The phone rang as Romero unlocked the door. He threw the keys on the desk, put the breakfast burrito he picked up at the café in Cerrillos next to it, and reached for the phone. The call had already gone to message. He’d let Clarissa retrieve it when she came in. As he filled the coffee pot, Detective Clyde Martinez and Clarissa drove up. Martinez went into the bathroom.
“Yum. You smell nice today, Lieutenant. Trying out a new cologne?” Clarissa mimicked a fake swoon.
“Shhh, this is serious business here. Did you bring the donuts?” Romero said, smiling.
“What’s up, boss?” Martinez asked, still zipping up as he walked into the room, not realizing Clarissa was still there.
Romero motioned Martinez to sit down, offered him a cup of coffee, and pushed the box of donuts his way. Martinez shook his head and patted his stomach, which was flat as a tortilla. He evidently intended to keep it that way.
Romero handed Martinez a package. “Photos of the women reported missing in Santa Fe County the past year. Show these pictures to local businesses along Highway 14. Start at the Allsup’s and work your way up to Madrid. Maybe we can get something going on this investigation. See if you can get addresses on any of them, and in a couple of cases, their last names.
“The Sheriff’s taking a crapload of heat about nothing turning up on any of these women, and he’s passing it down to us. Media’s coming down hard. The families are accusing him of not giving a damn.”
“Yeah, I heard a lot of palaver about that,” Martinez said. He reached for a donut, cut it in half and swirled it in his coffee.
“We’re expected to pull a rabbit out of a hat, I guess,” Romero said. “If it ain’t there, it ain’t there. So we need to turn over a few rocks and see who crawls out from under.”
“Will do, Boss,” said Martinez. “I’ll get right on it.”
Later that morning, Martinez started at the northern end of Highway 14, where it intersected with Highway 599, and parked his cruiser at Allsup’s convenience store and fuel station. The windows of the one-story building were covered with posters advertising beer specials and a seventy million dollar lottery jackpot. He walked through the door past the tall beer and soda coolers against the wall, and the dozen or so bags of various brands of potato chips, candy, mixed nuts and pumpkin seeds. A few customers waited in line to pay for gas.
Martinez asked the clerk at the register for the manager, and she directed him to a gentleman working at the rear of the store. The radio was tuned to a country western station, the announcer hawking an upcoming appearance at one of the nearby casinos by some long-forgotten ’50s recording star. Martinez walked back to the manager—a short, fat and suspicious man in his forties with a thick Latino accent, probably Guatemalan. He introduced himself and showed him pictures of the missing women.
“Any of these women look familiar to you?” Martinez asked.
The manager shifted his feet. He continued to stack six-packs of beer into the cooler.
“Take a good look,” he repeated. “I’m collecting information on any of these women. Most of them have been missing for around six months.”
The manager glanced at his clerk and said nothing. Martinez was beginning to seethe.
“Do you speak English? Look, I’m not La Migra and I don’t care if you have a green card or not. That’s not what I’m here for. I need information on these women. But if you continue to act suspicious. I will take you in for questioning.”
The manager stopped stacking boxes and motioned Martinez into a small office next to the bathroom. Martinez spread the pictures out on a desk overflowing with papers. He flicked on a gooseneck lamp and looked at each photos carefully. After a while he pointed to two of the women.
“This one, maybe I know,” he said in broken English. “Come in with that tall guy that works rancho in Cerrillos. Buy gas here all the time. Maybe cerveza and maybe whiskey, I don’t ’member for sure.”
“What makes you remember her?” Martinez asked.
“Well, she was pretty. Muy Chiquita, and had big chi-chis, you know,” he motioned with his hands in front of his chest. “This guy always had pretty girls with him. And this one,” he pointed to one of the other photos, “she was wearing shorts and had real long legs.” He paused, still looking through the photos. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of the others.”
“Gracias,” said Martinez. “You’ve been a big help.”
The manager beamed and went back to restocking the coolers.
Martinez went out to his cruiser, removed his suit jacket and threw it over the passenger seat. He loosened his tie, sat for a few minutes and wrote down the notes of the interview. Then he headed toward Cerrillos. Maybe he could get some additional information there.
His first stop was at the ancient 1880s Wortley Hotel on Front Street, next to the Simoni Store. Hollywood producers loved Cerrillos as a backdrop for their cowboy movies. The ghost town was definitely a page out of the old West. He wondered if the hotel attracted many customers. It didn’t look as though the owners had added many modern conveniences.
Martinez introduced himself to the desk clerk, a Reggae-hippie type with matted dreadlocks, which appeared to be overdue for a good shampooing. A strong odor of pot permeated the room, but unless he needed to involve a little blackmail in case the guy was recalcitrant, he would ignore it.
“Hey.” The clerk turned and pulled the chain on an overhead fan so that it ramped up to top speed. “What can I do for you?”
“Detective Martinez of the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to show you some photos and see if you can identify any of the women.”
“Sure, whatever I can do,” said the clerk.
Martinez spread the photos out on the front desk. The clerk stared at them for several minutes. Finally, he pointed to one of the women.
“This one. I recognize her. She comes in here about once a month or so, or at least she used to. She and her male companion would spend a few hours in Room 214 and then leave,” he said.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Around Christmas; sometime around there. I know it was toward the end of December. It was snowing. Her friends had dropped her off, like they usually did, and then they took off. But the guy she normally met here didn’t show up that time. She waited awhile and then hitched a ride to Madrid, said she needed a drink. She was pretty pissed, as I recall.”
“Do you have any records, maybe the guy’s name?”
“Not really. Most of the people who spend only the afternoon here pay in cash. We don’t even bother filling out the information card. It’s usually all bogus anyway.”
Martinez thanked him and decided he’d pass on driving to the bar in Madrid until he was wearing more casual clothes. No use freaking everybody out by driving up in a police car. He didn’t expect to gather much information there anyway.