Assumption, p.11
Assumption, page 11
Ogden poked around near the sink and cabinets. There were dirty dishes stacked on the counter, two plates and a couple of forks. The residue of eggs and some kind of meat was not dried hard. He sniffed the plastic cups, no alcohol.
He moved over to the long table against the far wall. One of the panes of the window on that wall was cracked, a corner broken out. It looked like old damage.
Warren came back in. “Bucky’s checking on it. Anything?”
“Not yet. I’m going to see if there are any clothes in the bedroom.”
In the bedroom Ogden found a couple of pairs of women’s jeans and a stack of T-shirts. Then he heard a rumble. “Hey, Warren, you hear that?” he asked, stepping back into the main room of the cabin.
“Yeah,” Warren said.
“Shit,” Ogden said running to the door. He got there just as a white van raced by on the muddy road. “Jesus. Warren.”
The men ran to the Bronco and climbed in. Ogden tried to start the engine, but it decided to be uncooperative. “Christ!”
“Just give it a second,” Warren said. Warren got on the radio and told Felton that a white van was about to hit the highway.
Ogden tried again and the engine turned over. He slammed it into reverse and turned around, fishtailing as he turned onto the rutted lane. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said. “We’ll never catch up.”
The Bronco bounced and slipped. Warren put a palm on the ceiling to keep from banging around. When they got down to the restaurant parking lot there was no sign of the van. Ogden skidded to a stop on the gravel and ran into the restaurant.
“Did you see a white van?” he asked the teenager.
“No,” she said.
“Just now?”
“Didn’t see a van.”
Ogden walked back out. Warren was out and looking up and down the highway. Ogden kicked the truck on the front quarter-panel. “Piece of shit,” he said.
Warren ate some piñon nuts, looked up at the sky. “White van, no plate read. Only about a thousand white vans in this county.”
“Did you see anything special about it?”
“No. It was fast.”
“It wasn’t empty,” Ogden said. “It would have skidded out somewhere in that mud if it was empty.”
“That’s probably right. What now?”
“It’s time for me to call Fiona McDonough’s parents in Minnesota. I’m not simply helping a tourist anymore. Of course I only have the tourist’s word that the victim is not Fiona McDonough.”
“The messier things get,” Warren said.
“The messier things get,” Ogden finished.
“So are we driving back up to finish looking around?”
Ogden nodded. “No choice. The state guys will show at some points to take prints. Like that’s going to help anything.”
“You never know. Let’s do it so we can get it done,” Warren said.
Back at the cabin, Ogden left his rig parked across the road. No one would drive by this time. It was a bit of closing the barn door after the cow was out, but he had to do it. They sifted through the cabin again and found little sign that anyone was actually living there. The ashes in the stove were long cold and there were few of them. Dust was on most things, including the floor, but there had been traffic.
“A meeting place?” Warren asked.
“Could be.” Ogden went into the back room. He looked at the bed. “A nookie nest?”
“A bit out of the way. But I guess that’s the point. Married man? Girlfriend going to tell, bang.”
“Pretty disgusting. The mattress is clear of dust. Lots of traffic around the bed.”
“True.”
“Whose place is this? These magazines are six years old.”
“Like my bathroom,” Warren said.
“Newsweek, Time, Southwest Fly Fishing. What do you say we drive up to the lake? For the hell of it.”
“Why not?”
They drove the track all the way to the lake and as they expected with all the mud and mess there was no one there. Warren pointed out the fishing had been off for years, said the locals blamed it on the tailings from the Moly mine.
“Probably true,” Ogden said. “At least it’s closed now.”
“Too little too late.”
Ogden sat in the driver’s seat with the door open. He called in and got Felton on the radio. “You got any word on that woman?”
“She’s not dead, but she’d not good. That’s what they’re telling us. They wanted to move her to Santa Fe, but they didn’t think she’d make the helicopter ride.”
“Is Caitlin there?”
