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  “Did you instigate the use of force or retaliate against Sergeant Crawford with anything other than words?”

  “No, sir. He started to draw a gun on me, but Officer Jackson intervened.”

  “Lies!” Crawford stood and shook a fist at the world.

  “Sit down and shut up.” Sam’s hands slipped into his trench coat but came away empty. He turned to Garcia. “Remain with Sergeant Crawford. Make sure he doesn’t leave the couch. Lieutenant McAuley from IA is on her way. When she arrives, I want you to accompany her and the sergeant back to headquarters.”

  Crawford’s smile disappeared faster than the whiskey at my father’s wake.

  “You’ll need to make a statement, Gabe.” Sam hands continued to fidget.

  I nodded. Another statement.

  “Jackson,” Sam turned to the officer. “You’ll have to go downtown, too. Tell them what you told me, all of it. For now, I want you to wait downstairs.”

  Jackson nodded in a daze and turned for the door just as Sam’s phone rang.

  “Archuleta.” Sam looked around the room. “You found him? Good. Where? Excellent—what’s that?” His free hand clutched his forehead. “Aw, fuck!” He waved his hand about, like he was trying to brush away a swarm of gnats. “Shit. Yeah, I’ll call you back.” He shut off his phone. “Judas Priest!”

  “Sam?” I said.

  “They found Klein and his two muscle men.”

  “This could be the break you need. Where were they?”

  “At a rest stop off I-25 near Raton Pass. Huddled behind the restroom building.”

  “Are they talking?”

  “They can’t. Each guy has a bullet hole in the back of his head.”

  I walked to the front window and peered through the blinds. Three black and whites and Sam’s car clogged the street in front of Rebecca’s building. Neighborhood onlookers surged against the police barriers when the medical investigator arrived. Things were moving quickly, just not quickly enough.

  Sam showed no interest in the view. He sat on the couch and ran his hand over the bald spot on the top of his head. No words, no cigarettes, no emotion registered on his face.

  “What now, Sam?” It was something to say.

  His weary voice barely rose above a whisper. “I have no idea.”

  I felt for him. “Can I help?”

  “Go down to Internal Affairs and give Lieutenant McAuley your version of what happened between you and Crawford. But take it easy, okay?”

  My back stiffened. “What the hell for?”

  “Crawford was way out of line, I know that. We’ve taken his gun. He’ll get desk duty, an official reprimand, and only after a full psych evaluation.”

  “He needs one. He’s a danger to himself and others.”

  “He’s a hard ass, but an effective cop. Abrasive, but effective.”

  “Fuck it, Sam. You’re breaking my heart.” My gut throbbed from Crawford’s punch. “I’m not letting up on anything or anyone until I know Rebecca and my family are safe.”

  Archuleta looked up at me, wounded. There was no fight left in his face. “I should never have let him go out on duty today.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Crawford’s wife left him night before last. He told me on the condition that I wouldn’t let anyone else know.”

  I must have appeared insufficiently sympathetic. Sam stood and put his hand inside his coat. I waited for the usual cigarette to emerge, but an empty arm dropped to his side. “She walked out on him with their seven-year-old daughter in the hospital. The kid’s dying of leukemia.” He gazed in my direction, but I don’t think he saw me. “What the hell was I thinking?”

  I thought about my own family. “Maybe I can cut him some slack one time, if it will help. But dammit, see that Crawford gets whatever help he needs.”

  “He will now.”

  “And keep me posted, okay? Anything. Everything.” I started for the door, but turned and looked at Sam. “I don’t know what to do either.”

  He waved a feeble good-bye. I walked down the front steps to my car and dialed Nai’ya’s number. No answer.

  My deposition at Internal Affairs took half an hour. I didn’t sugar coat anything, but did sound a note of conciliation, reminding McAuley about Crawford’s family issues. I decided for Sam’s sake not to press any charges and left the matter for APD to resolve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  C.J. and Charmaine chatted with a young couple whose infant son sat propped up on their table like a drooling centerpiece. I stood inside the front door and motioned C.J. to meet me in his office. Charmaine caught my action and stared me down. I couldn’t blame her.

