Compromised Read online

“Out of my way.”

  “I saw the truck,” Rivera said and held her eye for a second. “Later?” She nodded, then he passed out food.

  “These all the same?” Agent Tucker asked, holding up two bags.

  “All perfect,” Aragon said and took one from his hand. “The complete food pyramid in a bag.”

  “Let’s get started, people.” Rivera left his burger untouched. “We’re all in. With the murder of a key witness this is now much more than a public corruption investigation. Denise, Rick, you’ve been closest to the facts. What is required to do this right?”

  “I was thinking.” Aragon chewed, swallowed. “We need to dig into all the cases that correlate with the times that Montclaire says Thornton provided Andrea as a reward to Judge Diaz. Maybe the judge did something subtle that doesn’t jump out, but did the trick in tanking a case against a Thornton client. We’ll need experienced lawyers to tell us that.”

  “DOJ has a few lawyers. How about the prostitution angle? We certainly must eliminate Andrea’s other clients as suspects. Was her phone recovered to get us started?”

  “Not so far,” Lewis said, a mouthful of burger tucked in a cheek. “They haven’t sifted through everything in the dumpster. But since she was stripped, I’m not holding out hope the killer tossed her phone in for us to find. Great if we do. It would show who else was auditioning for a date.”

  “Auditioning?” Tucker asked.

  “Sending their photo for Andrea’s approval. That’s how her Backpage hook-up worked.”

  “How did she get around?” Aragon dug fries out of her bag. “She must have lived close enough to the Pizza Hut to walk.”

  “How about taxis?” Tucker asked. He got a look from Aragon telling him, you’re not from around here, are you?

  Lewis answered for her. “Forget finding a cab down there the hours she worked. But the politicians haven’t managed to kill Uber. I’ll see if they had any pickups from the Pizza Hut. They’ve worked with us before.”

  “Montclaire insists Andrea walked.” Aragon shook her bag, wanting to hear the sound of something inside.

  Rivera was writing in a notebook and looked up. “Did you get anything on the neighborhood canvas?”

  “The trailers in that park,” Lewis said, “are occupied by squatters. The few who talked said everybody used that dumpster, not just the mobile home park. People would pull up and empty pickups. It’s a good bet stuff was thrown on top of Andrea before Gray found her. That causes problems doing anything with tire tracks, what little there are in that hard ground. Something I want to bring up … ”

  “You have the floor, Detective.”

  “Andrea’s tattoo. A sports car on her hip. It’s too badly done to tell the make and model. Maybe a Corvette. I’m wondering what it says about her. My girls want tattoos, which isn’t going to happen. They want words, Japanese symbols for life and joy, a flower.”

  He brought up a close-in shot of Andrea’s tattoo on his phone and let Rivera and Tucker look.

  “A convertible of some kind,” Rivera said. “Generic.”

  “It’s an old Jag,” Tucker said. “The long nose, the slippery lines. I had a girlfriend who liked classic Jags, said they could drive right up inside you. A twelve-cylinder dildo.”

  “Thanks for that,” Aragon said.

  “I don’t know.” Rivera squinted at the picture. “Those classic Alfa-Romeos had the same look.”

  They talked for another hour and agreed to focus on four avenues of investigation, pending any change in direction when they got OMI’s report. Aragon and Lewis took lead on identifying Andrea. Rivera said the FBI would handle the science. They had the resources and would not have to wait on the backlogged State Crime Lab. The FBI would also tackle Backpage. The agency’s Child Exploitation units had lots of experience with that company, enough to know it was going to take a grand jury subpoena to shake anything loose. They needed to know how long Andrea had been running ads, how she’d paid, what contact information she had given. Any current ads, they could grab with screen shots. Expired ads would require Backpage’s files.

  The FBI would also work on getting Andrea’s phone records using the number from her contacts with Montclaire.

  Tucker would run down video. He took copies of Andrea’s photo—the head shot she’d sent Montclaire—and left for the Pizza Hut to catch the evening staff. He’d get the photo to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children in the morning.

