Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Read online

  “Maybe he's just sore-footed from all those dates,” Martín said, grinning.

  “Well, we can only hope and pray.” I was dying to hear if he knew that Alberto had been up at the Riata, which meant that Cori Elena had not spent the night with her father. From his cheery manner I doubted whether he had heard the news and I sure wasn't going to share it with him.

  “I'm taking salt out early tomorrow, chiquita. Want to come?”

  Ah, there it was. Something was definitely up. As kids we'd often gone out together to drop salt blocks in the pastures. While some of the salt could be dumped from a truck, a lot of the higher pastures were only accessible by horseback. Over the years, Martín and I had spent a lot of time together setting out salt, checking on cattle and riding fence. It was the one time we had where each of us gave our uninterrupted attention to the other. Was that what Martín was looking for?

  “I'll have to check my schedule, I've got a new case I'm working on. Let me make a few calls, and I'll let you know.”

  “J.B.'s keeping you pretty busy, huh?”

  While I had said nothing to Martín about my new client, news on the small town telegraph travels fast.

  “We'll talk, Martín,” I said as I started up Priscilla.

  I stopped at the stagecoach office and checked my answering machine. There was a message from Peter Van Thiessen returning my call as to when we could get together, one from Charley Bell wanting to know how I was getting along with my new computer, and one from Emily Rose. The old schoolhouse clock read 4:48 so I returned Em's call first.

  Sharon Roberts answered the phone.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Sharon was a filing clerk and not usually the one to answer the telephone. “Roberta's out sick. Guess you want Emily, huh?”

  Without waiting for my answer the call was transferred.

  “Do I have to guess what color your hair is this morning?” I asked. It was a running joke because Emily Rose was always screwing around with her crowning glory. It drove her husband nuts and amused the rest of us.

  “Don't believe that business about rather being dead than red,” she said. “That's a hint.”

  She hadn't been a redhead for at least a year, but I guess that had changed. Suddenly my world was getting full of them—Jodie Austin, Clarice and now Emily Rose.

  “The Van Thiessen toxicology report is in. Thought you'd like to know.”

  “Don't keep me in suspense.”

  “They found a blood alcohol of .15.” She snapped her gum in my ear.

  “Wow, she must have been pretty tanked.”

  “Bad pun,” Em said. “It's here somewhere. I know you'll want the specifics.”

  I heard the rustling of paper.

  “We had a little Prozac.”

  Prozac? She was rich, thin, beautiful and a newlywed. Why in the hell would she have been on Prozac?

  “And then it got interesting. We had an anonymous tip.”

  “What kind of a tip?”

  “The caller suggested we run a screen for ketamine.”

  “What in the hell is that?”

  “It's a veterinary thing.”

  “Used for what?”

  “It's one of a class of drugs known as dissociative agents and a distant cousin to PCP. Definitely hallucinogenic.”

  While I'd never heard of ketamine, I knew PCP was weird stuff. From what I'd read, after taking Angel Dust even the puniest grandmother had a good chance of disabling an entire SWAT team.

  “Dissociative?”

  “Users report that when they're on it, it feels as though their mind is separated from the body. It's also an anesthetic, so they don't feel pain. Date rape ring a bell?”

  “That's the drug they use?”

  “One of them. Turns you into a zombie. You can be alert, but you can't move.”

  Suddenly I thought of the fake bull tracks that Sanders and I had seen and the places where we'd also spotted smudged sock prints near the fake bull. At the time I'd said that Abby would have had to have been awake to be carried piggyback over to the pond. From the sounds of the toxicology results she could have been awake, but in a zombie state, unable to walk on her own or to defend herself against whoever was carrying her off.

  “Abby never struck me as a user, J.B. either. I knew they drank a bit, but drugs …”

  “We don't think she was a user either. It was in her stomach.”

  “And?” I had no idea what that implicated.

  “Special K is a very versatile little number. It can be injected, or taken orally. But—and this is an important distinction—most users get the powder and snort it.”

