The Bone Fire: A Mystery (7 page)

They all came from the same cookie cutter. They were well-off, in their fifties or sixties, from back east; they drove huge SUVs and moved to Santa Fe for “the wide-open vistas.” They shopped at
organic food stores. Went to art gallery openings. Sipped wine and talked about holistic bodywork.

Lucy turned her attention to a nearby bulletin board covered in a collage of the same kind of advertisements. There were flyers for yoga classes and various types of massage using crystals, Reiki, and organic honey. There was one for communicating with pets, including those who “had passed.” Lucy couldn’t imagine any reason someone might want to contact a dead pet. Unless Fluffy had learned how to talk, what the hell good would it do?

Laura had pulled Justin’s hand onto her lap. She was definitely the one in charge of the relationship.

They sat in the living room, the two teenagers on the couch with Gil across from them in an easy chair. Joe stood nearby, restless as usual, while Mrs. Rodriguez went to check on Ashley.

Justin was fidgeting, tapping his foot, which was in contrast to his casual posture as he leaned back into the couch. Nervous but trying to hide it.

“It’s possible we found Brianna,” Gil said. Maybe, he thought wistfully, if he had been allowed to interview them properly, he could have saved that information to be used as needed, to get a response—but the chief had been clear.

“Yeah, we guessed that,” Justin said.

“You don’t seem too broken up,” Joe said.

“Whatever. This time, just check to make sure it’s human,” Justin said. Joe, perpetually pissed off, snorted in disgust.

Gil knew what Justin was referring to. A month after Brianna went missing and a week before the family filed the lawsuit, forensic teams were digging in the backyard of the Rodriguez house. They were using heat-sensing technology that could locate decaying flesh. The equipment and the tech were on loan from the FBI. Someone had gotten too excited by a heat signature coming from a few feet underground—or maybe because of the FBI presence. The family had been corralled in the house and kept there, being questioned on and off, while forensic techs dug carefully for over twenty-four hours, finally uncovering the family dog, which had been buried a year earlier.

“This isn’t no dog,” Joe said.

“But it’s not Brianna,” Laura said with a cock of her head.

“What makes you say that?” Gil asked as the phone in his pocket started to vibrate. He ignored it.

“Because of your track record,” she said, annoyed.

“Besides, Brianna drowned in the arroyo,” Justin added.

Gil looked over at Joe, who looked out the window. Gil wasn’t sure what else they would get out of the visit. He wasn’t even sure what they had hoped to get. He felt like he had just opened a book in the middle and started reading, with no sense of plot, characters, or back story. He felt his phone vibrate again in his pocket but continued to ignore it. He wanted to finish.

“What we found points to a small child—” Gil said before the girlfriend jumped in.

“Yeah, well, come talk to us when you know for sure,” she said.

Gil decided that he was pushing the limits of what Chief Kline had wanted him to do. He was taking down all their new contact information when his phone vibrated again.

“Thank you for your time,” Gil said automatically as he headed out the door. Once outside he popped open his cell phone just in time to catch it before it went to voice mail.

“Gil,” his chief said before Gil could even get out a “hello.” “Get to the Santuario de Guadalupe. Now.”

Gerald, finally finished with his good-byes, met up with Lucy in the foyer of the restaurant, and the two walked outside together, the new morning starting to cast its shadows.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Lucy groaned. No good conversation in the history of humankind had ever started that way. It was a line used all over the world, a thousand times a day, to break up with boyfriends, to fire employees, and to order assassinations. She waited for Gerald to say something.

He considered his words carefully before saying, “So, what’s going on with you?” He stared her so dead in the eye that she had to turn away.

“What do you mean?” she asked in what she hoped was a calm voice as she looked at her combat boots.

“I mean like on the fire call you seemed . . . out of it.”

“How so?” she said, her voice sounding high to her own ears. She could keep up these deflecting answers for days. She hadn’t even used the classic “Am I?” response yet.

“Have you been drinking?” The question almost made her take a step back. She thought she had been so careful. She had taken every precaution. She had the Breathalyzer. She had popped a mint. She had masked her dark circles with big sunglasses.

Without thinking she gave the lie she’d personally heard a hundred times. It inevitably was uttered by guys who caused DWI crashes and men who’d beaten their girlfriends in an alcoholic haze. She said, “I had a couple of beers.”

“When was that?

“Last night, but I’m totally sober now,” she said. Legally, she knew that at least was true.

“How much are you drinking?”

“I told you, a couple of beers.”

“How often?”

“I dunno. A few times a week. It’s no big deal.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” They stood in the parking lot as Gerald watched her and waited for an answer.

“I don’t know, I’m just . . . I’m tired,” Lucy said.

“Tired?” Gerald asked.

Lucy didn’t say anything more. She only felt honestly, truly tired.

“Have you ever treated patients when you’ve been drunk?” he asked.

“No,” she said. When he didn’t look convinced, she said again, more strongly, “No. Never. I swear.”

“What about driving? Have you driven drunk?” he asked, his voice starting to edge into judgmental territory. Lucy was about to insist that of course she would never drink and drive when she thought about last night. How had she gotten home? She couldn’t quite remember. Surely Nathan had driven her. Although in the morning her car had been at her house, as had Nathan’s. She must have driven
home from the Cowgirl. She couldn’t remember. Oh, God. She looked up at Gerald, knowing she had to lie but not wanting to. She did anyway. “No. I’m really careful,” she said firmly.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you . . .” he said without finishing the thought, then sighed. “Just . . . take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” she said hesitantly as he turned to leave.

