The Bone Fire_A Mystery

Chapter NINE

Friday Afternoon

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Lucy was nearing the Plaza, which was only a block wide and another long, but it was filled with people, sitting and standing, who blotted out the green grass underneath. An all-girl mariachi band was playing a fast polka in the center of the Plaza, while the outside perimeter was ringed with food booths.
Lucy’s only goal was to find something to eat and get in some people-watching. Everyone else’s goal was different. It was to meet up with those long-lost friends, schoolmates, and relatives or to meet those new to the family tree—spouses and babies. As she wandered through the crowd, she saw every type of greeting. Handshakes. Hugs. Exclamations. Tears.
Lucy could think of no one from her past that she would get that excited to see again. Sure, it would be nice to have a visit with her mom and her two brothers, but she couldn’t think of the last time she saw someone that would make her cry in happiness.
She walked over to the Palace of the Governors, which was decked out for the occasion. The four-hundred-year-old building, now a museum, was made of four-foot-thick adobe covered by white plaster. The walls had strange bulges and dents, like a car involved in one too many fender benders. It was the main viga, hanging low over the front of the portal, that Lucy was interested in. On it were the crests of the founding families of Santa Fe and the shields representing the pueblo tribes, all put up especially for fiesta. Dozens of crests lined the lengths of the portal. She found the Trujillo family crest, which showed a field of red punctuated by blue dots and yellow Xs. No noble lions or mythical griffins. It looked more like a tic-tac-toe game. She was definitely going to have to tease Gerald about that. Next, she looked for the Martinez crest, thinking she could make fun of Tommy about it. It was near the end of the portal, but it was much more regal than Gerald’s. Two fields split it diagonally—one half had bold black-and-white stripes, the other red fleur-de-lis. Very majestic. Lastly, she looked for the Montoya crest. She found it on the other end of the portal. It showed eight white hearts on a blue field. She was not quite sure what to make of it but was certain she would never make fun of it to Gil.
The mariachi band stopped, and the emcee said, “Now, get ready to greet La Reina and Don Diego de Vargas.” The crowd clapped and hooted as a young man wearing a conquistador costume took the stage. He had on fabulous thigh-high leather boots, pantaloons, and a black velvet cape. The effect was surprisingly masculine. The man was playing the role of Don Diego de Vargas, the Spanish captain who made the fateful prayer for peace to La Conquistadora.
Next on the stage was La Reina, the queen. She was dressed in a strapless white gown, looking like a bride, with a long blue velvet cape edged in fur. The selection of La Reina had evolved into something of a beauty pageant. Every year the fiesta council chose a new Don Diego and La Reina. The couple would then visit nursing homes and football games throughout the year and march in the procession during fiesta.
Lucy watched the crowd a little longer, then went over to one of the food booths and ordered a Frito pie. She went to sit on the grass and started to eat her pie quickly so the Fritos wouldn’t lose their crunch under the heaping of red chile, lettuce, and cheese.
She was finishing up when she felt the urge to call her mom. She dialed the phone, but it went to voice mail. She didn’t leave a message. What she had really wanted was for someone to be happy that she had called, not an answering machine that could care less.
Mrs. Rodriguez had given them her husband’s last known address, which they confirmed with the MVD records. His lived out near Tesuque Pueblo, about a twenty-minute drive from town.
The Crown Victoria complained its way up Opera Hill as the highway flattened out over the top of the hill and the valley stretched out green below.
“So maybe the dad snatched Brianna to get back at Ashley,” Joe said as they took the exit into Tesuque. “Or, I mean, Brianna might be his own daughter, so he might have some really messed-up ideas about ownership of her.”
“It’s possible,” Gil said, “but putting her in Zozobra and then putting the bones on an altar . . .” He realized he didn’t want to finish the sentence.
“Maybe the guy is crazy.”
“He would have to be,” Gil said. The road dropped down into the Tesuque Valley, with its huge cottonwood trees and tiny river. It was easy to see why there had been a pueblo here since the 1200s. Apple trees, heavy with fruit, lined the road, like happy spectators at a parade. The pueblo was one of six in the state that spoke Tewa, a mostly unwritten language that is used by fewer than two thousand people. The other fourteen Pueblo tribes in New Mexico spoke Tiwa, Keres, Towa, or Zuni. Gil wondered what the Spanish first thought about the Pueblo Indians, some of whom had made towering cities of adobe. The Pueblo tribes were so unlike the Plains Indians, who traveled long distances with the buffalo herds. In New Mexico, the majority of the twenty-two tribes, including the Navajo, had a tendency to stay put.
Gil pulled into a dirt road that dead-ended by the river in a circle of mobile homes. Rudy Rodriguez’s house was the second from the end. Gil and Joe got out of the car and headed up to the front door. Before they could even knock, a man was there, peering at them through the screen door.
“Hi,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Gil introduced himself and Joe, then said, “We were hoping to talk to you about Brianna.”
Rodriguez let them into the trailer, which was cramped but clean. A blow-up mattress was on the living room floor. Six empty beer bottles sat on the kitchen counter. The men sat down around the kitchen table, and Gil said, “I’m afraid we have some bad news. We believe we found Brianna’s remains.”
Rodriguez put his head in his hands and buried his face. Gil noticed a tattoo on the side of his neck that read MY L’IL ANGEL. Gil wondered if that was for Ashley or Brianna. Either idea was disturbing.
“My poor, poor baby,” Rodriguez said as he started crying. “My sweet, sweet child. My beautiful sweet angel. What happened?” he asked, looking up. His eyes were red. “Who did this to her?”
