BEFORE SHE PUT HER HELMET ON AGAIN, SISTER AGATHA called the station and asked to speak to Millie. After her late night, Millie would probably have the day off, but she wanted to make sure.
Having verified that Millie was at home, Sister Agatha turned to Pax, and smiled. “We’re on our way to make pests of ourselves. We’ll probably wake Millie up, but under the circumstances, I don’t think she’ll mind.”
They were soon driving down a badly maintained graveled road. Sister Agatha went slowly, not only because of the rocks that covered the roadway but in an effort not to spook the horses and llamas in an adjacent pasture. Pax barked happily at them, but then, seeing Sister Agatha signal him, quieted down almost instantly.
A minute later, they pulled up at the end of a dead-end street and turned right. The small, unpaved driveway was covered with adobe-colored rocks and lined by big chucks of black volcanic lava—a popular landscaping material found locally in abundance.
As Sister Agatha climbed off the motorcycle, she saw Millie coming though a gate that adjoined a horse stall at the rear of the property. In her hand was a green plastic feed bucket.
After closing the gate behind her, Millie looked up and, seeing them, waved. “I thought I heard a motorcycle. What are you two doing here this early?” she asked pleasantly, joining them. “I guess you don’t sleep late much either, huh?”
“The Maria bell at the monastery is always on time,” Sister Agatha answered. “But what are you doing dressed and working already? You were at the station until well after midnight.”
“I can’t sleep in, ever. No matter how late I go to bed, I always wake up at six thirty in the morning,” she said, wiping the sweat off her brow with a tissue. “It’s starting to warm up already, so we’ll probably reach close to three digits today. Let’s go inside. We can relax and have something to drink.” She added, “You’re welcome, too, Pax. I’ve got some leftover chicken you might like.”
Pax whined in eagerness, and Sister Agatha laughed. “Pax, you’re really a pig.” Glancing back at Millie, she added, “I want you to know that he eats a whole huge bowl of kibble every night on top of all the treats he gets in town. He’s a bottom-less pit.”
Several moments later, they sat in Millie’s homey kitchen. A collection of decorative ceramic cows lined the countertops, and collectible kitchen gadgets from bygone eras covered the walls. As Millie poured the coffee, Sister Agatha waited, looking at a shelf containing sets of salt and pepper shakers all in the form of pigs and hogs.
“Crime scene work has been completed. I got the list of all the evidence they found and gave the sheriff a copy before I left last night—well, earlier this morning,” she said at last.
“After looking at the list, did he remember anything new?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Not to my knowledge, but I didn’t stick around long after that. You might want to go back and talk to him again. No telling how things look to him this morning now that he’s had a chance to recover from what happened and been given time to think.”
Sister Agatha sipped Millie’s blend of coffee. It was smooth and better than any she’d ever tasted. “This tastes wonderful.”
“Thanks,” she answered. “It’s one of my favorites.” She took a sip, then met Sister Agatha’s gaze. “The sheriff asked me—off the record—about the crew who worked the refreshment stands yesterday. In particular, he wanted to know about the mayor’s son-in-law, Mike Herrera.”
“Is it true that Herrera was arrested for possession and for dealing drugs?”
“Yeah, but except for that one offense, his record’s clear. From what I’ve seen and heard, the guy’s really cleaned up his act since that bust,” Millie said. “Supposedly, Robert went to bat for him with JD before the wedding as a favor to his niece, who needed someone in her corner. JD didn’t want Cindy to marry him, for obvious reasons, but they sorted it all out.”
“You know, it’s funny. Mayor John David Garcia goes by JD, and his daughter goes by Cindy, not Cynthia. Yet Robert’s never been called Bob.”
“You never met him, did you?” Millie observed. “If you’d known him, you wouldn’t have asked me that question. Nobody took shortcuts around Robert. He was particularly that way around the station. Once he made lieutenant, Robert began demanding accountability to an impossible degree. He wanted to control everyone and everything around him. That attitude extended to his personal life, too. I’ve heard that he had his wife completely cowed. All throughout his campaign she stood in the background, smiling but never saying a word. I have a feeling that nothing she ever said was quite good enough for Robert, so she figured it was easier to stay out of the way.”
“Robert sounds like a tyrant, but he obviously had people who were loyal to him. From what I’ve already heard, Al Russo was working quite hard to get him elected.”
“That’s true enough,” Millie conceded. “Then again, that was Al’s job.”
“Has Robert’s body been released to the family yet?” Sister Agatha asked.
“No. Maybe in another two days or so, depending on how long OMI—the Office of the Medical Investigator—takes with the autopsy,” Millie said. “That’s my guess, anyway.”
Sister Agatha finished her coffee, then stood. “I’m going to go over to the park and take a look around. It’ll help me put things into perspective. Thanks for your help, Millie.”
“The area around the crime scene’s still taped off,” Millie warned.
“I figured that, but maybe just being in the vicinity will spark an idea or two for me. I’m hoping to spot something the others have overlooked.”
“With your journalist background, you don’t look at the scene with the same eyes as a police officer, so I guess that’s possible.”