Take care of yourself? That’s what you said to a person you hope to never see again.

Gil was driving lights and sirens while Joe sat in the passenger seat checking out the neighboring cars as they zipped by them.

“Hey, slow down, dude, that girl in the Toyota back there had a killer chest,” Joe said, turning around to gawk.

Gil ignored him and instead said, “Look, what I said back at the house, I didn’t mean to—”

“Dude,” Joe said with a laugh, “it’s no biggie. You just gotta ignore me when I get mad. I’m a total jackass, but I get over it fast. If I’m ever really mad, you’ll know.”

“How will I know?”

“By my fist punching through your chest.”

Gil wondered if Joe had been as volatile before he joined the army. He maneuvered the Crown Vic around the stopped cars in front of them and through the intersection of Cerrillos Road and St. Francis Drive.

“What did you think of the family?” Joe asked.

“They were about what I expected.”

“Really? Did you know what I noticed most? Laura’s Nike Air Force 1s. That girl’s got style. Those were some killer kicks. I bet you she’s the most popular girl in school.”

“What are you talking about? Her shoes?” Gil asked, negotiating his way around a city bus.

“Those aren’t just shoes. I bet they were a special release. Easily cost a hundred and eighty bucks.”

“For tennis shoes?”

“What? You’ve never heard of sneakerheads? Sneaker collecting is like the new thing. Dude, do you go out into the world at all?”

“Really?” Gil wasn’t sure if Joe was joking.

“An original Nike Air Force 2 high-top from 1982 just sold for like fifteen thousand dollars,” Joe said. “God, if I owned those, I’d jerk off to them I’d love them so much.”

“How many do you have in your collection?” Gil asked, joking.

“I just have a couple pair of old Air Jordans. They’d sell for like maybe a hundred bucks each. Man, you should be all over this. You used to play basketball.”

“Yeah, but I’d throw my shoes away when they got old. I didn’t hang on to them to show to company.”

“Dude, you almost made a joke,” Joe said, feigning surprise.

“I did notice that Ashley had cutting marks,” Gil said, trying to get them back on track.

“Really? I didn’t see that,” Joe said, tapping his foot on the floor. Then he asked again, as he had three times since leaving the Rodriguez house, “So the chief didn’t say anything at all about where we’re going?”

“I already told you, no,” Gil said. Working with Joe was like being with a seven-year-old hyped up on sugar.

Gil pulled up to the Santuario de Guadalupe. He parked on the street and kept his emergency lights on. Another car raced to a stop, pulling up next to them. It was Kline with Garcia.

“Hey,” Gil said to them as they got out. “What’s going on?”

All Kline said was “Let’s go see.”

Gil and Joe walked up to the crowd of people gathered around the perimeter of a crime scene tape line that encircled a huge bronze statute of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She stood on the wide, cobbled sidewalk between the street and the church dedicated to her—the Santuario de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. The church had an old mission spire, rough-hewn doors, and small, barred windows that would have guarded against Indian attack. The Santuario, which had been built in 1777, was the oldest shrine to the Virgin Mary in the United States.

Unlike the Santuario, however, the statue of Mary was new. It had been put up in 2008 and stood fifteen feet tall. It showed Mary with her head bowed in prayer, her sky blue robes rippling with stars. Flames of gold shot out from her body; a cherub below held her aloft. This statue had been made with the faithful in mind—beneath it were cubbyholes for believers to leave flowers and other offerings. This was likely why no one had noticed earlier the bulky necklace that was placed around Mary’s neck. Passersby likely thought it was a memento from one of her devoted fans.

It was a podiatrist visiting from Texas, stopping to take a picture, who finally noticed what the necklace was made of.

Gil and the other men crossed the crime scene tape and went closer to the statue.

“Lord in heaven,” Gil heard Kline say next to him as Garcia crossed himself. Joe, as expected, started swearing loudly.

Gil said nothing as he went back to the uniformed officer who was keeping an eye on the crowd.

He leaned over to the officer and said quietly, “Get some crowd pictures. As soon as that’s done, get this place sealed up tight. One-block radius with no line of sight. No street access, and nobody crosses the line until you radio me.” The officer nodded and, without acknowledging what Gil said, turned the volume down on his radio before requesting a nonuniformed officer snap some pictures.

Kline and Garcia immediately got on their cell phones and walked out of earshot, likely calling higher-ups who needed to know. Joe was busy pacing the perimeter, which was lined with stepping-stones that made up a walking rosary—a meditation for the faithful.
He noticed Joe would have been standing on an Our Father stone. Behind Joe on the railing were glass-covered pictures that the church had put up showing the different incarnations of Mary. He counted seven images—Our Lady of Peace, Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal, Our Lady of Lourdes. The shrine took its devotion to Mary very seriously.

Gil went to stand alone in front of the statue of the Virgin and looked up at her face. Her eyes were closed as if she were too horrified to look at what was around her throat. Her necklace was heavy, loaded down with old plastic doll heads and yellow silk sunflowers. Between them, almost as spacers, were tiny bones. The finger and toe bones of a child fashioned into delicate crosses.