The Burnt House (28 page)

Devargas was silent. He wasn’t about to give ground to anyone.

Sandra said, “Clara and I didn’t have much to say to one another, although we did bond in grief. She had a hard life. Her husband and her other son, Belize, ended up in prison. Manny was her last hope. After he disappeared, she did become a drunk and a recluse. Five years after the disappearance, she passed on. She probably died of a broken heart.”

Decker said, “Would either of you know where Martin Hernandez was incarcerated?”

Sandra said, “He’s in Santa Fe Correctional. The prison is a fifteen-minute drive from Santa Fe on the highway.”

“Maximum security?” Decker asked.

Sandra nodded. “He’s serving out a forty-five-year sentence.”

Devargas said, “Parole was denied four times. Somebody has some good sense.”

Sandra said, “If he lives long enough, he’ll walk out in three years a free man.”

“Tragedy of our justice system,” Devargas growled out.

It was a pity that Decker couldn’t introduce Farley Lodestone to Peter Devargas without engendering conflict of interest. They’d have an instant friendship forged in loss and cynicism. “What happened to Manny’s brother, Belize?”

Both of them shrugged ignorance.

“Do you know what he was in prison for?”

“Robbery,” Devargas said.

“How old would he be now?”

“He was two years older than Manny,” Sandra said. “In his fifties.”

“And how old would Martin Hernandez be now?”

“Our age…in his seventies or maybe even in his eighties,” Sandra said.

“You said that Martin will walk out a free man, if he lives long enough,” Decker said. “Is he ill?”

“No, but you know how it is in a small community.” Sandra cocked her head in her husband’s direction. “People don’t forget.”

“No, they sure as hell don’t forget,” Devargas said. “If Martin knows what’s good for him, he’ll live the rest of his life out behind bars!”

DECKER STILL HAD
dozens of questions for the Devargases, but the queries would have to wait. Checking his watch, he was shocked to see it was almost one. In eight minutes, they had a scheduled meeting with Fred Bradley, the retired dentist who claimed he still had Isabela Devargas’s X-rays. Lucky for them, Santa Fe was a small town and tourist season with its accompanying slog of traffic had yet to materialize.

Dressed in white slacks, a blue shirt, and white boating shoes, Bradley appeared to be in his eighties: a stooped-shouldered man with thin
translucent skin, a gin-blossom nose, and watery blue eyes. He was the friendly sort, living the good life and playing lots of golf. He invited the detectives into his condo, whose living-room window framed a view of a small lake in a nine-hole course. After the detectives were seated, he offered them an array of afternoon refreshments. Soft drinks in hand—Bradley had opted for something harder—Decker thanked the retired dentist not only for his time but for his foresight in saving Isabela Devargas Hernandez’s X-rays.

Then Bradley started talking. At first he spoke about Isabela, but then his conversation meandered into all sorts of unrelated topics. Decker suspected that the man would have gone on for hours about “how it was back then” if Oliver hadn’t tapped his watch and reminded the loquacious Bradley that they had a plane to catch. They thanked him for the X-rays and headed back on I-25 South to Albuquerque.

The hour ride back to New Mexico’s most populated city turned into a two-hour, bumper-to-bumper affair as they hit the rush-hour jam. It was a mad dash to catch the flight, and once they were seated—with Marge in the notorious middle seat—all three detectives let out a uniform sigh of relief. Cathie Alvarez had decided not to go back with them, opting to stay a few extra days to comfort her aunt and uncle.

Beth’s X-rays in hand: mission accomplished although the trip wound up producing more questions than it answered.

“We didn’t even touch on any relative of Hernandez’s family,” Marge commented once they were airborne. “Surely there are some of them still among the living.”

“What good would talking to them do?” Oliver said.

“It would be interesting to get another point of view.”

Decker said, “I have a thought. If Manny Hernandez is still alive, do you think he might have visited his father in prison?”

“Under an assumed name, it’s possible,” Marge said.

“Maybe even under his own name. Beth and Manny’s disappearance was all but forgotten except by a few people. I don’t think the current prison officials at Santa Fe Correctional would necessarily know that Martin’s son Manny went missing in L.A. in the seventies.”

Oliver said, “Santa Fe’s a small town. I’m betting that there are still some old-time guards who remember that Manny and Beth disappeared. He’d have to have rocks for brains to sign the log in his own name.”

