Joanna studied the container. “And it wasn’t something Sandra wanted her attorney to know about, since she evidently stole Melanie Goodson’s car to come get it. But shouldn’t we ascertain once and for all that the person Lance Pakin’s witness saw here really was Sandra Ridder? What’s his name again, and is he still camped out up there?”
Jaime consulted his notes. “Mr. Pete Naujokas of Estes Park, Colorado,” he said. “And yes, as far as I know, he’s still up there. Third RV spot on the right inside the campground. But how can he possibly identify her?”
Frank held up a piece of paper. “The night clerk faxed me a copy of Sandra Ridder’s mug shot.”
Jaime laughed. “Frank Montoya’s trusty mobile office strikes again.”
Frank’s technological additions to his Crown Victoria had been the topic of much good-natured ribbing both inside and outside the department. But at times like these, it was easy for Frank to rib back.
“It’s only a little after nine,” Joanna told her officers. “Even the most dedicated RVer won’t have hit the sack this early. Frank and I will go show Pete Naujokas the picture and see what he says. That way we’ll know for sure whether or not Sandra Ridder is the woman who was digging in the rocks.”
Leaving Jaime Carbajal to continue his investigation of this new part of the crime scene, Joanna and Frank headed for the campground. The gravel road, little more than a trail in spots, was rough and winding enough to prove something of a challenge to Frank’s Civvie. Once they arrived at the campground and saw some of the big RV rigs parked there, Joanna wondered aloud how they had made it up the road.
Frank looked at her and grinned. “Most of the guys who drive these are retired,” he told her. “They don’t care how long it takes to get from one camping spot to another. They’re not on a set schedule.”
Outside the Naujokases’ RV, four people in folding camp chairs were seated around a blazing fire. “Mr. Naujokas?” Joanna asked, exhibiting her ID.
“That’s me.” A smiling, slightly built man stepped out of the firelight. “Most people call me Pete,” he said.
“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady, and this is Frank Montoya, my chief deputy. I was wondering if you’d mind taking a look at a picture we have here and telling us whether or not it’s the woman you saw down by the park entrance last night.”
Frank passed him the faxed mug shot, and Pete Naujokas walked it over to the fire in order to take a closer look. “That’s her,” he said, coming back to return the paper to Frank. “Who is she—or rather, who was she? Some kind of criminal?”
“Her name is Sandra Ridder. She went to prison for manslaughter eight years ago, after the shooting death of her husband. Her mother lives a few miles away from here off Middlemarch Road.”
“But what was she doing here?” Pete asked. “At the campground?”
“We think she came looking for something, maybe something that had been hidden for years.”
“Since before she went to prison?”
“That’s right,” Joanna told him. “We found an empty container, but there was no sign of what had been in it.”
Pete shook his head. “Most likely not a missing ring,” he said. “The whole thing gives me the willies.” He shivered. “I guess I’m lucky she didn’t accept my offer of help. No telling what might have happened then. When you hang around campgrounds like this, you meet up with a lot of really nice people. It lulls you into believing that everyone’s pretty much the same. Know what I mean?”
Joanna nodded.
“I guess I’ll be more careful after this,” he added with a rueful grin. “Being a good Samaritan is supposed to be a good thing. On the other hand, being a dead good Samaritan is downright stupid.”
“After you left the woman by the sign and came on up to the campground, did you hear anything?”
“You mean like a gunshot?” Pete Naujokas asked. “No, I didn’t. I’ve asked around. As far as I can tell, nobody else did, either.”
Frank and Joanna left a few minutes later. After a brief stop to check in with Jaime Carbajal, they continued back to Joanna’s Blazer.
“That is weird,” Frank mused along the way.
“What is?”
“If Sandra’s mother lived just a few miles away, why not hide whatever it was on her mother’s property instead of someplace as public as the entrance to a national monument?”
“Because she didn’t want whatever it was she was hiding to be connected to her mother or to her,” Joanna said. “A weapon, maybe. What about the gun that was used to kill Tom Ridder? Was that ever recovered?”
“I don’t know,” Frank replied. “I can probably find out tomorrow. It would have to be damned small to fit inside that bowl.”
“So we’re looking for something that’s small and valuable,” Joanna added. “What about you, Frank? Supposing your house was on fire or about to be washed away in a flood, and all you could rescue was whatever would fit in a bowl that size. Given that set of circumstances, what would you have put in there?”