The Bone Fire: A Mystery (38 page)

“That’s true—but every once in a while your two worlds collide, and suddenly the police know more than they should and we know less than we should. For instance, there’s the car fire story that Tommy and Andrea are working on, which is based on information that you got while working for the fire department,” he said. In her head, Lucy cursed out Andrea, knowing that she had to be the one who talked too much about the story. Lopez continued, “Then, of course, there is that SWAT situation.”

Lucy said a thousand little swear words to herself.

Gil stood in the bright morning sun, watching the exits of the cathedral. He could have gone inside—in fact, probably should have—but he couldn’t bring himself to go into this holy place when he knew the questions he had to ask would involve immoral answers. The statues in front of the church were alone at the moment, with no tourists to take pictures of them. The sightseers probably all had been drawn to the spectacle inside the cathedral, where the closing Mass of fiesta was taking place.

Gil wondered if the tourists understood why there were grown men dressed in conquistador helmets and pantaloons at Mass. He wondered if the tourists would giggle at their simple, quaint tradition of having a fiesta queen dressed in a white gown and cape. They would probably go back home and tell their friends about Santa Fe’s backward ways. How they had an archbishop—the most senior representative of the Catholic Church—preside over a service that included city councilors and people in costume carrying swords. Gil knew the tourists would never understand what fiesta was to Santa Fe. To him. They wouldn’t understand that this was not an amusing celebration of a historic moment long past. This wasn’t their version of a medieval-days festival or a Civil War reenactment. To Santa Feans, celebrating fiesta meant celebrating their ancestors.

Gil had convinced Joe to let him come down to the cathedral by
himself while Joe stayed at the office and tied up loose ends—making calls, processing paper, and looking over reports. Joe was unhappy, but Gil needed to do this next interview alone. It required a certain touch.

The bells started ringing in the cathedral towers, and the front doors opened. Out came the archbishop, followed by a gush of priests, as well as Don Diego de Vargas, La Reina, and a crowd of people in a riot of colors. They were in their fiesta best—ribbon shirts for the men and multicolored broom skirts for the women. They stood in front of the cathedral, chatting, waiting for the procession to start. Gil scanned the crowd. He saw the huge cluster of the Protectores de la Fiesta, their yellow satin shirts shining in the sun. A mariachi band started playing as four men came out of the church, carrying a huge wooden platform on which was a carpet of flowers and the two-foot-tall statue of La Conquistadora.

The band started to proceed down the street, and the four Protectores carrying the padded litter followed, with the wooden bars that supported the platform on their shoulders. The platform had its own white awning, embroidered with gold roses. Underneath, safely away from the sun’s harmful rays, was La Conquistadora. The real one. This was the only time of year she ever left the safety of one of her chapels. Today, La Conquistadora was dressed in a cape of deep blue with gold stars. On her head was a crown of flowers. Around her neck was a tiny silver filigree crucifix made with real pearls and rubies that matched her earrings. Behind her litter, a trail of priests, dressed in green vestments, walked with the archbishop. Next came La Reina and Don Diego, along with the fiesta royalty. They were followed by the religious organizations, holding banners and flags showing different appearances of the Virgin Mary. Last was the crowd. They marched down the street as the band began to play.

Within a block, all of the careful groupings had been destroyed as wives went to go walk with husbands and city councilors stopped to shake hands with constituents. Gil stayed on the outside of the procession, trying to catch a glimpse of Judge Otero. He finally saw him praying the rosary aloud among one of the religious groups.

Gil was trying to get as close as he could to the judge when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Joe, sending him a text that read:
Henshaw gave $10,000 to Judge O’s last campaign.
Gil knew that was the legal limit for campaign contributions. He wondered why it was also the exact amount that Ashley had been paid.

He started looking for the judge in the crowd once again. He spotted him and walked quickly toward him, skirting people and musicians.

Gil could hear the rises and the falls of the Hail Mary as he approached the praying group. Gil slowly came up next to Judge Otero, just as he was finishing an Our Father.

The judge turned his head and saw Gil next to him, exclaiming, “Gilbertito. How are you?” Before Gil could say anything, the judge said, “You need a rosary. Who has an extra rosary?” he yelled to his fellow faithful. A plastic yellow rosary was passed from hand to hand across the processing crowd. Judge Otero grabbed it and put it into Gil’s hands.

“Look, we just finished the Second Mystery, so we are right here,” Judge Otero said, pointing to the correct bead on the rosary. They were making good time, having already gotten through thirteen Hail Marys and three Our Fathers. Gil clicked off the beads as the crowd went through the prayers. He could wait until they were done, which would be about twenty minutes, but then they would just start again and keep it up until they reached their destination—the Rosario Chapel, La Conquistadora’s second home, which was about three-quarters of a mile away.

“Sir,” Gil said almost in a whisper, “I need to talk to you about Brianna.”

“This is the perfect time to talk about her,” Judge Otero said, making no effort to lower his voice. “What better time to talk about that poor girl than when you are praying?”

“Well then, sir,” Gil said, “I wanted to clarify a few things with you.”

“Of course,” the judge said in the middle of a Hail Mary. Gil tripped slightly on the pavement and had to steady himself as they walked.

“I wanted to ask you how many times you and Ashley talked over the adoption,” Gil said, trying not to let the crowd, the band, and the praying distract him.

“I told you,” he said. “It was just the one time.”

“The court records show that she was in your courtroom multiple times,” Gil said.

