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  GET LOST

  BOOK TWO

  THE GABE MCKENNA SERIES

  ROBERT D. KIDERA

  SUSPENSE PUBLISHING

  GET LOST

  By

  Robert D. Kidera

  DIGITAL EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Suspense Publishing

  Robert D. Kidera

  COPYRIGHT

  2016 Robert D. Kidera

  www.robertkiderabooks.com

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, March 2016

  Cover Design: Shannon Raab

  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Stevanovicigor

  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Jamie Farrant

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To my daughters and grandchildren, Anne Elizabeth, Jeanne Marie, Liam, and Bridget Grace.

  PRAISE FOR “GET LOST”

  “Robert Kidera is an absolute master of mystery! He grabs you with irresistible intrigue and fresh, seductive writing and refuses to let go while he pummels you with twist after delicious twist. I highly recommend this book and this writer!”

  —NY Times Bestselling Author Darynda Jones

  “Follow Gabe McKenna on an emotional journey full of unexpected twists and discoveries. ‘Get Lost’ is a delightfully exciting New Mexico mystery. I highly recommend it!”

  —S.H. Baker, Author of the Dassas Cormier Mystery Series

  “ ‘Get Lost’ is a seasoned hybrid of a first class thriller and modern day western that effortlessly layers Native American concerns in the blood-soaked fabric of murder and conspiracy. Robert D. Kidera handles this difficult mix with a skill and aplomb worthy of the late, great Tony Hillerman and his latest is a modern marvel of both form and function. As riveting as it is thought-provoking, ‘Get Lost’ is reading entertainment of the highest order.”

  —Jon Land, USA Today Bestselling Author of “Strong Light of Day”

  “The spirit of Raymond Chandler hovers over Robert D. Kidera’s mystery writing. His gift for telling atmosphere and sharp dialogue and his continually surprising plotting make him an effortlessly skillful storyteller. His flawed but noble protagonist, Gabe McKenna, is a worthy modern successor to Chander’s Philip Marlowe.”

  —Joseph McBride, Biographer of Frank Capra, John Ford, and Steven Spielberg

  GET LOST

  BOOK TWO

  THE GABE MCKENNA SERIES

  ROBERT D. KIDERA

  CHAPTER ONE

  I cradled a 12th Century Anasazi duck-shaped pot in my hands. One large crack ringed most of its neck, but nearly all of the head and sienna ochre markings remained intact. Red Mesa, I figured. And priceless. It felt good to be back in the game.

  That’s when everything fell apart.

  Frantic pounding on my back door—a crash of broken glass—a cry from an obviously terrified man.

  “Señor McKenna! Professor! Por favor!” Work crew foreman Ernesto Acosta should have been leveling the ground in my barn and pouring a concrete floor, not yelling through my door.

  “What’s wrong?” I placed the artifact back into its protective case. His pounding and yelling continued. I rushed through the kitchen, careful to avoid the shards of window glass beneath my feet, and unlocked the door.

  Acosta burst into the room, knocked over the cat’s water bowl and came to a stop against the edge of the counter. Fear bled from his eyes.

  “Encontramos huesos!” He gasped and waved a frantic arm toward the barn.

  “Bones?” I said. “You found bones?”

  “Si, en el grañero.” He crossed himself and offered his hands to Heaven.

  Bones in my barn? I caught my breath. “Ernesto, get a grip. And try English, por favor.”

  He grabbed my sleeve and pulled me toward the now-open door. “Pronto. Come!”

  “What kind of bones?”

  “Un esquelito.”

  Damn, too many years since Spanish III. “A skeleton?” Adrenaline surged through me, just like the old days. I’d forgotten how much I loved the feeling.

  “Si, skeleton.” Jockey-size Ernesto scrambled toward the barn as fast as his stumpy legs permitted.

  I followed, stepping on the back of his shoe in my excitement. “Was there anything else?”

  “Que?”

  “Pots? Clothes? Jewelry?” I grabbed his shirt.

  “Clothes…metal.”

  Sweet music. A find—right under my garage! In New Mexico, these things happen. I warned Ernesto with my eyes. “You didn’t disturb anything?”

  “No, señor.” Ernesto shook his head twice. Then he shook it a couple more times.

  “Okay. Just stand back.” I maneuvered around a stack of sheet metal that up until yesterday had served as the barn’s huge front door.

  Five other workmen stood inside, hugging the right-hand wall. Large, leathery, muscular, ready to bolt. “Hold it, guys—estar! Ernesto, you stay here by the door. Don’t let anyone else in.”

  He let his breath out like he’d just been told his teenage daughter wasn’t pregnant. He aimed a quivering finger toward a mini-excavator twenty feet inside. “Behind there.”

  Small mounds of fresh dirt surrounded the machine. I swung to the rear of the digging arm and stopped. John Deere, surrounded by bones. Lots of bones. Human bones.

  I’d seen my share during a thirty-year career in archeology. Pre-Puebloan maybe, the people I’d written and taught so much about. I knelt beside the remains, hoping to see an artifact, potsherd, some datable object, anything that might hold a clue.

