“Ah, you care.” She kissed his lips gently. “I do appreciate this little tête-à-tête. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be happy to go out to dinner with you. But between sleep and food, food doesn’t stand a chance.”
JD sat back in his chair. “This is killing me! I mean, all this time we could be together before graduation. I know you don’t worship me, but c’mon. We had a lot of fun together.”
“We did have fun.” She rubbed her eyes. “Give me a little more time. Maybe by then I’ll be free of my obligations and we can resume where we left off.”
“What obligations?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” She stood up. “It’s something I need to do.”
It was the first weekend in nearly three weeks that Ben had decided to come home. It was good to be missed. His mother was happy to see him and although he saw his father in Albuquerque at least once a week, his dad seemed in a particularly jovial mood. Even Haley seemed to welcome his presence. She and Lilly chatted away about the vagaries and vicissitudes of Remez High: who was popular, who was not, who was going with whom, what movies they saw, what TV shows they were watching. Ben noticed that Griffen Majors wasn’t mentioned at all. He didn’t comment on it, but he filed it away. By eleven in the evening, he was zonked. He slept the sleep of the dead and woke up a little before seven in the morning. The house was quiet and he was alone.
Early morning was his favorite time of day. Everything was new and fresh and filled with promise that rarely was realized. But hope counted for something and so did coffee. He started a pot, turned off the alarm, and went out to the front yard to grab the Journal and the New Mexican. He peeled off the Santa Fe section from the Journal and read the Albuquerque news first. It was almost as if New Mexico’s most populated city was becoming his new home base.
It was a small paper and reading it cover to cover took all of ten minutes.
He moved on to the local news in the Santa Fe section and grimaced as he read the headlines. Then he looked at the New Mexican, where he reread the same story. Both papers showed a picture. Some idiot had graffitied the Palace of the Governors. The place had been constructed in the seventeenth century and was the oldest government building in the country still in use. It was not only a historical landmark, but an American Treasure. And some asshole decided it would be fun to spray-paint black bull’s-eyes all over the dun adobe walls. There was going to be a community pancake breakfast starting at eight for anyone who was willing to volunteer their time to cover up the desecration.
Ben checked his watch. It was seven thirty. He got up from the breakfast bar just as his father came out. His dad greeted him. “God bless you. You made coffee.”
“Help yourself.”
“Where are you going?”
“Getting dressed. Might as well do something productive.” Ben showed his father the article.
The old man made a face. “That’s terrible. I can maybe come for a couple of hours. But then I have stuff to do.”
“Don’t bother. I’m sure it’ll be a big turnout. Especially with free pancakes.”
“Stupid kids.” He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Probably teenaged boys with inadequate penile size.”
Ben laughed. “Since when have you become Freudian?”
“The Austrian does have a time and place.” His dad smiled. “Good to see you doing something productive.”
“You mean, good to see you not moping around.” Ben kissed the top of his father’s head. “Thanks, Dad, for not throwing in the towel . . . on me, I mean.”
“Why in the world would I do that?” He went back to his paper. “Ruin my favorite source of recreation.”
“Which is?”
“Embarrassing you and your sister. I just love to watch you young’uns squirm.”
Paint cans were spread out on Palace, the street closed off between Washington and Grant. The back wall of the portico of the Palace of the Governors—where the Indians set up to display their wares—was pocked with black spray-painted bull’s-eyes, as was the second story of the building. The asshole had had a busy night.
Stations were set up in the blocked-off street while volunteers served piles of pancakes and syrup, orange juice, and lots and lots of coffee. The Palace abutted the grassy plains of the plaza, which hummed with people ready, willing, and able to make amends for some tagger’s indiscretions. A crowd of around fifty ate while awaiting assignments. Ladders were being set up against the building. There was a sign-up sheet, a disclaimer sheet, and loads of aprons along with water buckets and paintbrushes. The tagging was all over the building, but within an hour a lot of the damage was masked by adobe-colored hues.
Ben was concentrating on his area when he heard a familiar voice say hello.
“How’s it going?” Shanks asked. “Haven’t seen you for a while.” When the boy shrugged, he said, “Problems?”
“No problems,” Ben said. “There would be problems if she was still around, but she’s no longer in the picture.”
“The pretty blonde?”
“Yep,” Ben said. “The pretty blonde.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Ben said. “You recognize the tag, Sam?”
“No, I don’t. It’s not associated with any of the local gangs.”
“I can believe that. Most of the locals, including the gangs, have more respect for their heritage. Asshole kid.”
“Kid or kids?”
“I think it was done by a single hand. Look at the paint. Each one is identical in shape and size . . . like a signature, like he’s trying real hard to preserve his identity because he’s lost it somewhere. Precise little booger.”
“Studying psychology in school?”
“Armchair psychology.”
“Sounds pretty good to me. Are you sure you don’t want to join the academy?”
Ben smiled and kept painting.
Shanks said, “We got a final on Katie Doogan’s DNA.” Ben immediately stopped painting and looked at him with anticipation. “It took a long time because there wasn’t very much biological evidence that we could test. Fraction of a fraction, but we did get a profile back, Ben. You were right. It’s a match for your sister.”
Ben froze, couldn’t talk.
Shanks went on. “I found out late last night. I’ve been spending the last few hours trying to figure out a way to tell you and your parents. Then I saw you here.” He looked down. “Sorry to spring this on you, son. I guess I should have been more diplomatic.”
“It’s fine, Sam. It’s . . . there’s no easy way.” He turned to Shanks. “What about Jamey Moore?”
“Now that we have three matches—Ellen, Julia Rehnquist, and Katie Doogan—Tennessee will go through with the request for DNA comparison. Ortiz and I are on it. This is the break we’ve all been waiting for. We can coordinate—several departments looking at the same thing.”
“How are we going to find him?”
“You mean how are the police going to find him?” When Ben didn’t respond, Shanks said, “The police are doing everything they can—every legal maneuver and then some. Serial killers are big news. We’ve got manpower now. We’re going to find the son of a bitch, Ben. I promise you.”
Shanks put a hand on the kid’s shoulder.