The front door opened suddenly, and a woman walked in, followed by a man. “Rudy, what’s going on?” the woman said as she walked over to them. She looked about forty, and Gil guessed the man who came in with her was her husband.
“They’re here about Brianna,” Rodriguez said, his eyes tearing up again.
“Oh no . . .” she said.
“It’s bad,” he said to the woman, who came over to hug Rodriguez as he sat.
“I’m his sister, Anna Maria,” she said, looking up at Gil and Joe. “We’re just up from Albuquerque to go to fiesta.”
“They needed a place to sleep tonight,” Rodriguez said. That explained the air mattress on the floor. “They’re heading home in the morning.”
“So what is going on . . .” Gil heard Anna Maria ask.
He didn’t catch the rest of what she was saying, as the door swung open again and two little girls came in carrying groceries.
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Judge Otero was on the Plaza, the center of a small group of people, which included his family and about a dozen well-wishers. The noise from the crowd was loud, but not overwhelming. The judge was dressed in his yellow satin Protectores shirt and black pants, which his wife had ironed well. Around his circle of people, the crowd moved and twisted, but he stood still in the heart of it all.
The judge was talking to a former city councilor when the current city attorney came over. The councilor said his good-byes quickly, sensing that Judge Otero and the attorney needed to talk. The two men started out slowly, asking about each other’s wife and children while shaking hands with most of the people who walked by.
Judge Otero looked over at his wife and eldest daughter next to him, his newest grandson in her arms. He kissed his wife on her cheek. She smiled and then walked off with his daughter and grandson so he could get down to business.
The city attorney watched them go before saying, “I hear the Judicial Standards Commission will be coming back with a ruling soon.”
Judge Otero said nothing.
“Are you still sending people to that driving school?” the attorney asked.
“Of course not,” Judge Otero said. “I haven’t done that in months.” The Safe Streets Driving School was why the judge was being investigated by the commission. He hadn’t realized it would cause such uproar. It really wasn’t anything they needed to be concerned about. The school was owned by his court clerk, but it was the only driving school in town, unless you counted the ones operated by that chain company that had schools all over the Southwest. Judge Otero had sent people to the Safe Streets school—and would continue sending them there until well after this all blew over—because he knew the defendants would get the best education. The fact that his clerk owned the school had nothing to do with his decision. He was doing what was needed to keep the drivers safe.
“Judge,” the city attorney said, “just keep your hands clean.”
Judge Otero looked at the man. He didn’t like him. The city attorney had been trying to oust him from office for years, all because the judge didn’t have a law degree.
“When you’ve got celebrity status, people want a piece of you,” the judge said. “Just keep that in mind.”
Gil watched the girls put the groceries down on the kitchen counter as best they could given their height. The younger looked to be about four, and the older couldn’t be more than six. The same number of years apart as Joy and Therese.
There must have been something in Gil’s expression that caused Joe to say, “Mr. Rodriguez, could we continue this outside? I think this conversation might be too much for the children.”
They all got up and went out into the early night, but Rodriguez made a pit stop at the fridge to grab another beer.
Gil walked quickly away from the trailer, leaving Joe and Rodriguez standing in front. Gil went to the car and pretended he needed something inside. He couldn’t let Rodriguez see that he was upset. It would be too harmful when it came time to get a confession.
Rodriguez wasn’t Gil’s first child molester, not by a long shot, but the little girls running through the door all smiles—something inside him clicked. The second Gil saw the girls come in the house, he went from police detective to father.
He heard Joe and Rodriguez walking toward him, their feet making shuffling sounds in dirt.
Joe was saying to Rodriguez, “I think it might be a good idea to go down to the station—”
“Can we do this later? I’m really tired,” Rodriguez said.
“We just want to talk a little—” Joe said.
“Can I just meet you there tomorrow?”
They couldn’t force him to come with them because they didn’t have sufficient information to arrest him on any abuse charges. If only Ashley had been well enough to talk. All they did have was guesses. Normally, having him come down to the station tomorrow would be fine. They would arrest him then if he confessed, but with those little girls in the house . . . if something happened to them tonight after leaving Rodriguez there with them . . . Gil couldn’t finish that thought.
Legally they didn’t have reasonable grounds, but ethically . . .
“Actually, I think it’s best if you come with us,” Gil said. His tone must have been too tough, because Rodriguez puffed up his chest.
“You can’t arrest me,” Rodriguez said defiantly, swaying a bit from the alcohol.
Gil started to grab his handcuffs from their holder on his belt. Joe, noticing the movement, said quickly, “You aren’t under arrest. It’s called protective custody. It’s just a way for us to take care of you right now, at this difficult time.” His voice was all concern and caring.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Look, Rudy,” Joe said, putting his arm around the man. “You told me that you feel really sad right now. Why don’t you just come with us until you’re feeling better? Then you can come back home and be at your best around your family.”
Joe coaxed Rodriguez into the backseat as his sister came out of the house.
“What’s going on?” Anna Maria asked.
“Ma’am, we’re sorry,” Joe said. “We feel like your brother is really broken up over the news about Brianna, and that, combined with the drinking, we just think it would be better for him to come with us tonight.”
“He’s not under arrest?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” Joe said. “Under the Detoxification Reform Act all that happens is that he comes with us and he stays in a special cell until he’s more himself. He never gets charged or arrested.”
Gil said nothing as he got into the driver’s seat. He drove back out to the highway and took the bypass around the city, glad to be leaving the family safely behind them.