Dead Man's Rules (3 page)

With a sigh, she took the computer and set up a folding chair at the edge of the awning. She placed the laptop on her knees and called up the video file. Freeda leaned over her shoulder.

“Good, I wanna see how it went down.”

“Do you mind if I watch too?” Gail walked over to join them.

Cere bit her tongue and tapped the “play” icon. The pictures showed Randy emerge from the car with wide, startled eyes. The crowd moved in, and Audrey’s lens caught the mess for a moment before zeroing in on the boy’s tense face. Cere’s voice sounded shrill as she shouted her question and she grimaced. Better remember to bring her voice down a notch next time.

Freeda giggled at the chaotic scene. “Damned media parasites.”

“As if you wouldn’t have been right in the thick of it,” Cere said.

“Nice video,” Gail cooed. “Mind if I get a copy?”

“Sure, when I’m finished with my report.” In a proprietary gesture, she pulled the computer closer to her and began tapping the keyboard.

Freeda turned her attention to her phone and began texting. “
Muchos gracias.
Just like I was there. Shall I ask my EP if he wants to buy that video?”

“You work for a competing network,” Gail protested, looking from one to the other. “You two are going to get into trouble sharing, and
you
weren’t even there!”

They didn’t work on the same story often and never shared video without permission, but Gail was getting angry. Cere shook her head at Freeda. “Not this time.”

“I’m gonna sack out in the front seat,” Audrey said with a yawn. “I’ll keep my camera handy. Call me if they come out.”

Cere didn’t look up from her keyboard. “You set up your tripod outside the courthouse in case there’s a news conference and sent in the video, right?”

Audrey barked out her answer with a grin and salute. “Yes’m, drill sergeant!”

“You think she’d take a chance of slacking when she’s working with the scourge of photojournalists everywhere?” Freeda teased.

“What?” Cere looked from Freeda to Audrey but both were smiling.

Freeda winked. “People know better than to argue with you, right, Audrey?”

Audrey tilted her head toward Cere and saluted again. “Yes’m, drill sergeant!”

“Screw you both. The guys can call me stubborn and aggressive all they want. I’m just being meticulous—”

Freeda snorted. “And killing the competition. Climbing fences, getting locked into restricted areas. Normal things.”

Cere knew that while some journalists disapproved of her tactics, her bosses trusted her to get a good story. A few feet away, Gail smiled as she focused on her computer, obviously enjoying the exchange.

Cere had heard enough. She waved at Audrey. “Go take your damn nap. I need to send this in.” As she sat up after finishing her report, Freeda leaned toward her.

“Mind if I borrow your computer? I left mine somewhere last night.”

“The computer I let you borrow? You lost it?”

Freeda flicked her hand like swatting a fly. “Misplaced it. May I borrow yours to check in?”

The computer was an old laptop, but Cere was tempted to say no. Sooner or later her cousin had to stop being so careless.

Gail snapped her fingers to get their attention. “I would like to look at that video again.”

Cere forced a smile. “Sure, Gail. I’ll give it to you when she’s done.” She handed the computer to Freeda who plopped on the ground cross-legged. Hopefully grass stains would come out of the new skirt—if she got the item back before Freeda traded it.

For now clothes weren’t her main concern. She needed a new story or a different angle. With dozens of hungry reporters around, she didn’t intend to get stuck in the crowd. She was going to make that leap to the network—one way or another.

“I need to talk to the parents.” She pounded her thigh with her fist in frustration. An exclusive interview would put her on the network news.

“Good luck,” Freeda said, without looking up. “I’ve been trying all week.”

“His dad is out of town,” Gail added with a smirk. “My producer learned that Richard Waverly was spotted in Italy this morning.”

Cere noted the emphasis on “my producer.” Why couldn’t
Scope
provide her with a producer to make calls?

On the ground, Freeda was oblivious to their conversation. She was engrossed with the computer so Cere used her phone to check whether her report and pictures had been posted online.

After a few minutes, Gail began to pace, and finally stopped above Freeda, her body vibrating with tension. “Are you almost finished?”

“Huh?” Freeda glanced up in confusion.

“I need that laptop to view Audrey’s video.”

