The Big Gamble (21 page)

The bull-pen area outside the office was nearly empty. Only two detectives were at their desks. Except for paperwork or court appearances, mornings weren’t the busiest times for vice cops.

Vialpando looked up from the copies. “Compared to a lot of the crap on the Net, this is pretty classy stuff. Some soft-porn poses, no totally nude pictures, good photography, a sexy, narrative come-on that only hints at sex for hire, and a good-looking woman who wouldn’t raise any eyebrows if a guy was seen in public with her. I’d say the whole thing was professionally done to appeal to high-end clients.”

“So send her an E-mail and ask her for a date,” Ramona said.

“Not yet, unless you’re in a hurry,” Vialpando said. “We’ve got reasonable suspicion to believe Greer’s a hooker, but no probable cause. I’d rather put surveillance on her for a day or two, document her next date, interrogate her client afterward, and then bust her when she asks me for money. If I can scare her enough, maybe she’ll roll over on her pimp.”

“I can wait,” Ramona said. “Do you think she has a pimp?”

“From what you’ve told me, Greer is probably new to the game, so I’m betting somebody fronted the money for the Web site. They don’t come cheap, and I doubt Greer built it herself.”

“And Thomas Deacon?” Ramona asked.

“You’ve done me a huge favor identifying him as the photographer. Chances are he makes his bread and butter in the skin trade. He should prove to be a very valuable informant.”

“I get first crack at him,” Ramona said.

“Of course,” Vialpando replied. “Are you ready for your meeting with Bedlow?”

“I am.”

He gave her a worried look. “We never send our undercover female vice detectives out alone. Let me put a wire on you, just to be safe. I’ll park a block away, record the conversation, and be there in case you need backup.”

Given what Ramona had learned about Sally Greer, it was a good idea. She nodded her concurrence.

Vialpando nodded back, relieved. “We can meet for an early lunch afterward.” He named the restaurant, a nice but not expensive eatery in the Nob Hill district just east of the university. “I’ll have a lot of questions.”

“About the case?”

“Yeah, but mostly about you,” Jeff said with an easy smile.

Ramona stood and smoothed down her skirt. “I may have some of my own questions to ask.”

Jeff Vialpando glanced at her legs and said, “Like what?”

She touched the framed photo of the smiling black mutt. “I want to know everything about your dog.”

Vialpando laughed.

Ramona turned crisply on her heel to hide the flush on her face. “Let’s get me wired,” she said, as if she weren’t already buzzing with the small jolt of electricity that had passed between them.

 

Yesterday’s MRI test and his prior commitment to teach a late-afternoon class at the law-enforcement academy had left Kerney with no time to follow up on state senator Tyler Norvell. On his desk he found a file from Sal Molina with an attached note indicating that Detective Piño was still in Albuquerque and hadn’t yet reported in.

Molina’s public-records check on Belinda Louise Nieto had uncovered some fascinating information. Colorado court records showed that soon after the death of her father, Nieto legally changed her name to Crystal Fox. One year later she became a murder victim in an unsolved homicide still carried as an open case by the Denver Police Department.

Kerney read the investigative narrative provided by the Denver PD. The murder had occurred in the victim’s car outside a trendy city nightspot. She’d been shot once in the chest by a small-caliber handgun. Analysis of the powder burns and flash points on the woman’s clothing disclosed that the barrel of the weapon had been placed in direct contact with the victim’s body.

Witnesses at the nightclub reported that the victim had been in the company of a well-dressed, Hispanic male, approximately thirty years old, of average to slightly above average height. None of the patrons or employees at the club recalled previously seeing the couple, who had arrived at the club separately. The detective noted that most witnesses interviewed at the scene appeared to be high on cocaine “or under the influence of other illegal substances.”

Faced with an unknown suspect, the detective assigned to the case had naturally concentrated on the victim. Crystal Fox turned out to be a “personal escort who specialized in entertaining well-heeled out-of-town male visitors to the city.”

An address book at the victim’s apartment yielded the names of men who’d been entertained by Ms. Fox, many on a regular basis, according to a meticulously up-to-date social calendar discovered among her possessions. The night of the murder she’d had nothing scheduled.

Departments as far away as Los Angeles and New York City had cooperated in the investigation, interviewing every one of Crystal Fox’s customers who could be located. None, based on verified alibis, had been in Denver at the time of the murder.

A knock at the open door made Kerney look up. Helen Muiz came in and presented Kerney with the agenda of the appointments he’d asked her to make. Kerney knew each person on the list. All were politically well connected, reasonably trustworthy, and could possibly provide valuable information about Senator Tyler Norvell.

“You’d better get cracking,” Helen said. “Your first meeting is downtown in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever happened to your promise to make your own phone calls?” Helen asked.

“Because of your charm and persuasiveness, I knew you’d have better luck getting through to these guys,” Kerney said, waving the slip of paper at her.

“Baloney,” Helen said.

Kerney laughed. “Don’t you mean to say that you respectfully disagree with my statement?”

“No, just baloney will do,” Helen replied with a twinkle in her eye.

Kerney knew that look well, so he took the bait. “What is it?”