Millie’s tone said far more than her words did. The sergeant doubted that Sister Agatha’s efforts would be fruitful.
After saying good-bye, Sister Agatha drove to downtown Bernalillo, stopping in one of the parking spaces beside the multiacre park and community center. There was plenty of shade, with all the old trees and shrubbery, and the lawn was lush and green despite the previous day’s heavy foot traffic.
City employees were taking down some of the tents that had sheltered vendors. Volunteers in red safety vests were scouring the grounds, picking up discarded food containers and napkins. As she strode across the grass with Pax in the direction of the swings, she saw a mobile camera unit from an Albuquerque TV station driving up the road leading to the southwest corner of the park. The vehicle parked at the curb, and two people got out. By the time she was halfway there, they’d disappeared behind a hedge of reddish orange trumpet vines.
Soon, she came around the end of the vines to a large area cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape tied and wrapped around several trees. Keeping Pax at heel and leashed, she stood and watched a TV camerawoman and well-dressed male reporter film a segment just outside the tape. Two other individuals with still cameras stalked the permimeter, angling for the best shots and taking several each. Curious townspeople who’d walked up the road or hiked across the park, as she had done, stared at the area with morbid fascination.
“Hey, Sister Agatha, Pax!” Chuck Moody called out, then came jogging up to them from behind.
Chuck, one of the two employees at the Bernalillo newspaper, the Chronicle, had more energy and bounce than anyone else she’d ever met. Chuck stood five foot four and had recently adopted a new haircut that made him look a bit like a Chia Pet. His head was completely shaved except for a thin line of reddish hair that grew out of the very center of his skull.
“I had a feeling I’d be catching up with you here today,” he said, then continued with barely a pause to catch his breath. “The Garcia political machine is putting serious pressure on local law enforcement to close this case. They’re after Sheriff Green’s blood.”
“Tom didn’t murder anyone,” she said calmly.
“Yeah, that’s what most people I’ve talked to believe, too. The fact that Robert was holding a bloody club in his hand when he died makes no sense. Robert wouldn’t have taken on an armed man with a club. Too great a chance of failure, if nothing else. Robert Garcia always had a plan. If he’d really wanted Tom dead, he would have contracted it out, being careful not to set up a trail that could lead back to him and making sure he had a perfect alibi. The sheriff would have been taken out of the picture for good, and Robert would have been in the clear. But grabbing a piece of broken branch off the ground and duking it out with a pistol-packing officer? No way. Garcia was a planner and manipulator, not some hothead.”
“Yeah, the entire scenario has a definite smell to it,” she said. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the absence of his equipment bag. “What, no camera? So what really brought you here today?”
“You know me too well,” he said with a quick little smile. Glancing around to make sure no one could overhear, he continued. “I have an idea. It’s possible that there might have been a witness to the murder, someone the deputies wouldn’t know about. I bet you anything that Scout was here yesterday.”
“Who?”
“Scout’s a homeless guy who has been hanging around town for months. He apparently avoids the shelters, but he’s getting by, stealing food and raiding garbage cans.”
Sister Agatha nodded, remembering the stories she’d heard. “They call him Scout because he wears a Boy Scout neckerchief beneath his gray cap. He protects his neck from the sun that way, like some French Foreign Legion soldier.” Smitty, the town’s grocer, often left day-old sandwiches on a window ledge at the back of his store for Scout. They’d always be gone by morning. Others in the community also left out food for him.
“That’s the guy. With all the chow at hand yesterday, he’d have been here,” Chuck said. “No way he’d pass up the chance to scrounge for food. Mike Herrera, who was working at one of the refreshment stands, told me that he saw him filling a grocery bag with hot dogs and buns snagged from paper plates.”
“People tend to ignore the homeless, or just look away, not wanting to make eye contact. There’s no telling what Scout might have seen,” Sister Agatha said.
“Exactly. Like maybe the killer?”
“Would Scout return here so soon, though? Particularly with the police and media so interested in the place?” she asked as an afterthought.
“The police were here, but they’ve been gone for hours now. I was hoping he’d come back to look around some more.”
“Let’s take a walk, look around, and see what we can find,” Sister Agatha said.
Chuck fell into step beside her. “The sheriff and you have been good friends for years. This has got to be hard on you—particularly in view of the recent bad news at the monastery,” he added, deliberately not looking at her.
His words and the implication took her by surprise. The townspeople hadn’t yet been told that Our Lady of Hope Monastery would probably be shut down.
“What are you referring to?” she asked, careful not to give anything away.
“I’ve heard that your cook, one of the really old nuns, passed on.”
She stared at him and blinked. “Huh?”
“Sister Bernarda told Smitty that your meals were a lot more basic now because the nun that used to cook is no longer with you.”
“She’s not at the monastery, but she’s not dead,” Sister Agatha said, laughing, then realized that her statement would require more of an explanation than she’d been prepared to give. Well, it was too late now. She had to say something. “Sister Clothilde is very elderly. She needed to go to another monastery that has more resources and is better able to cater to her special needs. She moved away, that’s all.”