“Oh, sure.” Freeda turned to Cere. “Do you have a printer in the van?”

“No, why?”

“I want to print this story so I can finish reading it. Remember the Palladium? That old dance hall in New Mexico near where your mom is living? There’s a story about it. Remember how scared we got when we went out there ghost hunting as kids?”

“What?” She leaned over her cousin’s shoulder. Instead of a script, Freeda was reading what looked like a webpage.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gail cried.

Freeda ignored her and grinned at Cere. “Your mom emailed you a link to a Santa Fe newspaper.”

“You’re reading my email?” She had to fight to keep anger out of her tone.

Nonplussed, Freeda gestured at the laptop. “Remember? Some kid told a story about the place being haunted. The ghost was a guy who left a bloody handprint on the wall when he killed himself.”

Cere looked beyond her at a picture. She’d been twelve years old, and their evening ghost hunting expedition with several cousins haunted her dreams for weeks. Now the building looked like a long pile of sagging rocks with boarded up windows.

Freeda enlarged the picture and another beside it. “There’s the ghost.” She pointed at a grainy black and white photo of a young man. “Meet Marco Gonzales.”

“I need the damn computer,” Gail insisted.

Her demanding voice faded as the day grew still. Cere’s stomach clenched and her breath caught as goose bumps rose on her skin. She stumbled backward.

“What?” Freeda asked, noting her alarm.

Despite the faded image, Cere knew Marco. His eyes burned from the screen.

“That… that’s the man in my dream.”

Chapter Three

Rafe spotted short bursts of dust plumes in the distance and turned his Jeep Grand Cherokee off the highway beside a tilted wooden sign. The letters on the sign were barely readable, and rust had taken a toll on the “no trespassing” sign that hung nearby on the barbed wire fence. Someone had used the metal sign for target practice. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt provided confirmation that someone had ignored the sign and driven to the Palladium.

The owners needed to put a locked gate on the road. That might not keep out determined teenagers who wouldn’t hesitate to climb over or through the barbed wire, but it might deter casual interlopers. He chased away kids all the time, but he understood the allure. How many times had he been out there as a kid? Hell, he’d made a business out of leading the curious to the dance hall in search of the elusive ghost of Marco Gonzales. No one ever witnessed anything supernatural, but no one asked for their money back either. The spookiness fulfilled all promises of a frightening adventure.

As he rounded a bend, the long stone two-story structure with its pitched, rusting tin roof came into view. It hadn’t been used in at least thirty years and the interior was a major disaster waiting to happen. The floor boards were rotting when he was young. Now they had to be dangerous.

Why the hell didn’t the owners tear it down? The interior was a smelly mess of bird and cow droppings and the walls were scarred by graffiti. One day someone was going to get hurt in there. Things hadn’t been so bad until recently, when a Santa Fe newspaper reporter dredged up the old story. This was the fourth time in two weeks he’d had to chase someone away.

The sun glinted off a black Cadillac Escalade parked in the gravel parking lot. Texas license plates. This wouldn’t be good. Expensive cars often meant jerks. Hopefully it wasn’t a bunch of rich kids on a joy ride. Or perhaps…could this be the vehicle that frightened Lottie?

He saw no sign of anyone as he stopped his patrol vehicle beside the big SUV. The afternoon air caught him like a hot blanket as he stepped outside. Its stillness could hypnotize with its silence. Nary a rustle came from the grove of cottonwood trees that bordered a pond beyond the building.

A loud crack broke the stillness. He trotted around the building to the wooden veranda that bordered the back end and stretched along the side overlooking the pond. A tall lanky man hunched over a boarded up window in the back. He pulled at the rotting slats with a crow bar. Fresh scratches in the peeling paint of the back door indicated he might have first tried to pry off a metal latch. The thick door had refused to budge and so had the thick padlock.

“Can I help you there?” Rafe called. He took a long step over a broken stair and climbed onto the rotting wood planks that formed the floor of the veranda.

The man jerked back, whirling toward him. While he’d been sheriff for little more than a year, Rafe had grown up in Rio Rojo and knew almost everyone in the Verde Valley. This man was a stranger. He was dressed all in black, from his cowboy hat to his narrow western-style shirt, black jeans, and polished cowboy boots. Even his sunglasses were a dark shade of black.

