bun that was always unraveling, and talked in a voice that was childlike in tone. As a result, she came across as a woman on the verge of becoming completely undone, but she was highly competent and extremely bright.

“Look at everything,” Kerney replied. “From what I can tell, the victim used several types of stationery. If possible, identify the makers and check any watermarks against the FBI database. Also, I’d like to know if the stamps and cancellation marks are authentic, and there are a few strike-outs and cross-overs I’d like you to analyze. If you can read any impressions on the paper under the handwriting, that could be very helpful. Run a test on the inks used. I’m particularly interested in knowing the origin of the paper, envelopes, and ink. Are they of domestic or foreign manufacture?”

“What else?” Claire asked.

“I’ve included a recent sample of the victim’s handwriting for comparison to help you determine if any of the letters were forged. To my untrained eye, it looks like the letters are all in the victim’s cursive script, but that may not be so.”

Claire’s assistant handed her a letter and envelope that Kerney had placed in clear plastic sleeves, and she gave them both a long look.

“Excellent cursive writing,” Claire said. “I’d bet that she was educated in Catholic schools.”

“And you’d win,” Kerney said. “How could you tell?”

“Because except for the Catholic schools, teaching cursive penmanship is fast becoming a lost art.”

“You’re probably right. But then so is letter-writing. Send everything to latent prints when you’ve finished. I’ll drop off fingerprint cards to them on my way out.”

“Chief Baca called to say you want results quickly.”

“Burn the midnight oil, Claire. We need a break on this case. Two police officers and two civilians have been murdered in cold blood, an eighteen-year-old boy has gone missing and is on the run, and we’ve yet to nail down one substantial bit of evidence that can point us in the right direction.”

“You’ve got it, Chief. After all, we can’t have you looking like you’re up shit’s creek without a paddle,” Claire said sweetly in her breathless twelve-year-old-girlish voice.

On the drive to Santa Fe, Clayton listened carefully to APD and state police radio traffic in the hope that Brian Riley would be taken into custody and thus make the search of the Cañoncito property unnecessary. But by the time he climbed La Bajada Hill, Riley was still at large.

Although the sky in Clayton’s rearview mirror was a crisp, cold, clear winter blue, facing him was a ground-hugging storm that blanketed Santa Fe, hid the mountains, and swept wind-driven snow across the Interstate, slowing traffic to a crawl. He switched on his overhead emergency lights, headlights, and warning flashers, and kept moving, passing motorists stalled on the side of the highway and a jackknifed semi that had wound up on its side in the median.

Clayton stopped to check on the trucker. He made sure the man was unhurt, determined that the load was not hazardous—the driver was hauling kitchen appliances—set out flares behind the trailer, and called regional dispatch to send assistance.

Clayton bundled the trucker in a blanket and sat with him in his unit with the heat cranked up, waiting for the state police and a wrecker to arrive.

“I’m sure glad you came along,” the trucker, a man named Bailey Mobley, said.

“Yeah.” Through the swirling snow and dark gray squall clouds Clayton could see the first flicker of blue sky. The storm was moving fast, traveling southwesterly, but it was leaving behind a good six inches of heavy, wet snow on the pavement, perhaps more closer to the mountains. He wondered if the road to Cañoncito would be passable.

He thought about asking Ramona Pino to bring her detectives and meet him at the Riley double-wide for a ground search, but decided the place was probably under deep snow, which made the chances of finding anything in the current conditions remote at best.

Bailey Mobley said something that Clayton didn’t catch. “What was that?” he asked.

“Can I smoke in your squad car?” Mobley asked, showing a pack of cigarettes.

“No, you can’t.”

Mobley smiled sourly, got out of the unit, closed the door, pulled the blanket over his head, turned his back to the wind, and lit up.

The radio squawked. A patrol officer was en route, ETA five minutes. Through the windshield, Clayton could see that the sliver of blue sky had turned into a swath and the branches of the trees at the side of the highway were no longer being whipped by gale-force wind gusts.

Except for the little sleep he’d caught earlier, Clayton had been up for at least thirty hours, and the idea of delaying a search of the Rileys’ property and getting a good night’s rest was very appealing. He’d almost talked himself into going straight to Kerney’s ranch and crashing in the guest quarters, when it occurred to him that having been scared out of Albuquerque, Brian Riley might well be on his way back to the double-wide.

Granted, there was nothing Clayton knew that pointed to that possibility, but conversely there was nothing that argued against it. As a precaution, it only made sense to look for him at the double-wide. He should have thought of it a whole lot sooner, and being tired wasn’t an excuse for his lapse of smarts.

He glanced out the windshield. Traffic was moving slowly on the highway, vehicles throwing up gobs of icy spray from the slushy snow. Up ahead Clayton could see the approaching emergency lights of a state police cruiser. It brought to mind the deer that had crashed into his unit and the image of Paul Hewitt and Tim Riley hurrying to him to see if he’d been injured. It seemed as though all that had happened months, not days, ago.

Just as the state cop rolled to a stop, Bailey Mobley opened the passenger door to the unit and stuck his head inside, his breath reeking of tobacco smoke. He shook Clayton’s hand and gave him the wadded-up blanket. “Thanks again.”

“Glad you weren’t hurt, Mr. Mobley,” Clayton replied as he got out of his unit and walked with the trucker to meet the state cop.

After introducing himself and turning Mobley over to the state cop, he asked how the roads were northeast of the city.

“Where do you need to get to?” the officer asked.

“The lower Cañoncito area.”

“It’s probably snowpacked but manageable in your four-by-four. But the Interstate is closed in both directions just north of there at Glorieta Pass.”

“How long has it been closed?” Clayton asked.

“Two hours.”

“Any motorcyclists waiting to get through?” Clayton asked. He gave the officer a description of Brian Riley and his Harley.

“We’re all looking for him,” the officer replied. “Let me ask.” He keyed his handheld and asked the uniforms at the roadblock if anyone matching the description of Riley and his Harley had been spotted waiting for the highway to be reopened. The reply came back negative.

Clayton thanked the officer and drove on. The clouds had lifted over Santa Fe to reveal foothills and mountaintops covered in a white blanket of snow. Against the backdrop of a blue sky, the frosted radio and microwave transmission towers on the high peaks looked like man-made stalagmites poking toward the heavens.