Decker said, “We’re still going to have to check the prison logs to see who visited Martin Hernandez. It may lead us to Manny. Most of the current logs are computerized, but they weren’t back in the 1970s and ’80s.” He thought a moment. “The first thing we should do is contact the authorities at the prison, and see if Martin had any recent visitors.”

Marge said, “Who visits seventy-year-old men? His wife? Well, she’s gone. How about children? One was in prison himself, we don’t know what happened to him. And the other one is supposedly missing.”

Decker said, “Which means, in my mind, that if Martin has had any visitors, it’s either the jailbird son or Manny or both.”

“That’s assuming that one or the other or both are still alive,” Oliver said. “We have no idea what happened to Belize Hernandez.”

“He isn’t in Santa Fe Correctional,” Marge said. “I’ve already checked that out.”

Decker said, “Is Manny’s wedding picture the only photograph we have of him?”

“So far,” Marge said. “When we get back, I’ll call up the local high school and ask for his yearbooks.”

“You know what we could use? A current picture of Belize Hernandez. Forensics is going to artificially age Manny Hernandez’s wedding picture on the computer. It’s helpful to know what Manny looked like back then. But if the son of a bitch is still walking the earth, he’d be in his fifties. We need to know what he’d look like now.”

R
INA SLIPPED A
silver bracelet with turquoise stone inserts onto her wrist. “It’s beautiful.” She kissed her husband’s cheek.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Where’d you buy it?”

“I took an early-morning walk around the Plaza. There’s this strip under the old governor’s palace where the Indians sell their jewelry. The particular artist is from the tribe of Santo Domingo. I’m glad I bought it when I did. Once the interviews started, I didn’t have a chance to breathe. Too bad. Santa Fe seems like a lovely town. I’d like to go back with you under better circumstances. I think they have a Chabad there.”

“Chabad is everywhere. When the pods sent pictures back from Mars, I think I saw a replica of the famous 666 brick building.” Rina held out her arm to admire the bracelet. “You have very good taste.”

“Thank you.” Decker plopped into bed and threw the covers over his weary body. “Man, it was a long day. I am beat!”

“At least it wasn’t for nothing.”

“That’s certainly true. But we’re not out of the water yet. We still have to match Beth’s X-rays to our Jane Doe.”

“You have doubts?”

“The retired dentist, who in his infinite wisdom kept X-rays, is not only over eighty, but a pack rat. It doesn’t take a big leap to imagine something getting misplaced.”

He took her hand.

“Sorry if I’m jumpy. I get like this when I’m on the
brink
of a breakthrough.”

“I know. By tomorrow I’m sure you will have made a lot of progress.”

“I certainly hope so. It pisses me off that a murderer has eluded justice.”

“He’ll eventually have to account for his actions. Maybe it won’t be to you or to the criminal justice system, but certainly to a higher authority. What goes around comes around:
Middah keneged middah
.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“Sometimes I don’t even know if I believe that. But that’s the basis of faith, and I’m a woman of faith.” Rina put down her book. “These cold cases must be frustrating.”

“Most of the time, it’s obvious who pulled the trigger. The rest of the time, we stumble and grope in darkness.”

“You’ve made remarkable progress on a thirty-two-year-old cold case.” She leaned over, kissed his cheek, and turned off the light. “Now get some sleep.”

Decker dry-washed his face in the dark with his two meaty hands. “I’m tired, but I don’t know if I can sleep.” He threw his head back and looked at the ceiling. Shadows danced above him. “Sometimes I understand an addict’s need for drugs.”

“I know it upsets you that someone got away with murder, but eventually we all die, and that’s when everyone sees that, ultimately, someone else is in control.”

“But just suppose you die and that’s it?” Decker said. “I mean that’s really it! You’re nothing but maggot food.”

“Maybe that’s the case,” Rina said. “Since no one really knows, I choose to believe otherwise. Even if it turns out that I was sold a false bill of goods, I think believing in God is a healthier way to live. Faith is for the living, Akiva, not the dead.”

“I love it when you call me Akiva. You sound so earnest!” He paused. “So you honestly believe that what goes around comes around, that it isn’t just a silly little platitude to make you feel better?”