A cowboy? No. Those designer jeans had never seen the back of a horse and his boots were the type purchased in a high end Santa Fe shop.

“This place is closed,” Rafe said when he didn’t answer. “Didn’t you see the ‘no trespassing’ sign at the turn off?”

The man’s placid face didn’t move. Rafe put him at around forty, despite a thatch of gray hair protruding from the hat. He was of equal height, right around six feet tall, or perhaps it was the heel on the boots that made him seem taller.

“I suggest you get in your fancy SUV and get the hell out of here before I arrest you on trespassing or vandalism charges.”

The man lowered the crowbar, but still didn’t speak and despite the shady porch, he didn’t remove the glasses.

Tired of waiting for a reply, Rafe stretched out his upturned palm. “Got some ID?”

The crowbar fell to the wood boards with a clatter as the man reached into his back pocket with his left hand. He moved so quickly Rafe found himself placing his hand on the top of his gun.

The stranger produced a black wallet that looked like rich leather, embossed with the initials “DV” and retrieved a license to hand to Rafe. “Name’s Diego Diaz.” His voice was harsh, raspy, and carried the twang of a Texas accent.

“What does DV stand for?” He gestured at the wallet as he glanced at the Texas license.

The man looked at it as though seeing it for the first time. “Velasquez is my middle name.” He cleared his throat though his reply still came out hoarse. “People call me D-V.”

“Uh-huh.” The picture depicted the man wearing a black eye patch. The green of his other eye was a startling contrast to the deep golden hue of his skin. His hair was on the long side, curling over his ears, streaked with gray and black. Rafe started to return the license, but the age caught his attention.

“How old are you?” He felt as though he was carding a teenager with a fake ID.

“Fifty-seven,” the man replied without missing a beat. That agreed with the license, but his smooth face showed no wrinkles.

“What are you doing here?” He waved at the window as he handed back the license.

“You’re the police chief in Rio Rojo?” Diaz put away the license and tucked the wallet back into his pocket.

“I’m Sheriff Rafe Tafoya. This is county land. What are you doing here?”

The man hesitated, then nodded. “I saw a story in the paper about this place, and I was curious so I drove over.”

“From Texas? That’s at least a four-hour drive.”

His quick laugh was gruff. “I was at a meeting in Santa Fe. Don’t mean any harm, Sheriff. Just passin’ through, as they say.”

“I suggest you keep passing. This is private property and the owners pay my salary to keep people out.”

“Who are the owners?” Diaz asked.

“You interested in buying it?”

Again, that quick harsh laugh. “Maybe. Wanna give me a tour as a potential buyer?”

“I may run in your ass for trespassing if you don’t get back in your fancy vehicle and get the hell out of here.”

Diaz held up a hand. “Hey, son, I’m not looking for trouble. I can have my business manager finish the deal.”

Sarcasm dripped from his tone, but Rafe let it ride. He wanted the stranger gone. Not being able to see the man’s eyes bothered him. Maybe he’d spent too many years in Los Angeles dealing with smart alecks in shades.

“Want me to fix that board?” Diaz asked.

“I’ll send someone to do it. Just hit the road.”

The man picked up the crowbar and slung it over his shoulder. To Rafe’s surprise, Diaz smiled as he walked by. He moved with a slight limp, faltering as he stepped around the broken step.

“One more quick question, though,” Rafe said, as the man reached the ground. “Were you parked over on Maple Street this morning?”

The man jerked his head up. “Huh?”

“Someone said they saw a big black vehicle parked on Maple earlier today. Was that you?”

Again the strange grin came. “Like you said, Sheriff, you’re not police chief, are you? Shouldn’t
he
be asking me questions if there’s some sort of problem? Not that it matters. If I was parked on that street, it might have been I was visiting an old friend.”

Rafe bristled, but he didn’t reply. He had a feeling the man wanted another excuse to verbally spar. Instead he followed as the man ambled toward the Cadillac, whistling. He tossed in the crowbar, hopped into the vehicle and waved back as though knowing he was being watched. Only when the dust plumes dissipated as the man turned onto the highway did Rafe get into his Jeep to continue his rounds.