“Left a few minutes ago. Sheriff drove her to her motel.”
“Thanks. Out.”
“Very good. You remembered to say out,” Warren said.
“Crisis and all that.”
Ogden and Fragua drove back down the mountain. No other cars had found their way up to the cabin. Ogden wondered if the state police would send a crime scene team up as early as tomorrow. He didn’t think they would turn up anything useful, but it was a matter of principle and procedure. There had been a crime, a woman had been shot, maybe to death, and somebody ought to find it urgent enough to drive up from Santa Fe. It wasn’t far.
It was near dusk when Ogden parked in front of the sheriff’s station. Warren parked beside him. They walked inside and found Bucky there waiting.
“Well, it’s a murder investigation now,” Paz said. “She died fifteen minutes ago.”
“Any identification?” Ogden asked.
“None. Felton is going through all the missing persons reports from the state, Colorado, and Arizona.”
“I’ll call Texas,” Warren said.
“Do you know how many people go missing every day?” Felton said. “It’s a lot more than you’d think. I mean missing the official twenty-four hours.”
“I need to call Minnesota,” Ogden said. “Where’s Caitlin?”
“I drove her back to her motel,” Paz said.
“Bucky, did you ever get a look at her ID?”
Paz paused to look out the window. “Never thought to ask,” he said. “Funny about that. What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. All I know is I need to call Fiona McDonough’s family and get some sense of what’s going on. That blue Bug is the car that Olivia Mendez saw Fiona driving.”
“Drive on over and get the numbers right now. And check her damn ID. I feel like a big fat fool. I really do hate this job.” Paz walked back into his office and shut the door.
Ogden drove directly to the motel. He stopped at the desk and asked for Caitlin’s room number.
“She was in unit seven,” the clerk said.
“What do you mean was?” he asked.
“I mean she was in unit seven and now she ain’t,” the short, balding man said. He stroked the tabby cat that slept on the counter. “She checked out.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
Ogden looked out the window at the street.
“Drove off with her boyfriend.”
“What boyfriend?”
“You’re not a very good detective, are you? She left with the guy she come with. Been here the whole time.”
“What does he look like?” Ogden asked.
“Normal enough looking fellow. About your height. White guy. Light brown hair. Blue eyes.”
“Did they leave in a car?”
“They did.”
“Can you describe it?” Ogden asked.
“Light blue Honda Civic. Tan interior.”
Ogden was writing everything down now. “Anything else?”
The clerk looked at his desk. “California plate, 5QTH769. I think it was a rental.”
“Thanks.” Ogden turned to leave.
“Did I mention he had only one hand?”
Ogden shook his head. “No, you failed to mention that. Which one did he have?”
“The left one.”
“Was the rest of him there?” Ogden asked.
“Far as I could see.”
“Did he have a prosthetic of any kind? A hook?”
“Nope. His nub was covered with a sock.”
“A sock.”
“A white tube sock,” the clerk said, nodding.
“Any other little details you want to share with me before I start out again?”
“That’s it.”
Bucky Paz couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head the whole time Ogden was speaking. Warren Fragua stood at the window and peered out at the night. His stomach growled.
“I’ll second that,” Paz said. The sheriff looked at Ogden. “Felton is out there checking the plate. It’s not your fault, Ogden. It’s mine. Never try to be a nice guy; that’s the lesson here.”
Felton came into office. “The motel man was right, the license plate was from a rental car,” he said. “The plate came from a place called Dave Delmonte’s Rent-a-Ride in San Juan Capistrano, California. Except that the car with that plate is suppose to be a yellow Ford Focus.”
Paz twirled around in his office chair. “Probably got a trunk full of plates. Okay, Felton, call Minnesota and see what you can dig up on Fiona McDonough.
“And,” Felton said, “the Volkswagen is registered to a Christopher Banks in Santa Fe.”
“The cabin?” Ogden asked.