  “So if you found it in her stomach, then she would have had to have eaten it.”

  “Or drunk it. Probably disguised in something else since it's pretty nasty-tasting stuff. While we've got her stomach contents, there's no way of telling if the ketamine went in with the steak, or the alcohol.”

  “So she couldn't have taken it deliberately that way?”

  “Operative word is wouldn't. Highly unlikely. They were out in the toolies, just the two of them. If they were steady users they would have had the powder, and she would have snuffed that.”

  “How easy would it have been to get?”

  “On the streets, a breeze. Or from a cooperating veterinarian.”

  “I've never heard of it.”

  “It's primarily used as an anesthetic for immobilizing cats and monkeys.”

  No wonder I wasn't familiar with the drug. There weren't many monkeys on the Vaca Grande.

  “What in the hell was she doing with that?” I asked, thinking out loud.

  “Funny, that's the same question the docs down here are asking. The detectives were in a while ago conferencing with them.”

  Shit. If a veterinary drug had anything to do with Abby's death, J.B. was going to be in an even bigger pile of caca. The detectives were already looking for a murder and they would be asking the same classic questions I was. Who had the desire, the opportunity and the motive to kill Abigail Van Thiessen?

  Clearly, J.B. had the opportunity and the motive, for money was always a strong contender in the motive department. Desire was what I was wrestling with. Did J.B. want to kill his wife? And had he? He'd been around animals all his life and getting a veterinary drug would have been easy.

  Too easy, my brain whispered.

  20

  I THOUGHT ABOUT THE KETAMINE ON AND OFF AS MARTÍN and I rode the next morning. As we started climbing into the higher elevations, it was a relief to be leaving the parched Sonoran desert behind.

  The brittlebush and ocotillo had gone dormant, leaving their leaves on the desert floor in an effort to conserve what little water they could suck up. The prickly pear cactus was now as flat as thin battered pancakes and the giant saguaros looked like they'd been fasting. The animals weren't doing much better. Other than the tanks and few natural springs, all the arroyos and water holes had dried up. With the humidity hovering around 7 percent and the nighttime temperatures refusing to plunge below 80 degrees, everything had been sucked out of the desert. Some of the birds had flown to cooler climates and the remaining animals were forced to scavenge for water at night, and hunker down in their burrows during the day.

  We talked very little as we rode, mostly about the lame bull. Martín, after doctoring his sore foot, had turned him out in the holding pasture where he could keep an eye on him.

  We'd watered the horses and pack mule at two tanks on the ride up, and Martín and I were also drinking lots of water this morning. While the desert animals have adapted to drought conditions, we aren't as versatile. If we lose 6 percent of our weight to dehydration we're distressed, 10 percent we're confused and unable to help ourselves. Fifteen percent? Forget it. We shut down entirely and have to count on a fairy godmother to save us.

  A Gambel's quail, on the other hand, can lose a full 50 percent of its body weight without ill effects, which gives it the gold medal for vertebrates in terms of dehydration
tolerance.

  Thinking of such physiological things as dehydration brought me back to thinking about the date rape drug, ketamine. How much would it take to turn someone into a zombie? Em had said that it was nasty-tasting stuff, so how would you disguise it? And, more importantly, who wanted Abby dead and why? While I wouldn't find any of my answers out here, it was as good a place as any to mull over the possibilities.

  The problem with being as rich as Abigail Van Thiessen is that someone would always benefit from your death. In her case there were a lot of someones— J.B., Lateef Wise, José and Gloria Covarrubias, Laurette Le Blanc. While the temptation was to go to the guys who would inherit the most, I had to also consider that the combined $58,000 the Covarrubiases would inherit could also be a strong motive. Why had José decided to go to town when he knew I wanted to talk to him? Did he have something to hide? And the five grand that had been bequeathed to Laurette Le Blanc could stretch a ways on the local St. Martin economy. After what I'd learned from Clarice Martínez I couldn't overlook Jodie Austin either.