“You have retirement homes for nuns?” Chuck asked, his gaze continuing to take in the area around them as he searched for Scout.
“We have retirement homes, yes,” she answered, grateful that he hadn’t specifically asked if Sister Clothilde was now living in one of them. She wouldn’t have wanted to lie.
They’d been circling around the perimeter of the park and were getting close to the community center, a large one-story block structure, when Chuck stopped and turned to face her.
“What’s up?” Sister Agatha asked him quickly.
“Somebody’s standing behind that cottonwood tree next to the community center’s trash bins. I think it’s Scout, but don’t look over there now,” he warned. “If we spook him, he’ll just disappear.”
Sister Agatha leaned down to pet Pax, then glanced sideways. There was a flicker of movement as a shape backed farther into the shadows.
“Scout’s jumpy and usually won’t let anyone get close. I think we need to box him in real subtle-like. If we try to approach him directly, he’ll bolt and we’ll never catch him. He knows the ditch banks and the bosque like the back of his hand.”
“What’s your plan?” she asked.
“Stay here for a minute or two, Sister, then walk off. Pretend you’re training Pax. I’ll head for the community center, but instead of going inside, I’ll circle around and wait at the corner. Give me a few minutes to get in place, then stroll toward the back of the building. Work with Pax and keep your attention on him, and don’t even glance in Scout’s direction. Once you’re within five or ten yards of the trash bins, I’ll come out of hiding, and he’ll be between us.”
“Okay. We’re ready anytime you are,” she said, her hand on Pax’s head.
“Well, good-bye, Sister Agatha. You, too, Pax,” Chuck said loudly, waving his hand, then walking away.
Sister Agatha pretended to examine Pax’s paw for stickers, then stood. Walking at a leisurely pace with Pax at heel, she made her way slowly to the rear of the building, near the area where two staff cars were parked. Beyond, Scout stood near the cottonwoods, searching the trash.
She’d come within twenty feet of the trash when Chuck stepped around the corner. He was actually looking the other way, pretending to be talking to someone else, but Scout, seeing him, suddenly panicked. Realizing that she and Chuck were approaching him from separate directions, he yelped and, breaking from his hiding place, took off, racing past Sister Agatha.
Pax lunged at the running man, yanking hard at his leash. Sister Agatha could have stopped Pax from chasing Scout, but that would have defeated any chance she might have had of catching up to him. Allowing Pax to tug her along, she hiked up her skirt and ran across the grass.
“Wait!” she called out to Scout.
The frightened man jumped a hedge and raced down the wide ditch bank, which also served as a flood levee for the river, a quarter of a mile away.
Chuck hadn’t exaggerated. Scout could sprint faster than anyone else she’d ever seen on two legs. Despite Pax’s enthusiasm, she could barely keep up. Scout was already fifty yards down the bank. He never looked back, intent on his escape. Then he swerved and headed straight toward the ditch.
At the opposite bank of the five-foot-deep muddy stream was a dirt road that gave access to the conservancy district vehicles. The gap was at least ten feet wide.
“Don’t! You won’t make it!” she yelled. Wearing a dusty backpack bulging with perhaps all his worldly possessions, he had no chance.
Scout jumped. His arms and legs flailing wildly, he landed on the steep opposite bank about a yard above water level. He then flopped forward up onto the road, landing on his belly and the palms of his hands. Completing a comical-looking somersault, he rolled up onto his feet, crossed the road in two bounds, then crashed through the stand of willows along the edge of the woods. Within seconds he’d disappeared into the bosque.
Sister Agatha caught a glimpse of something on the opposite bank where the man had landed and walked toward it for a closer look. Seeing it made her chest tighten.
“What did you find?” Chuck asked, panting as he jogged up and looked over Sister Agatha’s shoulder.
She pointed. “Two hot dogs in a plastic bag. Probably his lunch, and maybe dinner. That poor man!”
Chuck stood at the edge of the ditch bank, appraising Scout’s amazing leap. “He’s in pretty good shape. I’ll say that much for him.”
“The man has the wings of an angel,” Sister Agatha agreed. “Even as a kid I couldn’t have made a jump like that.”
“The nearest bridge across must be half a mile from here,” Chuck said, turning to look both ways down the ditch. “We’ve lost him.”
“I’ve got to figure out a way to get Scout to talk to me,” Sister Agatha said, fingering her rosary thoughtfully.
“That’s a tall order, Sister, especially after today. From what I’ve heard, he rarely allows anyone to get too close, even those who offer him a meal. That’s probably why he never shows up at any of our homeless shelters, even during the winter.” He paused, then continued. “We may have a lead on a crime that no one, short of an Olympic sprinter, can pursue.”
“I’ll ask Our Lord to help me, and He’ll find a way,” Sister Agatha said.
“I sure wish I had that kind of faith, Sister,” Chuck said.
“So do I,” she said without thinking. Seeing the confusion on his face, she managed a wry smile. “I’m far from perfect, Chuck.”