  Something sparkled amid the bones. I bent down for a closer look.

  An oxidized, crusted pocket watch. Fragments of vintage 1970’s polyester. A dulled onyx ring that circled what appeared to be a finger bone. And a skull.

  Nothing for an historical archaeologist here. Plenty for the cops. “Everybody outside.” I pointed toward the open door.

  The workers didn’t wait for a translation.

  I stood outside the barn and watched the minutes tick off on my cellphone. At ten minutes past noon, two squad cars and a third Bernalillo County vehicle veered into my driveway. Detective Lieutenant Sam Archuleta led the landing party up the incline toward my barn.

  I gave the lieutenant a wave when he reached the top of the rise. “Been a while, Sam.”

  “Everything beautiful comes to an end,” he shot back. Not one warm note in his voice. Not one.

  “Love you too. Got a body for you.”

  “What is it with you and dead bodies?” His voice straddled the line between a question and an accusation. He sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke in my face.

  I swatted away the fumes and offered my hand instead to a woman by his side.

  “Doctor Rachel Holtzmann, Bernalillo County Medical Investigator.” Robotic, but informative.

  We shook, and I laid my academic credentials at her feet. That got me nowhere. The fortyish Holtzmann nearly matched my six feet in height. Her thin, beak-like nose and large ey
es suggested a hungry bird of prey.

  “Where’s the body?” She looked past me into the barn and cocked her head.

  “This way.” I led her to the far side of the excavator and pointed down at the remains. “I’d say they’ve been here for fifty years. Maybe more. Think you ought to call in a forensic archeologist?”

  She recoiled like I’d just stepped on her open-toed shoes. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She knelt close enough to the bones to hear them whisper. One crank of her neck and she was peering up at me. “These bones aren’t that old, Professor.”

  I walked back to Sam. He looked happier now that I’d been put in my place.

  Holtzmann called back to him. “I’m going to need several hours here. Have the area roped off.”

  “Right away.” Archuleta motioned to a young officer a few feet off, an angelic muscle mass with a blonde buzz cut. “Jackson, secure the area. Then question the workers. Names. Contact info. Then get them out of here. Any of them you think are illegals, pull them aside.”

  “I’m on it, Lieutenant.” He bounded off like the only one interested in being here.

  “Rookies.” Sam grabbed my elbow and dragged me out and away from the barn. “Now, suppose you tell me what the fuck is going on here.”

  “I’m having a new concrete floor poured. More space for my cars. The workmen uncovered human remains, alerted me, and I called you right away.”

  “Nice of you to follow the rules for a change.” Sam had two hobbies: smoking and sarcasm. He looked toward the driveway when a fourth vehicle pulled up. Another cop car. “Well, look who’s here.”

  I turned in time to see Detective Sergeant Harold Crawford rumble out of the vehicle.

  An ungentle giant who never missed a clue or a chance to inflict some untraceable pain, Crawford hustled his two hundred and fifty pounds of malevolence up the hill. When his eyes settled on me, he sidled up close and bowed overdramatically. Near enough to spit closer to my shoes.

  Sam stepped in. “That’ll do, Sergeant.”

  Crawford and I had a history, kind of like the Thirty Years’ War. “McKenna. I should have known. Stay out of our way and leave this to the pros.” He hadn’t changed. I looked at Sam. Sam looked away.

  Crawford emitted a guttural sound. His eyes swept the inside of my barn.

  I decided to try nice. “See anything?”

  “Nothing I care to share with you.”

  I raised my hands and backed away.

  Sam turned to his sergeant. “Go over and see how Jackson is doing with those workers.”

  “Is that an order?”

  Archuleta took a step toward his hulking subordinate. “That’s an order.”

  “Yessir.” Crawford’s elbow stabbed my ribs as he brushed past me.

  Holtzmann stood and walked to Sam’s side, two Baggies in her left hand. “Lieutenant, you better cancel any dinner plans. This one’s a puzzle.”

  Archuleta looked at his watch the way a condemned man stares at the prison wall clock. “Second night this week. And it’s only Monday.”

  “What?” I said. Sam usually wasn’t one to complain.

  “We had a homicide last night at that new Pueblo-66 Casino. Some guy bit the biscuit in the owner’s office. The secretary is missing. Nobody saw nothing. Now this.” He peeled a fresh roll of antacids, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and popped a couple of lozenges.

  He wanted answers. I wanted lunch. “If you don’t require my presence—” I pointed toward the house with my head.

  “Did I say that?”

  “Come on, Lieutenant. Curtis Jester is getting out of the hospital today. We’re throwing him a Welcome Home party at his restaurant. Rebecca and I are due there in half an hour.”

  “Rebecca Turner’s here?” Just like that, the lieutenant was full of sugar.

  “Inside the house.”

  “I see.” His voice flashed like he’d heard the first interesting news of the day.

  “She’s my secretary now.”

  He gave me a knowing look. “Uh-huh.”

  “Lieutenant, for a happily married man, you sure have a dirty mind.”

  He let that pass, flicked his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and re-lit.

  I headed for my house, but not before a final parting salvo. “Why don’t you concentrate on the body inside the barn?”