  I waited at the office door while he limped over, cane in hand. Just before he reached me, I snuck a glance back at Charmaine to see if she was still glaring. She sure was.

  “What’s up, man?” C.J. turned the door handle.

  I whispered. “Inside.”

  “Uh-oh.” He said nothing more, just hobbled across twenty feet of threadbare carpet to his desk. It hurt to watch him. He set his cane on the desktop and landed hard in his swivel chair. “What’s happened now?”

  “Rebecca.” I sat across from him.

  C.J. rested his forearms on the desktop and leaned toward me. “What?”

  I told him about her disappearance, about the blood in her apartment. About my confrontation with Crawford.

  “Shit.”

  “That’s not all. The State Police found Klein and his two muscle men up near Raton.”

  “Good.”

  “Not good. They’d been shot in the head, execution style.”

  “Fuck.” He leaned back and let out a deep breath. “Fuck.”

  I pounded the desk with both fists.

  “Easy man!” C.J. made a gesture toward the small refrigerator beyond his chair. “Need a beer? This time, I’ll understand.”

  My phone rang.

  “Gabe, it’s Sam.”

  I grabbed the edge of the desk. “What is it?”

  “I think it’s good news. We got the results back on those blood samples from Rebecca’s apartment.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not her blood. We checked the records from her hospitalization last April. She’s O negative. The stains in her apartment were AB positive. Very interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “AB positive—it’s uncommon in the Western Hemisphere, except for people of Oriental extraction. A couple of American Indian tribes too.”

  “Meaning what?” I hoped Sam wasn’t suggesting Nai’ya or Angelina was somehow involved in Rebecca’s disappearance.

  “I don’t know, Gabe. But it’s interesting.”

  “Any idea where Rebecca is?”

  “Not yet. We’ll let you know as soon as we have anything.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up and shared Sam’s message.

  C.J. held out his hands. “What can I do?”

  I thought for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to give your name and number to a couple of friends from New York. Sloppy and Onion are working with me. I’ll tell them, if they ever can’t reach me, they can leave a message here. You okay with that?”

  “Either one of them a cop?” C.J. suffered from allergies and the badge was one of them.

  “No. One’s a lawyer and the other’s a private dick. Old friends of mine. From Queens.”

  “A couple of micks, probably.” He slid a notepad and pencil across the desk. “Give me their names and numbers.”

  I wrote down their contact information.

  C.J. tapped his cane. “Might not be able to keep pace with you in my present condition, but I can still watch your back.”

  The office door flew open and Charmaine stood there, hands on hips.

  “I was just leaving.” I gave her a lame wave of my hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “A bag of ribs is waiting for you at the register.” She held the door for me. “On your way out.”

&
nbsp; Onion called from New York just after I started the car. I turned off the engine to give him my full attention. “Got anything for me?”

  “Too much coincidence on those bodies, that’s what we got. Brian Livingstone—the financial guy from Jersey—and the other guy, the one who embezzled from the Transit Authority.”

  “Angelo Zappeli?”

  “Yeah, that guy. They both cashed out sizeable assets days before their disappearances.”

  “So their exits were arranged?”

  “It looks that way. And get this. Each of them drew a certified bank check for a quarter of a million dollars on the day before he vanished.”

  “They paid someone to get them lost.”

  “Sloppy found out both these guys were under indictment when they disappeared—Livingstone in Jersey, Zappeli in Manhattan.”

  “Anything on the other two guys—Dmitrov and the Daily News reporter?”

  “Nothing yet on Van Heyer. The Russian guy we may never know. What about you? Any IDs on the other two bodies?”

  “Maybe later today.” I paused and took a deep breath. “I may need you to come out here and help me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “My secretary just disappeared. I had her doing research on Joseph Klein, the guy who managed the casino. Looks like she’s been abducted.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry, Gabe. Was Klein involved?”

