Death Song (25 page)

Seated in Armijo’s unit, Clayton drank his coffee and blinked against the harsh, cloudless sky, made slightly hazy by a low thin brown cloud of pollution that hung over the city. Albuquerque looked no better to him at midday than it did at night or early in the morning. Central Avenue still had a string of cheap motels near the Interstate, rows of small businesses in a hodgepodge of uninteresting buildings still bordered the boulevard all the way up the hill to the university, and the sounds of traffic on the busy street filled the air like the dull hum of a swarm of angry insects. In truth, Clayton didn’t like cities much.

As Armijo drove, he filled Clayton in. Riley had told Duffy he’d gone into hiding because of something he’d learned that could get him killed.

“At first,” Lee added, “Duffy thought it was just some paranoid, drug-induced bullshit Riley was laying on him. But Riley went on and on about how his father and stepmother had been murdered, and he was next in line unless he could stay out of sight.”

“Maybe it was just paranoia,” Clayton ventured.

“I put the same thought to Duffy myself and he strenuously disagreed. He said Riley told him he knew things about his stepmother that could get him killed.”

“Did Riley say what it was he’d learned about his stepmother?”

Armijo shook his head and slowed as a driver pulled into traffic from a side street and swerved immediately into the left-hand lane. “Nope. Duffy and Riley. Doesn’t that sounds like an old Irish vaudeville song-and dance-team?”

“And this conversation took place two nights ago?” Clayton asked, just a bit weary of Lee’s wisecracking style.

“According to Duffy, that’s a roger.” A break in the traffic flow allowed Armijo to swing into the right lane. “Duffy also told me that Riley gave the guy he’s crashing with money to let him hide out there until things cool down. He’s been laying low since the night his father’s murder made the evening news, and he hasn’t once left the house.”

“So if Riley is supposedly in hiding, how did this Duffy character manage to connect with him?” Clayton asked.

Armijo signaled a right turn. “When he isn’t busy burglarizing homes and businesses, Duffy peddles cannabis to a select group of people he knows and trusts. Brian Riley’s host, Benjamin Beaner—I swear on a stack of Bibles that’s his name—is one of Duffy’s regular customers. Beaner called Duffy, placed an order, and asked him to deliver it. When Duffy arrived with product in hand, Beaner and Riley were already half-wasted. Duffy joined the party, and as the evening progressed Riley started talking.”

“What do you know about Beaner?”

“I found one intel report on him,” Lee replied. “Late thirties, bisexual, single, college dropout, heavy grass user with an off-the-charts IQ. Works as a salesclerk at a national chain home electronics and appliance store. In other words, he’s a middle-aged, switch-hitting, pothead geek.”

“Did Riley mention to Duffy or Beaner who he thinks is trying to kill him?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Armijo replied.

“Well?”

“Agents of a foreign government.”

“What?”

Armijo eased to the curb in front of a cottage situated at the back side of a large, packed-dirt lot with one leafless, forlorn, thirty-foot-tall ash tree that overarched the driveway. Large cracked and partially broken limbs dangled dangerously from high branches above the roof of a beat-up silver Honda Civic.

“That’s all I know.” Armijo opened the car door. “Now lets go and see if any of it is true.”

The officers approached slowly, eyeing the cottage as they crossed over the partially exposed, charred foundation of a structure—probably a house—that had burned. The cottage had a screened-in porch, but most of the screens were either missing or badly tattered. The front door, which had been partially painted dark green a long time ago, had a bumper sticker pasted on it that read “Free Tibet.”

Clayton guessed the cottage had probably started life as either a garage, a shed, or an outbuilding for the main house that had once stood along a leafy lane, back in the days when the university was on the outskirts of town.

As he closed in on the front porch, he scanned the windows, looking for any sign of movement, while Lee Armijo kept his gaze locked on the door. They circled the cottage, found no rear exits, and returned to the front. Clayton knocked on the door and called out for Benjamin Beaner. When he heard movement inside, he knocked again.

“Yeah, what do you want?” a voice replied.

“I need to speak to Brian Riley.”

“There’s nobody here by that name.”

“Are you Benjamin Beaner?” Clayton asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Police. Open up.”