  Lewis left next. It was his turn to cook for his girls and wife. He’d work late at home, taking care of paperwork, making what calls he could. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he said on the way out.

  “I must get e-mails to DC so we’re rolling first thing tomorrow,” Rivera told Aragon when they were alone. “Meet you in the truck?”

  She crumpled empty bags and cleared the conference table, knowing he was waiting for an answer.

  “Twenty minutes, max,” Rivera said and headed to his office.

  Aragon spent those minutes behind the wheel making calls. First to Sergeant Garcia asking to repeat the canvas, this time showing a photo of Andrea to the squatters of Plaza Contenta. Next she texted Noah Jennings to make sure he was forwarding a photo of Andrea to State Police and all New Mexico police and sheriff departments. She was texting Moss about the autopsy schedule when a tap on the passenger window turned her head. Rivera stood outside and she unlocked the door.

  Rivera climbed in. He fit a bottle of wine in the console’s cup holder.

  “We could go to a hotel room,” he said.

  “We’ve never gone to a hotel room.”

  “Was it really bad? A girl in a dumpster. I’m sorry you’ve got that to carry in your head. It’s my job tonight to drive those images away.”

  “Nobody can do that. It’s a gift for life. It always is.”

  He put his hand on top of her hand hooked inside the steering wheel. His skin was warm, his palm soft. Softer than hers.

  She said, “I cried. Both of us, Lewis and me, but I turned away so he wouldn’t see. We stopped at a soccer field, watched girls practicing. Beautiful girls, like the one in the dumpster with roses all around her.”

  “Did it strike you that the killer was saying something, throwing her out like trash?”

  “The flowers made it worse. The contrast. You look at the roses and think about some happiness, love in someone’s life. And then you come back to the body.”

  She lifted her hand, turned it up so her fingers laced with his and let the weight bring it down into her lap.

  “On Backpage and Craigslist,” Rivera said, “did you know roses stand for money? ‘I love roses,’ or ‘Three hundred roses for a cute sexy girl.’ It’s a price. Maybe her date actually showed up with roses instead of money. She got mad. It went downhill. He threw the roses in after her. There’s your roses, bitch.”

  “I don’t need to hear voices like that. The visual and odor were enough.”

  “It really got to you.” He released her hand and stroked her shoulder, the inverted triangle of muscle under her shirt. “Maybe we need something more than a truck this time. A place where you can relax, take your time. All the time you want.” He slid his fingers down her arm until he was stopped by the wine bottle in the console. “Let’s go to my place.”

  “I don’t know, Tomas. I’m not ready for that yet, spending a night in your bed.”

  “Okay, your place.”

  “You’re not ready for that. You don’t want to know how I live.”

  “Try me.”

  “There’s more room in this truck.”

  “Okay. Put this thing in gear and let’s get to our place.”

  “How can I say this?” She brushed her hand over the stubble on her head. “I like you. Very much. But when I look at you, I need to tell you I see someone else.” She waited for a response, felt To
mas listening, not needing to say anything. “A boy I loved,” she went on, “when I was a girl. You look so much like him.” Her hand moved behind her ear. Her fingertip found the smooth patch of the lightning bolt where the hair didn’t grow. She got quiet.

  Cars rolled past them in the parking lot, FBI workers heading home. Lights blinked out in the office building. Rivera waited.

  She blew air from her lips, pulled in air through her nose. “I still haven’t said what I want.”

  At the edge of the parking lot, a sagebrush shook. A coyote stepped into the pool of light cast by a light pole, then backed away when the door to the office building opened. A security guard set the lock. The door closed.

  Rivera reached across the space between them. He put his fingers on her hand, where she was touching her scar.

  “We background everyone coming onto a joint task force. Some New Mexico jurisdictions hire rejects from other departments, people with disciplinary problems, psychological issues. We need to know. Your assault came up. We obtained hard copies of the old reports. I know what they did to you. I know about Miguel Martinez getting shot trying to save you. I know about the gangsters getting off, how the police botched the case, the indifferent judges. It makes me admire you more. You got strong, fought back. You’re fighting for others so it doesn’t happen to them.”