  “Not this time. He’s dead. A professional whack job.”

  “I can be there tomorrow.”

  “Stand by. I’ll let you know in the morning. Thanks for all the info. Good work.”

  “I always do good work.”

  “Call you tomorrow.”

  I phoned Sam before driving home. “Any update on Rebecca?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “Listen, I need your help. What time are you free tonight?”

  Sam grunted. “I wish. I won’t be free until these cases are solved.”

  “This is about the cases. I need to knock heads with you and the Feds. Tonight at my place?”

  “The Feds?”

  “It’ll be worth your while. Trust me.” I noticed the bag of ribs was leaking grease onto the seat. I reached over and put it on the floor.

  “Why the Feds?”

  “We need to coordinate.”

  “You want the FBI to coordinate with the APD? Are you a dreamer or a magician? Not a chance.” A whiff of his smoke hit the phone.

  “What’s the guy’s name? The top Fed in town.”

  “The FBI Field Director is not about to come over to your house.”

  “How about somebody underneath him then? Somebody you’ve worked with before?”

  Sam was silent for a moment. “There’s Carlson.”

  “Who?”

  “Carlson. Walter. Good agent. Crew-cut, attitude, knows everything, tells you nothing.”

  “Got his number?”

  “He’ll never take a call from you. Might take a call from me. Maybe.”

  “Call him. See if he can meet us at my place at 6:30.”

  “Gabe, you’re asking a federal employee to work nights.”

  “Tell him I have information he’d be willing to spy for.”

  “Then he probably already has it.”

  “I’ll take that chance.” On the way home, I worried about Rebecca and how widespread this mess had grown.

  The ribs needed reheating and I needed to cool down. The doorbell rang before either could happen. Outside the front window, a FedEx truck blocked the foot of my driveway. I opened the door to a muscular, tanned woman in Navy blue cap, shirt, and shorts.

  “I need a signature.” She handed me a shoebox-sized package and pointed to a line on her silver clipboard. “Right there.”

  I did my best with the attached electronic pen, but couldn’t read my signature.

  “Have a good day, sir.”

  I locked the door and carried the box to the library. Same Day Delivery. I wasn’t the only one in a hurry.

  The box weighed next to nothing. I shook it. Something shifted inside. I listened closely. Nothing. My neck muscles tightened.

  The return address on the local shipping label read P.O. Box 57092 Albuquerque, N.M. I grabbed my letter opener from the desktop, looked around and noticed the bay window to my left. I walked over and closed the shades.

  A brown outer wrapper covered the package. My hands shook a little as I slit it open. A second, smaller box lay inside. It held two envelopes. The top one had the same P.O. Box number. The bottom envelope read: McKenna.

  I slit it open and unfolded a single sheet of typed paper.

  Your secretary is alive. Whether she stays that way is up to you. The price is $500,000. I know you have it. Make out a certified bank check to cash. No tricks or you both die. Mail the top envelope with your check inside to the address listed. I have added a stamp for your convenience.

  You have 48 hours to respond. Don’t wait. No cops.

  Mahatma

  I read the message a second time, recalling that Onion said the two guys back east each laid out a quarter of a million when they disappeared. The price had gone up over the years. I dropped the letter opener onto my desk and slid the lower right-hand drawer open. My whiskey bottle was less than half full.

  It stayed that way. This called for clear thinking.

  Rebecca’s cryptic Find Mahatma would be my starting point. Her disappearance and Klein’s had to be connected. Mahatma’s M.O. seemed consistent with what Onion and Sloppy discovered about the disappearance of at least two of the dead men in my barn.

  But what tied it all together?

  My right hand reached for the Mont Blanc on the desktop, my left pulled a clean piece of paper from a drawer. I jotted down everything I could think of that seemed to matter.