“I’m sure that’s a part of it, but not the entire picture. Don’t fret. I have a good feeling about the case. You’ve identified Beth Hernandez and that’s the first step in bringing a killer to justice. And don’t think just because he hasn’t been incarcerated all these years that he’s gotten off scot-free. Maybe he’s had to deal with remorse. But even if he is a stone-cold psycho, as you call them, he’s had to live, looking over his shoulder, for the last thirty years. Even psychos have a sense of preservation.”

Decker smiled. “All right. You did it. You put me in a better mood.”

“Good. Now do you think you can fall asleep?”

“I don’t know.” Peter stretched in bed. “I’m still a little wired. Maybe you can talk about gardening. That always puts me to sleep.”

She gave him a gentle slug.

He closed his eyes, but instead of sleep, he was looking at Beth Hernandez in his head. The silence was immediately filled by Farley Lodestone’s voice. Whenever he got this way, he tried to conjure up a relaxing image…riding horses, taking a long hike in the woods during autumn, making love…

He felt a stirring down below.

Maybe he could do more than just imagine making love.

His eyes swept over the clock. It was late and he wasn’t in the best of moods and Rina was probably too tired, but he reached out for her anyway. She curled up in the fold of his arm, snuggling into his chest. Her eyes were closed and she showed no indication of arousal. Decker closed his eyes and felt his heartbeat slow. His limbs unfurled and his head got fuzzy. No sex, but all was good.

MARGE WAS WAITING
outside the Loo’s office when Decker arrived. She handed him a cup of coffee, took the keys in his hand, and opened the locked door. She said, “Did you make an appointment with Lauren, the forensic artist?”

“Yes, I did, and it’s not just with Lauren.” Decker turned on the lights and sat down at his desk. “We’re meeting with someone who specializes in computerized age progression. I’ve set it for two in the afternoon at the Crypt. And thanks for the coffee.”

“Someone brought in bran muffins today from Coffee Bean. Are you interested?”

Coffee Bean was equivalent to the bigger, more ubiquitous Star$s, only it was a California chain. More important, it was kosher. Even Rina bought bakery goods from the local franchise. “A muffin sounds good.”

“I’ll get them.” Marge placed a manila envelope on his desktop. “Jails and schools open early. Look at the pictures and tell me what you think. Be right back.”

Sipping coffee, Decker took a moment to settle in. Then he unwound the string that secured the flap to the envelope. There were three pictures. The first was a mug shot—front and two sides—of a man looking anywhere from twenty to forty. Stubble studded a lean face that held wild eyes and a sneering upper lip. He had thick black hair and a keloid scar that zigzagged across a protruding forehead. Not a lot of loose skin there; stitching that mother up must have hurt. The vitals put Martin Hernandez at five six and a weight of around 140 pounds. He was thirty-seven at the time of his arrest. Decker placed the picture faceup on his desk.

There were other facsimiles from the prison: Martin but at a much older age judging by the amount of white hair, scar marks, and wrinkles. There was a particular group that must have been taken on a day when Hernandez had been attacked. The camera had captured a bruised face with two swollen eyes and a split lip. His arms, shown in separate photographs, had been slashed with a knife.

The last series of photocopies highlighted a stooped elderly man in several poses with a golden retriever. With a little bit of shuffling, Decker found a newspaper article that went along with the images. Martin Hernandez and several other prisoners had been involved in a dog-training program called Last Chance. Lifers or near lifers, chosen for good behavior, had been given pound dogs, unclaimed and about to be euthanized. Local rescue agencies had picked up the best of the pups and had worked out a special program with the prison. The selected inmates had trained the dogs in very specific behaviors that would benefit those who were wheelchair bound. Included were jobs such as stopping and starting on command, fetching objects, turning lights off and on, and emergency rescue. Hernandez’s pooch had been rated the top of the top, and Hernandez had been voted the number one prison dog trainer.

The old man was beaming with pride. His completely round face had swallowed up his eyes, and his lower jaw was sunken in, the usual by-product of lack of dentition. Still, gumming his way through meals hadn’t seemed to depress Martin’s appetite. He’d put on a lot of weight since his first mug shot.

Marge came back with bran muffins. “They’re vicious out there. It was near-riot conditions. I had to use all my wiles to grab the last two muffins, and in the process, one of them lost its top, which is, of course, the best part.”

“You take the one with the top. I’ll take the beheaded guy.”

“No, I’ll take the beheaded guy. I’m on a diet anyway.”