The judge didn’t respond, but he stopped praying the rosary as they walked. Gil had never really considered asking the judge to come down to the station so they could do a formal interview. The judge’s position meant that Gil would have had to wade through the mayor, city attorneys, and even his own chief if he wanted to talk with him officially. That left Gil with one option—a surprise attack. Of course, Gil knew that as a good member of the Protectores, the only place the judge would be this morning—on the last day of fiesta—was at the procession for La Conquistadora.

“I can think of several reasons you wouldn’t want to tell us that you knew Ashley better than you let on,” Gil said. “The first one, of course, is that you are Brianna’s father.” Once Gil saw the look on the judge’s face, he knew the surprise attack had been the right way to go. That look of guilt.

The mariachi band started a different tune while the crowd near them moved on to the Third Mystery.

Gil said, “I know she was seventeen, so she was past the age of consent, so there is no problem as far as statutory rape goes.”

“However, statutory rape has a second part that makes it illegal for people in a position of authority to use their office for certain favors,” Judge Otero said. He turned and looked at Gil. “I never touched that girl.”

There had never been a chance that the judge would admit to anything. He had too much to lose. Gil had actually gotten further with the interview than he had expected to. He had thought the judge would tell him to talk to his lawyer almost immediately. Now it didn’t matter if he did. Gil had already gotten what he came for—the guilt drawn tight across the judge’s face. He finally knew who Brianna’s father was. He had started to suspect it was the judge when he saw the personal check to Ashley. Gil might never have proof, but
the knowledge would be enough. Now he was just curious about a few more pieces of information.

“Can I ask about your relationship with Donna Henshaw?” Gil asked.

“As I said, she was just a friend of a friend,” Judge Otero said, exasperated.

“She must be a good friend of a friend since she gave your last campaign ten thousand dollars,” Gil said. “That’s an awful lot of money for a municipal election.”

Judge Otero said nothing.

“I’m confused, sir,” Gil said, “so I’m just going to ask flat out, did Donna Henshaw give you campaign money for you to give to Ashley? Then Ashley gave Brianna to Donna Henshaw?”

Judge Otero still said nothing, and any guilt that had been on his face was long gone. Gil could keep asking him questions that he wouldn’t answer. Like if he was the father of Ashley’s new baby. The man knew when to shut up. The judge might not be a lawyer, but he did know the law. He knew Gil couldn’t prove any of it. Gil probably didn’t even have enough evidence to compel the judge to take a paternity test to see if he was Brianna’s father. When all was said and done, they could do nothing more than prove the judge was improperly involved with an adoption.

The procession was leaving the crowded buildings of downtown now and was going toward an area more populated with businesses. Gil decided to give it one more try.

“Was Ashley blackmailing you about being Brianna’s father?” Gil asked.

“You can ask my lawyer,” Judge Otero said. He started saying the next prayer. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”

Lucy used her keycard to let herself in the side door of the newspaper building. No one was around, and all the lights were off. There was enough sunlight creeping through a few of the painted-over windows for her to see her way to the copier.

She opened the lid, and there, lying facedown, was the photo.
“Hallelujah,” she whispered to herself as she clutched the picture to her chest.

As she closed the cover of the copier, she saw the bright blue flyer hanging on the bulletin board in front of her.
THE MEDITATION OF RELEASE
. It sounded so peaceful. She read the first line of the flyer once again. “So often in our lives we have old emotions and habits that hold us back and try to tear us down.” She smiled. Bitterly.

She heard a noise from down the hallway and saw a form appear from the shadows. She flipped the light switch nearest to her and saw Peter Littlefield.

“Jesus, Peter,” she said. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

“I had that special opera review to write,” he said.

“Right,” she said, nodding, wondering how many Santa Feans really read the paper for its up-to-date opera news.

“You’re here early,” he said, peering over his glasses.

“I forgot something,” she said, still clutching the photo to her chest.

“Oh, you mean the picture of the Tamara,” he said, nodding. “I saw that in the copier. I knew she was working on a new piece, but I had no idea it was so intricate.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The photo,” he said. “I assume it’s of her new work.”

“Whose new work?”

“Tamara. She’s a fabulous naturalist. I mean, look at her use of color,” Peter said, reaching for the photo. Lucy turned it over to him, and he pointed out the sunflowers and the doll’s heads.

“Tamara is an artist?”

“Well, yes,” Peter said, frowning at Lucy. “She did the statues in front of the new judicial complex, and she has a few pieces hanging in the permanent collection at the capitol.”

“How do you know she did this?” Lucy asked, waving her hand at the photo.

“Are you kidding? This is classic Tamara,” he said. “Look, here and here, at these bones that are strung together in that delicate star
shape? That’s one of her signature motifs. She did a whole piece using star bones last year at SITE Santa Fe.”

“You’re positive she did this?” Lucy asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Her themes always include religion, death, and innocence.”

“How do you get all of that from this photo?” she asked, peering at it.

“Look at the interpretation,” he said. “You have the inherent religious image of the statue, and death, of course, is represented by the bones. And see how she mixes it with the classic pop-culture symbols of innocence, the flowers and dolls?”

“She works with bones?” Lucy asked, still not understanding. Not believing. “Why?”

“Because you have to have death in order to have life, and art is all about life.”

Ashley lay on the hospital bed motionless, waiting, tense. She heard a nurse telling her to relax, but Ashley knew that was impossible. How could she relax when she only had a few minutes before the worst pain in the world started again? The pain was in control of her body. Ashley had no thoughts left that were her own. They all belonged to the pain. She whimpered as she felt the next contraction start to rise, then let out a high-pitched yell that seemed to go on for hours. She panicked, thinking the pain wouldn’t end this time. This felt like death. Like there was no going back.