“Owned by a retired doctor in Dallas, named Douglass. His wife told me he hasn’t been up there in seven years.”
“You believe her?” Paz asked.
Felton nodded. “She says he’s had a couple of strokes.”
“Did you ask her if they ever let anybody use the cabin?” Ogden asked.
“I did and she said they didn’t.”
“Okay, Ogden, you see what you can dig up on Caitlin Alison. Check the Irish consulate, the State Department, Google her.”
“Well, good luck on that,” Ogden said. “Might as well run a check on Princess Leia.”
Felton left the room.
Bucky stood and came around the desk, sat his wide bottom on the edge of it, pounded his thigh with a fist. “I’m a fat old man who doesn’t like mysteries. You two can’t stop me from eating a cheesecake in the next hour, but you can go figure this out and help me sleep at night. So, get out there and show me how smart you are.”
“No pressure,” Fragua said.
“A shitload of pressure,” the sheriff said.
Warren followed Ogden out and to the front door. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back up to that cabin,” Ogden said. “I’m going to turn it upside down and see what I can find.”
“Don’t mess it up for the lab guys.”
Ogden shook his head. “You know better than I do that they won’t find anything.”
“Want me to come with you?” Warren asked.
Ogden shook his head. “One of us ought to get some rest. Besides, you’ve got a wife and a kid. I’ve got a dog and a bonsai. Which reminds me, will you stop by and feed my dog?”
“You got it. Purina and one of your power bars, right?”
“Just the Purina.”
Ogden drove through the dark back to Questa, past the now-deserted diner where he’d had lunch with Caitlin or whatever her name was, and up the treacherous dirt lane, which was at least somewhat less muddy by now. Had it not been for the reflective tape he and Fragua had left stretched all around he might not have found the cabin in the dark. He grabbed his flashlight and went first to the blue Bug. He looked at the flathead screwdriver all by itself in the glove box, then at the folded blue tarp and spare in the forward boot. He wore gloves and found himself trying to disturb things as little as possible, in deference to science. He peeked under the mat on the driver’s side; there was none on the passenger side. There was dried mud on the backseat. He shone his light on it. It was white clay.
Inside the house, he was even more lost. Everything was like it should be in a cabin that had been forgotten for seven years. It was a nice enough place, he thought, wondered how much the old man in Texas might want for it. Especially now that it had been the scene of a homicide. He looked through the cupboards, the medicine cabinet, the closet that didn’t have a door but a blanket stapled to a dowel. There was nothing in the closet but some fishing gear, including a vintage Gary Howells bamboo rod. For a second Ogden toyed with the idea that people were killing over the rod. He put it all back and walked around the cabin again, trying to stay on his own tracks, again in deference to the techs who would be coming up at some point. He went back outside into the muggy dark. His flashlight was less useful out there, the beam diffusing into the trees and mist. He walked the perimeter of the house, then widened his circle until he was weaving through the fir trees. About twenty meters, back into the trees directly behind the cabin, he found a woman’s black and tan leather handbag.
The bag contained a hairbrush, a set of house keys, a car key for a Volkswagen, and a vinyl wallet complete with twenty-seven dollars and an Illinois driver’s license. The name on the license was Carla Reynolds. The picture on the license looked nothing like the woman whom he found, who had just died, but in fact looked very much like the photograph of Fiona McDonough that Caitlin Alison had waved in his face. The key did fit the Bug parked in front of the cabin.
As Ogden drove down the mountain he told everything to Paz over the radio.
The sheriff listened, but said nothing
“Did you get any of that, Bucky?” Ogden asked.
“I got all of it. Do you believe in luck?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Well, your blue Honda Civic showed up on the side of the road with a blown water pump.”
“Where?”
“Camel Rock.”