  “You didn’t hear it from Lewis?”

  “I read about it. Those reports are in my desk. No one else has seen them.”

  “What I wanted to say.” Her hand met his, fingertips brushing fingertips. “When we’re making love, I wonder if it’s Miguel I’m holding. Then I feel guilty for feeling that. And then I feel guilty for not saving him. I’m on my back on the sidewalk, those bangers on top of me, Miguel bleeding where I can’t reach him.”

  “When we’re making love, I see a beautiful, powerful, brave woman who needs what we’re sharing, as much I need it. I’m not anywhere else. But I’ve sensed you are, some of the time. That’s okay. I understand.”

  “Well, I don’t. That’s the problem.”

  Rivera cracked his door. The dome light came on. One foot went to the running board.

  “Tonight’s not a good night. I was hoping we could kill those pictures in your head for a little while. You did it for me last time. I thought maybe I could do that for you.”

  She turned the key in the ignition.

  “Get in,” she said and put the truck in gear.

  “Who owns this land?” Rivera asked, the truck’s headlights out, a nighttime desert beyond a darker arroyo, the lights of Albuquerque on the bellies of clouds sixty miles away.

  “We do, whenever we’re here.” Aragon undid her seat belt and climbed out, then back in through the rear door to the SuperCab and its full bench seat. Rivera stepped out the passenger door, peeled off his suit jacket and left it on his seat.

  When he got in the back with Aragon, she said, “Touch my head again,” and she brought his fingers to the scar behind her ear.

  His kissed the stubble on her skull, stroked the hard shoulder under her shirt. He let his hand slide down her arm to her ribs, found her belt buckle, pulled it loose, opened her pants. He started lowering his face, following his hand.

  “No.” She pulled him up. “I want you in front of me. Close.”

  They helped each other undress, pulling off pants, shirts, their teeth touching through open lips, his breath on her cheek growing warmer, faster. Aragon laid back across the bench, her head on a door handle. Rivera swung his legs on top of her. Her hand found him, helped him, led him into her.

  She closed her eyes. Miguel was running across the park toward her. The concrete sidewalk tore at her ass, one of the gangbangers on top, already inside her. Miguel vaulted a fence, his football legs pounding, his black hair parting from the wind his speed generated. She heard the shot. The face above hers smiled. Miguel crumpled by her feet, his hand reaching, falling to the concrete.

  They took turns, passing the gun around. Then they took turns with her.

  She forced her eyes open. Rivera was above her, his lips on her forehead.

  “Tomas.”

  “I’m here,” he said. His face was warm under her palm, not a boy’s smooth skin but the sandpaper of a five o’clock shadow.

  “Me too,” she said and locked her ankles around his legs, pulling him deeper.

  She returned Rivera to the FBI parking lot. He was heading home. She headed for the office. First she called Serena to check on Montclaire. Lily had joined them for dinner, then taken a walk in the woods. Serena had followed, caught her testing locks on gates, peering into the windows on their pickups, maybe to see if keys were in the ignition. Aragon told her to keep an eye on the ATVs. Lily could ride one of those to town.

  “And next time she eats, save the glass and silverware she used. Put it aside in a bag for me.”

  “You already asked. It’s waiting for you.”

  They would have to charge Montclaire soon. Her arraignment would make headlines: Marcy Thornton’s investigator charged with setting fire to a Santa Fe neighborhood to destroy evidence implicating the city’s most famous Indian artist in the murder of Walter Fager’s wife. Repeating the crime at Geronimo’s ranch, trying to destroy a table where he’d butchered women to “harvest” art supplies. They wouldn’t be able to keep the expanding investigation of Thornton and Judge Diaz under wraps.

  Montclaire would be taken into custody. They’d have to isolate her. A snitch wasn’t any safer among female prisoners than men. She’d be at risk until the US Attorney could file federal charges and move her out of state. That would slow everything down. Interviews with Montclaire would require approval for travel expenses, negotiations, tripping over lawyers every time they wanted to talk. An afternoon of questioning would take days away from doing anything else.