The door opened a crack, and Clayton flashed his shield and Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office photo ID. The door swung open to reveal a man with a sunken chest, round shoulders, a tuft of hair that dangled down from his chin, and pasty skin. He reeked of tobacco smoke mixed with the pungent aroma of marijuana.

“Benjamin Beaner?”

The man nodded. “If you’re looking for Brian Riley, he’s gone.”

“When?” Lee Armijo asked.

Beaner shook his head. “I don’t know. I woke up and he wasn’t here. Took all his stuff with him.”

“Exactly
when
did you wake up?” Armijo demanded.

“About seven this morning.”

“Was Riley here last night?” Clayton asked.

“Yeah. He crashed before I did.”

“Mind if we look around?” Armijo asked.

“You got a warrant?”

“Do you want to go to jail for felony pot possession?” Armijo countered.

Beaner swallowed hard. “Are you going to bust me anyway if I let you in?”

“We’re not interested in arresting you, Mr. Beaner,” Clayton answered.

Beaner stepped aside. “Look all you want.”

The small front room was completely taken over by a home entertainment system consisting of a DVD player, a cable TV box, a stereo with large floor speakers, a wide-screen high-definition television, the latest video gaming system and a universal remote control. Two beat-up reclining leather chairs were positioned directly in front of the TV, within easy reach of a glass-top coffee table that held an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, a plastic bag about half full of marijuana, a water pipe, and several roach clips.

In front of the coffee table, no more than three feet from the screen, was one of those legless video rocking chairs gamers used to plug themselves into their artificial digital world. Clearly Beaner’s private life was almost completely detached from anything real. The room, the dark eye of the TV screen, the absence of any personal touches reminded Clayton of fanciful and scary Ray Bradbury stories he’d read as a child. He asked Beaner where Riley had slept.

Beaner pointed to a small hallway and said, “Turn left.”

The back room was filled with assorted boxes of salvaged electronics gear, a bookcase made out of stacked concrete blocks and unpainted pine boards, filled with technical manuals, a plywood worktable on sawhorses that held a laptop, scanner, printer, and digital camera, and a twin mattress on the floor that had been pushed up against a wall.

Clayton called Beaner into the room to ask him what, if anything, belonged to Brian Riley.

Beaner looked around and stroked the tuft of facial hair that hung from his chin. “I don’t see anything here that’s his.”

“Nothing?” Clayton demanded.

“That’s right.”

“What did he come here with?”

“He had a backpack, a sleeping bag, a toilet kit that he kept in the bathroom, and the clothes he wore. That’s it.”

“And he gave you money to hide him?”

“A hundred dollars a night plus cash for food and extras, all of it in old money.”

“What do you mean old money?” Armijo asked.

“There wasn’t a bill less than ten years old that he gave me. Tens and twenties, and they hadn’t been circulated much. I pay attention to things like that. I figured it was stolen and I asked him about it.”

“What did he say?” Clayton asked.

“He said that he’d found it.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. He dropped the subject. But he pulled a wad of cash out of his backpack to pay me for putting him up.”

“Do you have any of those old bills?”

“No, I spent them fast in case they were counterfeit.”

“I understand he told you he knew something about his stepmother that could put him in danger or get him killed,” Clayton said. “Was he any more specific about it than that?”

“The night a friend dropped by, Brian said he’d found out something about his stepmother that was some pretty scary shit.”

“Like what?” Armijo asked.

Beaner shook his head. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk about it other than to say she wasn’t who she pretended to be.”

Armijo stepped closer to Beaner. “Did he say how he knew this?”

“He mentioned finding some documents on his father’s property.”

“He used the word
property,
not house?” Clayton asked.

“Yeah.”

Clayton flipped up the mattress, hoping Riley had left something behind. There were only dust balls on the wood floor and a spider that scurried away to safety. “Did he have a cell phone with him?”

“Not when he arrived. But he gave me cash to buy him one and sign up him for a prepaid calling plan at work under an alias.”

“What name did he want you to use?”

“Jack Ryan,” Beaner replied. “I’ve got his cell phone number if you want it.”

“You bet we do,” Armijo said.

Beaner took out his wallet and handed Armijo a slip of paper.

“I’ll get the ball rolling on this,” Lee said as he flipped open his cell phone and stepped into the front room.