It was midnight when Ogden drove back through Plata on his way to Camel Rock on the other side of the pass. He’d decided that today was easily one of the worst in his life, a mix of embarrassment, failure, and shame. Fear would have been on the list had he known enough to feel it; instead, he was simply mad. He was exhausted, but he was not sleepy. The road seemed exceedingly long, but he was acutely aware of every curve, every set of headlights that flashed past him, and every set of taillights he passed.
Ogden exited the freeway and swung around past the casino. Under the absurdly bright lights of a Valero gas station, Ogden saw a state trooper’s car. The blue light on his roof was idle and the trooper was leaning on the front fender drinking a soda through a straw. Ogden parked beside him and got out.
“So, you had yourselves a murder up there,” the man said.
“Seems so. Did you find anything?”
“I was waiting on you before I opened it up. The way I see it, this is a part of your crime scene.” The trooper gestured that the car was all Ogden’s.
Ogden opened the driver’s side door and shone his light around. He sat behind the wheel. The seat was pulled up close, so Caitlin must have been the driver. He looked at the dash, opened the glove box and found it empty, except for some paper napkins and a service manual. He came out and put the beam on the partially raised hood. “You said it was the water pump?” Ogden asked.
The trooper pointed at the ground under the car. There was a pool in a depression of the concrete.
“I suppose you’re right.” Ogden knelt and looked at the mixture of coolant and water as if it might tell him something. He stood. “Let’s pop the trunk,” he said.
“Let’s use the key,” the trooper said. “It was still in the ignition.” He tossed the keys to Ogden.
“Okay,” Ogden said. He walked to the back of the car.
“What’s wrong?” the trooper asked.
“Oh, just everything.” Ogden opened the trunk.
“That’s not good,” the trooper said.
“That’s kind of the definition of not good,” Ogden said. He moved the hair from the face of the bound woman.
“You know her?”
“Her name is Caitlin Alison. Well, at least that’s what she told me and the sheriff.”
Ogden looked across the parking lot at the lights of the casino. Maybe there was a one-armed bandit with a one-handed killer sitting at it. He watched as the trooper called the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office. This one would be their case. A good thing, Ogden thought. He didn’t want to investigate the murder he had, much less another one. But he would do just that. Both of them, tied together as they were. He imagined the man with one hand was well on his way to Albuquerque in the back of a pickup or in the passenger seat of a big rig, or lying dead someplace himself. Still, the casino was close enough he could see it. He wouldn’t bet that the man was there, but he had to look.
He walked over to the trooper. “Listen, I’m going to go up there and look around for the guy who was with her.”
“I don’t think you need to be here,” the trooper said. “They’ll know where to find you.”
“Sadly,” Ogden said.
The trooper laughed.
Ogden walked across the lot of the casino. It was a sad casino, he thought, as if someplace there was a casino that was not sad. It was only a few years old, but poorly designed; shoddy building made it look old, run down, even at night with the abundance of neon lighting masking the scars and flaws. There were consistent jobs for locals there, but no prosperity. He walked passed a couple of men who might or might not have been guarding the big double doors. He stepped up to them and looked at the beers in their hands.
“You guys work here?” Ogden asked.
“I do,” the shorter of the two said. He looked at Ogden’s uniform, seemed to know he was from another county.
“Did a guy come through here with only one hand? White guy, brown hair, my size.”
“You see a guy with one hand?” he asked his friend.
The friend shook his head.
“I have to say,” the man said, “I don’t really look at hands.”
“You should,” Ogden said. “That’s where people usually hold their guns.”
The men laughed.
“I’m going in to look around,” Ogden said.
“Look all you want.”
Inside, the harsh lights did nothing but highlight the sagging spirit of the place, the human drainage, as his father had called it. He wandered through the aisles of slot machines, the cigarette smoke, the sour smell of alcohol wafting from half-empty plastic cups and stale clothing, out of pores. Ogden looked at hands. He had never really looked at hands before either. They were all so different and everyone had two of them, except for two Indian Korean War vets; one had one hook, the other had two. He stopped by the security office and knocked. A round woman opened the door.