  A note taped to her computer told her to call Elaine Salas.

  “A mess,” Salas said. “That dumpster’s a petri dish. You’ve got female hygiene products, used condoms, snotty tissues, bloody Band-Aids. Your girl is swimming in DNA even though she may have been washed before she was dumped. I smelled shampoo in her hair. Nothing under her fingernails. No signs of intravenous drug use. She was in good physical condition. Well-defined muscles for a teenage girl. Maybe she was an athlete. Moss will know more. As for those roses … ”

  That’s what Aragon wanted discussed. She’d already reached the same conclusion about the forensic nightmare posed by the dumpster. Those roses kept coming up. Lily zeroing in on them, Tomas educating her on how roses were Backpage code for money.

  “How fresh were they?” she asked. Gray had said it was a waste to throw away good flowers.

  “The heat in the dumpster was up by the time we got to them. But I’d say they hadn’t been out of water long. The stems were still quite resilient.”

  “People in that neighborhood wouldn’t throw out fresh roses. Even from a funeral. They’d keep them until petals started falling.”

  “I sent six to the FBI. A long shot, but they might identify them genetically, tell us something. Maybe nothing. I took a few to my cousin’s shop. She runs it with her folks. They’re sweethearts.”

  “So they’re nice people. You can’t be giving away evidence like that.”

  “The roses, sweethearts. That’s the variety. They’re sold in large bunches at retail. Florists buy through wholesalers, then break them down into separate dozens. It’s hard to tell where the particular flower was grown just by looking. This time of year they could be domestic. If it were winter, they were probably imported.”

  Aragon doodled a picture of flowers as she listened.

  “Is there a way to time-stamp them, find out how long ago they were picked, how long they’ve been out of water?”

  Salas said she’d get back on that.

  “You’re doing great, Elaine. A one-woman army. Please send
what you’ve got to your FBI pals. We’ve got a strong commitment on this one.”

  Her cell phone buzzed. She put Salas on hold. It was Lewis.

  “That was quick,” he said. “Andrea was in ninth grade at Camino High. But her name is Cassandra Baca. The school resource officer knew her. He can’t release contact info for parents but lined us up a meeting with the principal. Chest and triceps tomorrow, right?”

  “Can we make it six thirty? I’m still at the office. I’d like to visit my bed before I hit the gym.”

  “Roger. And get this. Fager’s in jail. He really ticked off Diaz. I heard he said what all of us think about her. His one call, he called to ask me for a list of Thornton’s clients in detention right now.”

  “To think that guy wanted to switch sides and sign up with the DA. Like changing into a clean shirt without showering. You’re getting the list?”

  “Done. And he wants a stack of legal pads. Jailhouse lawyers, he said, aren’t required to be in good standing with the New Mexico Bar Association. Something about carrying a full caseload again.”

  Aragon had one more stop before heading to her efficiency apartment on the city’s west side. She drove down Cerrillos and turned off behind the Walmart onto the dirt street that had been blocked with crime scene tape this morning. No lights from nearby buildings reached it. She was a hundred yards in before her headlights picked out the spot where the dumpster had sat until Salas’s team removed it on a flatbed to a police warehouse. Cadets from the Law Enforcement Academy would be doing the grunt work of sorting through garbage, Salas behind them, calling out if she saw anything interesting.

  A strip of yellow tape blew out of the darkness across the beams of headlights and back into darkness.

  She got out to listen to the night. Traffic sounds reached her. A plane descended on its flight path to Albuquerque. Dogs barked in every direction.

  A gunshot. Another. She turned to the sound. Maybe a half mile off. She called it in while another shot ripped the night. It sounded louder, larger caliber. Too hard to tell. Soon sirens wailed. She called the watch commander and learned there had been a drive-by, shots fired into a home. The shooters circled back and met the homeowner in the yard with a rifle. Witnesses blocks away saw a young man limping from a Honda Civic, holding a bloody hip. The Honda took off toward the Interstate. The Christus St. Vincent ER and urgent care facilities had been notified.