  Halfway up the mountain Martín and I unloaded the salt blocks from the panniers that Old Hadley, the ranch pack mule and escape artist of the Vaca Grande, was carrying. All of us—horses and mule included—were dripping with sweat as the Arizona sun beat down upon us.

  Dream, Martín's horse, Chapo, and the mule were moving more slowly now as they began their climb to 5,500 feet. Just before nine, after scrambling through manzanita, scrub oak and juniper we finally hit Samaniego Springs.

  The Catalina Mountains still towered ahead of us and La Cienega was spread out below. On the western horizon, I could just make out Picacho Peak.

  We tied the horses under a couple of alligator juniper trees, letting them cool off before we'd offer them water. Old Hadley was hobbled and nibbling at what was left of the dry, brown grass.

  Martín and I sat on a log in front of an old fire ring. Samaniego Springs, used by hunters for years, had been set up as a utilitarian camp. Various corroded pots and pans hung from trees, a ratty blue tarp used for shelter was rolled and tucked under a large boulder, and a wooden-lidded box was partially hidden behind a huge stand of oaks. From my previous visits I knew that the box contained provisions—canned peaches, beans, tomato sauce, even toothpaste. As long as we'd been coming up here no one had ever destroyed anything. Occasionally the canned goods would change, I imagine replaced by whoever had used them.

  It had almost been too hot to talk all morning and what chitchat we'd done had been idle; nothing serious had floated to the surface of our conversation. Maybe I'd been wrong about Martín's wanting to talk. Perhaps he'd just wanted company on the ride.

  Even at the higher elevation it was really too hot to even think about eating, but we ended up splitting a granola bar.

  Finally Martín began talking.

  “I have some bad news, chiquita,” he began.

  While I'd thought he was going to tell me about Cori Elena's not spending the night with her father in Oracle, what he said next absolutely stunned me.

  “Carmen Orduño is missing.”

  I felt as though someone had just kicked me in the belly. Suddenly the day had taken a dark turn. The disappearance of Cori Elena's best friend from Magdalena could only mean trouble for all of us.

  “What do you mean she's missing?”

  “She got home and disappeared the next day. Her husband's looking everywhere.”

  “How'd you find out?”

  “He called Alberto looking for her. He told Cori Elena and Cori Elena told me.”

  “Maybe she left him,” I offered, not really believing it myself.

  Martín shook his head. “Cori Elena says she was happily married.”

  “Shit.”

  “If Rafael Félix went after Carmen to find Cori Elena …” Martín picked at his granola bar, tossing pieces of it into the brush.

  It seemed a hell of a time to tell me that evil goons might assault his girlfriend and my ranch when I was miles from it. But then, Martín, while predictable in some ways, was a loose cannon in others. Besides, if they came for Cori Elena, they'd probably do it at night. Or when the cavalry wasn't home. Like this morning.

  “She would have told her husband about Cori, wouldn't she?” I asked, trying to put together the pieces.

  “Cori Elena says no. She said that Carmen would never have given her up.”

  “So what gives her that much faith in her comadre?”

  Martin stared off at the horizon. “She had an affair in Magdalena.”

  “Cori Elena?”

  “No, Carmen. Cori Elena covered for her. If Orduño had ever found out, he'd have killed her.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “I don't think this is about that. But it was insurance that Carmen wouldn't tell about Cori Elena.”

  “Because if she was found she would have told about Carmen?”

  “Exactamente.”

  Great friendship. Sell me out and I'll rat on you. Seemed like a precarious relationship at best.

  “Martín, does she have the money?” I asked for the umpteenth time.

  “No.”

  “You're sure? Because if she does, maybe we can get it back to Félix and he'll forget about killing her.” I didn't really believe it. Those drug guys always liked to make examples of people who stiffed them so others wouldn't.

  “She swears she doesn't have it. I believe her. So, chiquita, I think the stakes have gone up.” There was a catch in Martín's voice. “And we're going to have to leave for a while.”

  “Leave? What are you talking about?”