  Why all the bodies in my barn? Klein Associates owned the house for years. That was an obvious connection. But a couple of the bodies were men who disappeared after Aunt Nellie moved in. Wouldn’t she have known?

  I went to the kitchen, poured a tall glass of water from the tap and tossed in a handful of ice cubes. The ribs from C.J.’s sat on the countertop. I put them in the refrigerator for later. Otis’s food bowl was empty, so I filled it. I walked to the empty bedroom and stared at all the boxes.

  Three-thirty. Three hours to rummage through Nellie’s things. Three hours before my hoped-for meeting with Sam and Carlson.

  Archuleta called the minute I opened the first of Nellie’s boxes.

  “Your lucky day, Gabe. The FBI wants to talk with you after all.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “You may find such enthusiasm premature.”

  “I’ll take that chance. We’re on for tonight?”

  “Carlson will give you half an hour.”

  “Do the Feds care about Rebecca’s disappearance or is that case all yours?”

  “If it ties in with the bodies in your barn and with Klein, I’m sure they’re interested.”

  “Good. Because FedEx just dropped off a ransom note. I need to decide what to do.”

  “Don’t do anything until we get there.”

  “Six-thirty?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  He hung up. I turned to the first box, not quite sure what I was looking for, not sure I’d know it if I found it. The first time I searched through Nellie’s things, I passed over the six boxes labeled “Clothing.” Today I’d check them all.

  The first two boxes contained hand-tooled boots, women’s vintage Western clothing, several hats, a cream-colored formal gown, and a pile of blouses and skirts. Good stuff in its day. The third box weighed more. I’d found her jewelry.

  My Aunt Nellie was a wealthy woman. When I first met her in the late 1980s, she wore enough turquoise, silver, and gold to pass as a Santa Fe doyen. But James O’Connor, the crooked lawyer who’d been executor of her estate, skimmed off the best of her pieces. This box held the glass and silver plate leftovers.

  A small, battered cardboard box
at the bottom of the carton caught my eye. I took it out and lifted its top.

  I couldn’t control the sick feeling in my stomach. A black onyx ring with the head of Chief Tammany stared up at me. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. The inscription inside the band was both clear and puzzling: To N.McK. from J.F.C – 6/8/1948

  I slipped the ring into my pocket and set the rest of the jewelry aside. Who was J.F.C.?

  Four boxes near the window contained Nellie’s financial records. I dragged them into the center of the room and opened them. They were filled with bank statements going back to the mid-1930s. That was even before she’d moved to New Mexico in 1942, one of the stipulations in the inheritance she’d been left by her uncle, James A. McKenna.

  I concentrated on the bank records from after her move-in date and examined handful after handful of forms. Her initial balance at New Mexico National Savings Bank stood at just under $20,000 thanks to her inheritance from the man everyone in my family called Uncle Jimmie.

  Weekly deposits of $85.00 from the New Mexico State Department of Records must have been her paychecks. She once told me she’d worked at their Albuquerque office. These entries ended in 1946.

  On August 16, 1946, Nellie deposited $500.00 cash from a James Frederick Cannon. On August 23rd, another cash deposit, listed as “JFC,” same as the inscription on her ring. Cannon, no doubt. I checked the days of the week for that year. Both dates fell on a Friday. Paydays, perhaps?

  I paged through more records—every Friday, a $500.00 cash deposit from J.F.C. Each successive monthly bank statement showed the same pattern of deposits until November 8, 1962. Her bank balance that day read $206,877.

  James Frederick Cannon paid Nellie more than twenty-five grand annually for seventeen straight years.

  I called Onion. “Got a job for you.”

  “Can it wait until after dinner?”

  The two-hour time difference had slipped my mind. “Sorry. When you’re done, see what you can dig up about a man named James Frederick Cannon.” I took the ring out of my pocket and turned it over in my hand. “See if he disappeared like all the others. And if so, when?”

  “Got more than a name for me to go on? Business? Approximate age? Date last seen?”