“You look great. Why do you need to diet?”

“Dieting is a chronic condition, Pete. Some days are better than others, but you’re always living with it.” She took a nibble of her muffin. “Ah, now that’s good eats. What did you think of the pictures?”

“Manny doesn’t resemble his father very much. The mug shots that show Martin at thirty-seven depict a lean, thin, short guy. The wedding picture of Manny Hernandez at twenty presents a stockier, taller man with more rounded features. I don’t know how helpful these photographs will be when the computer tech ages Manny.”

“I agree,” Marge said. “Still, there’s something familiar about Martin. I think Manny has his eyes.”

Oliver knocked on the doorjamb, then came into the room. He was looking natty in a navy suit, yellow shirt, and white tie. “Sometimes life bites you in the ass, sometimes you take a chunk out of life. I looked up Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe in the phone book. The woman was listed. Then, when I called up the number, she answered. When I told her why I was calling, she was cooperative. More than cooperative. She was anxious to help. I set us up an interview at ten.”

“I’m in,” Marge said.

Oliver looked at Decker, who said, “You two go. In my two-day absence, paperwork has multiplied tenfold and has threatened to take over my desk. Not to mention that I do have other detectives who have other cases. I’ll see you both at two down at the Crypt.”

“What’s going on at the Crypt?” Oliver asked.

“We’re doing a computerized age progression on Manny Hernandez.” Marge brought Oliver up-to-date and showed him the facsimiles of Martin Hernandez. “It would be nice to have a bead on the brother, Belize Hernandez. He’s about the same age as Manny and the two brothers might look alike.”

Oliver said, “Does that even matter? I thought computerized age progression was done by a canned software program.”

“It starts with the canned program, then the forensic artist steps it,” Decker said. “There’s still a lot of intuition involved.”

“That’s good to hear,” Marge said. “A computer is a wonderful thing. It can render, it can reproduce, but last I heard, it can’t create.”

DECKER TOOK A
deep breath in and out and punched the blinking light. “Hello, Farley, how are you doing?”

“I’m the same, Lieutenant. Just making my daily call to remind you that I’m still around and Roseanne ain’t.”

“And I’m still working on the case. Right now we’re going door-to-door at the condo complex for a third time, trying, once again, to ferret
out any possible witnesses who saw or even heard anything coming from your daughter’s condo. The complex is a big place, Farley. People mind their own business. Still, one can hope.”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with witnesses,” Farley said. “Just bring in the bastard and beat a confession out of him.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“Then coax a confession from the sumbitch.”

“I wish it were that simple. But we both know it isn’t.” Farley grumbled. In the recesses of his mind, Decker again wished he could introduce Farley to Peter Devargas. Let the two of them curse the world together. “Farley, the official flight 1324 recovery effort is scheduled to conclude in about a week. If Roseanne’s remains don’t turn up—”

“You know they’re not going to turn up.”

“The point is, Farley, once the effort is concluded, we can then make a plea to the public for help. Maybe someone will come forward and tell us something we don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Farley. Sometimes people who commit murder confess it to a friend or a lover. Sometimes they even brag about it.”

“Let me ask you this, then, Lieutenant. Who would Ivan confess to?”

“We’re speaking theoretically, because we have no proof of Ivan’s involvement. But I could see him perhaps telling a close friend or relative. Maybe even his girlfriend.”

“You mean the stripper? So bring in the wench and see if she knows anything.”

“Farley, we’ve already talked to her. She’s not saying much, and she isn’t at all anxious to get involved.”

“So maybe she knows something.”

“Maybe she does, but right now I can’t squeeze it out of her. Besides, I don’t want her to go running to Ivan, saying that we’re still suspicious of him.”

“He knows that already.”

“Yes, he does, but we haven’t bothered him in a while. If we get something on him, it would be nice to have the element of surprise.”

“Yeah, I agree with you there. I’m still surprised that the weasel hasn’t taken off.”

“I’m sure he will just as soon as he gets the insurance money. Right now that’s the one hold we have over him. I’m hoping that after the recovery is concluded, a televised plea will spur someone to do the right thing.”

“I doubt it, Lieutenant.”

“You can never tell, Farley. A conscience is an unpredictable thing.”

“The bastard doesn’t have a conscience,” Farley said. “God’s an ironic bastard. He only gives a conscience to the good people who don’t need ’em.”