  “I'm taking Cori Elena and Quinta off the Vaca Grande. We may even leave Arizona. We need to get far enough away that Rafael Félix won't find her.”

  Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of losing Martín. He was the closest thing I'd ever had to a brother and now because of that little slut, who most probably was sleeping with the brand inspector, he was leaving his home. I thought why in the hell couldn't Cori Elena go to California with Jake Hatcher? I was sure he'd be more than happy to take her to Disneyland, but of course I said nothing.

  As I sat there trying to get control of myself, the more practical consequences came creeping into my brain. I'd have to get another foreman, but who would I find that was as good or as trustworthy as Martín? And what of poor old Juan Ortiz? How would he take their leaving?

  Unfortunately it made sense. With Carmen Orduño missing, it was more than likely that Cori Elena's hiding place had been revealed to a man who wanted his money back and probably wanted her dead.

  “How soon?” I stammered, still fighting the tears.

  “As soon as I can get things together here. I want to find someone else for you too.”

  Ah, Martín. Always so willing to jump in for me, to see that I was taken care of. Now, in the midst of his personal crisis he was going to find his own replacement.

  “Don't worry about it, Martín. We'll find someone. Just do what you have to do.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You must love her an awful lot.”

  He was quiet for a long minute. Finally he said, “She's the mother of my daughter, chiquita, and I can't stand by and let her go to slaughter like some feedlot steer.”

  On the way down the mountain I found we had very little to say to one another.

  21

  AT ONE-THIRTY I WAS STANDING OUTSIDE THE CHURCH OF Brotherly Love in Oro Valley. It was a very simple rammed earth structure with a giant sculpted concrete cross listing at a 45 degree angle to the earth. What was that supposed to mean? Rising sinners or fallen righteous?

  The grounds were filled with gray Texas Ranger blooming small lavender flowers, orange and yellow Mexican bird of paradise and similar drought-resistant plants blanketed with coarse pink gravel—what we used to call pea gravel—interspersed with winding aggregate concrete paths. The offerings of the communal plate obviously weren't being used for much in the way of landscaping services.

  W
hile sickened with the thought of Martin's leaving the ranch, I doubted whether I was going to find any comfort in Lateef Wise's church, but then I wasn't here for solace. I had a job to do for J.B. Calendar and interviewing Wise was just one of the grunt steps in the process.

  As I stepped into the church's entry, a skinny teenage girl wearing a mouthful of metal and a Final Four U of A basketball T-shirt greeted me.

  “May I help you?” She asked in an entirely too perky voice, giving away what I suspected was her first summer job.

  “I have an appointment with Reverend Wise,” I said.

  “Oh, right. I'll tell him you're here.”

  Wise, who seemed even larger than he had when I'd seen him at Abby's service, quickly appeared. The white robe was missing this afternoon and he wore tan Dockers and a white T-shirt that looked like it had been ironed. The tight shirt showed off his muscular forearms and his pecs bulged under a small purple cross over his heart. With his pro football career in the rearview mirror, was Bobby Bangs still working out? Even if he wasn't, he'd easily be strong enough to lift a little thing like Abigail Van Thiessen and carry her a quarter of a mile.

  Lateef led me back to his office. Like the church itself, it was spare. A large wooden desk set out from a wall of books. Two mission style wooden chairs faced the desk. Behind them was a large picture window looking out onto a small courtyard filled with desert plants.

  The walls were similarly unadorned. There were a couple of framed certificates, which I assumed were the good reverend's credentials. While I would have liked to have studied them to see where Wise had gotten his theological training, the timing didn't seem right, so I slipped into one of the mission chairs instead. As I did so, I chuckled to myself. Some kind of missionary position.

  From this vantage point I had a better look at the desk and decided that my original assessment of austerity was wrong, for I recognized the highly polished wood as mesquite. Definitely not cheap. Some of the Fourth Avenue artisans I knew were hauling in five to seven thousand dollars for similar handcrafted mesquite furniture. Why would a man of the cloth want or need such a luxurious desk and who had paid for it?