“Stay put while I do a quick search,” Clayton ordered Beaner. He shifted nervously from foot to foot as Clayton looked through the documents and papers on the plywood table, the content of the boxes, the material on the bookcase, and the junk in a small closet.

Clayton moved a box at the head of the mattress, picked up a paperback novel that had been hidden from view, fanned through the pages, and glanced at the synopsis on the back. It was a spy thriller featuring a CIA operative named Jack Ryan. “Is this Riley’s book?” he asked.

“No, it’s mine,” Beaner replied. “He started reading it while he was here. That’s where he got the alias he wanted me to use for the cell phone. He said that he liked the sound of the name and it was close enough to Riley that he’d remember it.”

“Did he talk about hiding out from agents of a foreign government?”

“He mentioned that,” Beaner replied. “But I didn’t take it seriously.”

“Why not?”

“Because it sounded made up, like something right out of that book you’re holding in your hand.”

Clayton hadn’t read the novel. Maybe if he did, he’d get some insights into Riley. “Mind if I borrow it?”

“You can have it.”

Lee Armijo stepped back into the room. “I’ve got an expedited search warrant in the hopper for the telephone records, and there’s no toilet kit in the bathroom. Anything here?”

Clayton shook his head and returned his attention to Beaner. “Can you think of any reason Riley would leave so unexpectedly?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea as to where he might have gone?”

“No.”

Clayton handed Beaner a business card. “If he returns, calls, or you hear about him through some other source, contact me immediately.”

Beaner stuffed the card in his shirt pocket. “I don’t think Brian is a bad person. I truly don’t think he would hurt anybody. He’s just a scared kid with an overactive imagination.”

“Uh-huh,” Armijo said. “Did you try to sleep with him?”

Beaner blushed and said nothing more.

Outside the cottage Armijo’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the incoming phone number on the screen, put the phone to his ear, and said, “Talk to me.”

He listened, grunted, hung up, and gave Clayton a totally disgusted look.

“What?”

“Captain Apodaca just informed me that one of his hotshot homicide detectives at the murder scene allowed a young man matching Brian Riley’s description to drive off on the Harley motorcycle. Apparently, the young man told the detective that he lived at the apartment complex and needed his wheels to get to work. Since the bike hadn’t been secured into evidence by the crime scene techs, the cop bought the story without batting an eye or thinking to check with anyone else. An APB has been issued.”

“When did this happen?”

“Ten minutes ago. Every city, county, and state patrol officer in the greater Albuquerque area is looking for him.”

“Well, at least Riley has surfaced,” Clayton said as he climbed into Armijo’s unit, although the stupidity of the mistake deflated his spirits.

Armijo grunted. “Yeah, but if he’s on the run again it’s because he found out that Minerva Stanley Robocker went and got herself executed. He’s got to believe the killer is closing in on him.”

“Let’s get some protection here for Beaner before we leave,” Clayton urged. “We don’t need another person Brian Riley knows getting themselves unnecessarily killed.”

Lee keyed the radio microphone and made the request. While the two men waited, they listened to radio traffic. Everyone on the streets riding any kind of motorcycle was being stopped. It didn’t matter if they were on custom hogs, choppers with sidecars, dirt bikes, or motor scooters. If it had two or three wheels and an engine, it got stopped.

A squad car pulled up behind Armijo. He waved and drove off. “Now what?”

“It’s back to Santa Fe for me,” Clayton said. If Benjamin Beaner was to be believed, whatever Brian Riley found had been on the Cañoncito property Tim and Denise Riley owned. It consisted of a sizable piece of land, and only the double-wide, stable, horse trailer, and immediate surroundings had been searched. Unless Brian Riley was found and had started talking before Clayton arrived in Cañoncito, he planned to comb every square inch of it if necessary.

“Get some sleep first,” Lee said, covering a yawn with his hand. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot,” Clayton replied.

During the hours Kerney had spent analyzing Denise Riley’s letters to her sister, he’d filled a writing tablet with notes. When he’d reached the point where he was trying to decide if Denise’s handwriting curlicues had changed over time, he decided to stop. He put the letters aside, stripped off the latex gloves he’d worn to handle the documents, and reviewed his findings.