Thirty

For the first time Thornton saw weakness in Walter Fager. She had never heard him talk from the heart about anything except the joy of kicking DA ass. But his words at the funeral service, his off-script comments at his press conference—he was showing himself to be human, and capable of being hurt like anyone else. She needed a minute of quiet to think how to use it.

What she didn’t need was a hysterical client screaming at her.

Geronimo had gone straight to his ranch from the airport on his return from New York, or Paris, or wherever he had been. Someone had broken in, he was saying. Broken glass all over. Footprints marking his clean floor. The surveillance camera was gone. She could hear trucks roaring by. He was screaming at her from the shoulder of the interstate. She hung up, closed her office door, and thought about Fager.

Geronimo called two hours later. He was back in Santa Fe and still screaming. He had seen the news. Walter Fager on every station. A television crew was setting up outside his gallery, yelling questions from the sidewalk. He swore he saw the bald lady cop circling the block for the fourth time.

“I paid you. Now look here.”

“No, you look,” Thornton shot back. “It’s wheel-spinning. They’re frustrated. Your case is going nowhere. I’ve taken care of it.”

“The police found my ranch. It was Aragon who broke in. I know it.”

“We don’t know that. It could have been anybody. And there’s nothing there for them to find, right? You followed my instructions.”

“Someone’s at the door. They have cameras.”

“Don’t answer. I’ll be over to handle the media,” she said, seeing a chance to get her face on the news. “While I’m out in front keeping them busy, you leave by the back. Walk to the river, to the stone foot bridge. I’ll meet you and take you home. Okay? Are we calm now?”

Geronimo mumbled something about turning a hose on the camera crews.

“Fine. Handle it by yourself. I’ve got other clients who follow the advice they pay for.”

Geronimo screamed again, then said he would meet her at the bridge.

“I’m not charging enough,” she told herself after hanging up.

Before his arrest, she had billed Geronimo hourly. With him facing charges she’d insisted on a flat fee, paid up front, plus costs such as copies, postage, supplies, expert fees and the mileage she would charge for being his chauffeur tonight. She also billed Montclaire’s time and expenses as costs. Half of Lily’s hourly rate was profit for her.

If the case came up during dinner or drinks, she applied the “Palace Bar Rule,” Fager’s terminology, after what had once been the hangout for Santa Fe lawyers and judges. Just mention the client and the tab became a litigation cost.

It was a great deal for her but she needed a new agreement. There was going to be a lot more work to do.

She phoned Montclaire.

“Lily. We need someone watching the grand-jury room. The ground’s shifting.” She heard male voices in the background and Montclaire shouting something away from the phone. She wondered how many men Lily had with her. “I want someone there every day. This could go on for a while. We’ll talk tomorrow at nine. Have fun. Night.”

She called Montclaire back as soon as the line went dead.

“It’s me again. Listen, Walter mentioned something at the service about leaving the army all fucked up. FUBAR, he said. When I worked for him he’d stand at the door and ramble on with war stories. He talked about being in Bosnia with Bronkowski and how it was like Laos. I never understood what he meant. See what you can find.” Male voices again in the background. Laughter, glass breaking. “Lily, how well do you know those guys with you? Right, you’ll know them a whole lot better in a couple hours. Try not to draw blood. Bye.”

She brushed her hair and threw a jacket over her shoulders. Nighttime. The casual relaxed look for the cameras.

But she was far from relaxed. Instead of facing down reporters in front of Geronimo’s gallery, she needed empty time to let her mind run, see a strategy she could kick into gear. Aragon wasn’t going away. She had never stopped working the case despite direct orders from the Deputy Chief and what turned out to be a meaningless suspension. It probably was Aragon who broke into Cody’s ranch house. God knows what she found that Cody wasn’t telling her about. She and Lily had been there once when they were setting up the white knight corporation to shield the asset from creditors. She knew then she would return on a criminal case. Cody was a busy boy and expected mommy to tidy up after him.

What if Tasha Gonzalez rose from that irrigation ditch pointing a bony finger in Cody’s direction? Estevan Gonzalez had gotten rich bleeding Cody for hush money. He’d come back for more the minute law enforcement contacted him. Cody insisted he had never touched Tasha. She had always suspected Estevan killed his own sister to take her out of his deal with Cody. But Estevan had more to talk about than the disappearance of one Mexican woman.

The Judy Diaz barricade wouldn’t hold if the DA really pushed. She could see the Supreme Court overturning Diaz’s ruling and assigning the case to another judge. Judy had jumped the gun. It would have been better to let the case move through normal procedures before derailing it. The Supremes might bring in a judge from another district, one of the good-old boys from the oil patch who could give a shit about Santa Fe and its politics. Straight up rulings on the law, evidence you couldn’t dodge, public fury over a brutal crime, no friendly softballs from the bench.

Hell, she needed to think like Walter Fager.

At five minutes to one, Thornton gave up trying to sleep and rolled out of bed. She turned on a light and pulled a legal tablet from a drawer.

She started with evidence. Her favorite was Cody’s book purchase. Someone buying an art book. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, that’s our murderer?

She’d get a few snickers. But if Judy Diaz’s ruling were overturned? That key under the body was a major problem. They’d be ordered to return the bones found in Cody’s pocket. Luckily, they hadn’t been photographed. Maybe risk turning over pigeon bones, better than claiming the bones had disappeared. Any judge, even Judy, would allow the prosecution to argue negative inference from the destruction of evidence.

So much she didn’t know. Aragon had found something in the garbage behind the store. Someone might have seen Cody through the window. Laura Pasco could emerge as a hostile witness.

Walter and his grand jury dreams. Crazy.

Or not.

At 2:47 a.m., after rearranging furniture, checking investments, booking a facial and massage online at Ten Thousand Waves, and sorting out clothes she was tired of, she opened a bottle of merlot and the Roads of New Mexico atlas. She determined which county contained Geronimo’s ranch and called her client. She didn’t care what time it was.

“Tomorrow morning call the Valencia County Sheriff. Report a burglary at your place and theft of a surveillance camera. Yes, the camera. Tell them you had it aimed outside the back window, up the canyon. No, you’re not really hoping to get it back, but don’t say that.”

She emptied her glass. Just one more thing to tell the Great Artist and her mind could rest.

She waited for a break in his tantrum: Those reporters outside his gallery. They trampled flowers in his garden. How could they show his work on television without his permission? What good were copyright laws? Nobody respected private property anymore.

“That metal table at your ranch, that sick antique,” she said, out of patience, interrupting a whine about the way his gallery appeared on the news like some cheap pawnshop. Now he was acting surprised that she knew what was in his workroom on the ranch. “How do I know? The corporation you hired me to front paid for it. Shipping cost more than the thing itself. Either get rid of it or dress it up so the sheriff doesn’t see it for what it is, if he comes out on your burglary complaint. Cody. Stop. Do it. Good night.”