  “Don’t leave town.”

  “Any more clichés before I go?”

  Sam’s third finger added a spring to my step all the way down to the house.

  Rebecca Turner held the curtain aside and looked out the library window. She turned when I reached my desk. “What’s the story, Gabe?”

  “No idea. That body’s been buried out there for decades. It’s a police problem, not ours. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay. I left the mail on your desk. There’s a royalty check from your publisher. I slit it open for you.” She appeared delighted about something.

  There it was—my quarterly envelope from Dumbarton Press, publishers of Mystery of the Anasazi, my one and only academic work, now in its thirtieth year. My ego traveled to my right hand. I slid the check out like it was Christmas morning.

  Two dollars and forty-three cents. Some fool clicked the wrong button again on Amazon. I sighed and tossed the check onto my desk. “Great literature never dies. Ready for C.J.’s?”

  “Give me five minutes.” Rebecca swung down the hall toward the bathroom. She didn’t need five seconds to stun a crowd. Twenty-five, blonde, slim, athletic, so improbably innocent. I knew Rebecca’s truth: orphaned, enslaved, abused. And then she saved my life.

  I loved Rebecca. The way a father loves his daughter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Happy people filled every seat at every table in C.J.’s Barbecue Restaurant. Smoke from a smoldering pit in the center of its large single room rose, danced and disappeared into the soft blue ceiling light. Youthful servers zigzagged through the crowd with platters of smoking meat, bowls of green chile stew and pitchers of beer. Extra napkins, too.

  Rebecca and I sat at the head table, waiting with those assembled for the Man-of-the-Hour to arrive. She sipped a Diet-Pepsi; I did my best with a club soda and lemon.

  The front door opened. House lights dimmed. A zydeco band struck up a funky, off-center version of the opening riff from Curtis Mayfield’s Super Fly.

  A stoop-shouldered silhouette of a man filled the doorway, clutching a microphone in his right hand. “In the far corner—from Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn, New York—weighing considerably more than his former one hundred and sixty pounds…” Curtis Jester didn’t get any farther. He broke into his trademark laugh. And laughter spread through the room faster than the sweet smell of baby-back ribs.

  His laugh faded as he took in the size of the crowd. He swapped the microphone for a cane and his smile for a look of grim determination.

  His first step was tentative and showed visible pain. No one spoke. There was nothing to hear except for meat sizzling on the grill.

  C.J.’s wife Charmaine held his left arm above the elbow for the first couple of steps. He shook her off and two steps later handed her the cane. The smile crept back across his face. He paused, steadied himself, and slow-walked toward the head table, unaided.

  Charmaine gasped at first, then wept, one hand finding her mouth. The band played louder. I found it hard to swallow. That’s when the applause started, slowly, haltingly, until it grew to a mighty wave of tears and cheers.

  C.J. reached the head table and hobbled over to the seat on my left. I grabbed his hand and held it above our heads.

  A shattered leg, two cracked vertebrae, a ruptured spleen, and a concussion—C.J.’s bitter reward for helping me recover a couple million dollars in gold. I’d used much of it to cover his medical bills, but…

  Charmaine rarely spoke to me, even now. I was trouble. That’s all I’d been to her since the day I rediscovered my former sparring partner two thousand miles away from Gleason’s gym back in New York. I fe
lt thankful she’d let me come to welcome her husband home from five months in the hospital.

  C.J. insisted I sit at the head table, despite his wife’s feelings. During a lull in the stream of friends who came up to shake his hand and offer congratulations, I leaned toward my old pal.

  “I’m sorry for all that happened to you.”

  He bent back like he was avoiding a too-slow left hook. “Dog, how many rounds did you go as my sparring partner?”

  “I lost count a long time ago.”

  “Right. And how many times did I make you bleed?”

  I shook my neck and shoulders as those painful memories returned.

  “I figure you and me are about even. Maybe you owe me a couple of Cuban cigars.” He laughed again and lifted a rib from his plate to his open mouth.

  I plopped my right elbow on the table and leaned forward until my head rested on my raised hand. My middle finger slid along the scar tissue beneath my eyebrow. Nothing bonds you to a guy like spending a hundred hours in the ring trying to beat the snot out of him.

  C.J. looked down at my empty plate. “Can I hit you again?”

  “I never could stop you.”

  He waved at a waitress who slid over and dumped another half rack in front of me. “Where’s your lady?” C.J. said, once the first bit of sauce touched my lips.

  I leaned back from the table so he could see Rebecca, two seats down. She’d attracted a crowd of her own. “Right there.”

  “No, man. Where’s your lady? Where’s Nai’ya?”

  I glanced at my watch. Almost two o’clock. Nai’ya Alonso-Riley told me she’d stop by at one-thirty after teaching her last morning class at University of New Mexico. I’d been saving her the seat to my right.

  Nai’ya and I first met more than twenty-five summers ago. She was a grad student. I was a full-of-myself academic with a grant to excavate Ancestral Puebloan ruins. We’d been close for those short summer weeks. Re-discovering her was the best thing that had happened since my return to New Mexico six months ago.