“Your doctor’s office called. The results of your MRI came in. He wants you to call him back so he can schedule surgery. Does this mean no more limp?”

“I hope so.”

“Wonderful,” Helen said.

 

Clayton questioned the propane delivery driver carefully and learned it was company policy for the driver to announce his arrival at a customer’s home.

The man had honked the horn and waited for several minutes before proceeding to fill the tank. No one had appeared during the time he was at the cabin. Since the stop was on his regular route, he’d been furnished a key to the locked gate to gain entry. He delivered every two months. When asked, the driver noted that the tank was over three-quarters full, which probably meant the cabin hadn’t been used much during the cold weather.

At the airport Clayton reviewed a list of airplane owners who kept personal vehicles at the parking lot. The list showed make, model, year, and license plate information for each. Rojas hadn’t lied about owning an SUV. After cruising the lot without finding the vehicle, Clayton decided that maybe the girlfriend, Deborah, also hadn’t lied about driving the SUV to El Paso as a favor to Rojas. But that was about the only truth the woman had told. It got Clayton to start questioning the whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing, again.

He headed toward Carrizozo and the office, using the road that would take him off the mesa and past Fort Stanton. He reached for the radio to call in his destination and ETA just as dispatch advised him that Hewitt, Quinones, and Dillingham were standing by for a meeting. He acknowledged the message, hoping maybe the blond woman seen with Ulibarri at the casino had been located. That might make things go a lot easier.

 

From her sister’s wardrobe Ramona had selected a gray, midcalf skirt, a half-sleeve charcoal cowl-neck sweater, and black pumps. In Cassie Bedlow’s office she sat quietly while the woman reviewed her enrollment application.

“You didn’t answer one question,” Bedlow said, looking up from the papers.

Ramona shifted her weight and dropped her head. “I didn’t want to lie,” she said, “so I left it blank.”

“Well, have you ever been arrested?” Bedlow asked.

“Is it that important?” Ramona asked.

“I don’t expect my students to be perfect, Ramona,” Bedlow replied gently. “But I do need to know if you have a criminal record. If you do, it doesn’t necessarily disqualify you from enrolling.”

“Once,” Ramona said in a small voice. “I was arrested once.”

“For?”

Ramona stood. “I shouldn’t be here, wasting your time.”

Bedlow waved her hand, palm down, in a gesture for Ramona to sit. “This isn’t an interrogation, and you’re not wasting my time, dear. We just need to be honest with each other.”

Ramona stayed standing. “You’d give me a tuition loan, even though I’ve been arrested?”

Bedlow laughed lightly. “I might be willing to take a chance on you. People make mistakes. You didn’t murder anyone, did you?”

Ramona reclaimed her seat. “Oh no, I was arrested for possession of cocaine.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Ramona laid out the story; her ex-husband had been a heavy user who always had her carry his stash. One night while they were going home, he’d been stopped and arrested for driving under the influence.

“We were both pretty high,” she added. “They found the cocaine in my purse. Just a little bit. It was my first offense. I pled guilty and paid a fine.”

“Were you high on cocaine?”

“Yes,” Ramona answered in a tiny voice.

“Do you still use it?”

“No.”

“Are you drug free?” Bedlow asked.

“Not completely,” Ramona said, looking away from Bedlow. “I sometimes smoke a little weed. I drink, but not a lot, and sometimes I take a sleeping pill at night.”

Bedlow smiled sympathetically. “That doesn’t make you a major criminal.”

“I guess not,” Ramona said with a weak smile.

“Have you found a job yet?”

Ramona put on a dejected face. “I’ve been offered a part-time sales position. But I wouldn’t get enough hours to even pay my rent.”

“Have you ever worked as a waitress?”

“Before I got married, I did.”

“Let’s see what we can do,” Bedlow said. “I have a friend who owns a club, and he’s always looking for pretty girls to work for him. It’s an upscale sports bar and restaurant, with an all-girl waitstaff. You’d have to wear scanty shorts and a low-cut halter top, but the girls make great tips.”

Ramona perked up and looked animated. “That wouldn’t bother me, especially if I could make some good money.”

“If I asked, I’m sure he’d be willing to schedule you to work nights so it doesn’t interfere with classes.”

“That’s perfect. I’m a night owl anyway.”

Bedlow wrote out the name of the bar, the owner’s name, and the address of the establishment. “He’s usually there around noon,” she said, handing Ramona the information. “I’ll give him a call to say you’re coming to talk to him.”

“Oh, I hope he hires me,” Ramona said.

“I think your chances are excellent,” Bedlow replied.

“Thank you so much,” Ramona said.

 

Jeff Vialpando was waiting when Ramona got to the Nob Hill eatery. The lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet and the waitstaff was standing around the bar chatting. The place had a rustic, antique feel to it, with lots of dark wood and reproductions of old advertising signs on the walls. He stood up as she approached the table.

“I guess we don’t have much time,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her.

“Forty-five minutes,” Ramona replied, checking her watch.

“You handled Bedlow very well,” Jeff said, returning to his seat.

“Thank you. But I thought we were going to talk about your dog.”

“That will have to wait for another time,” Jeff replied. “While you were with Bedlow, I had one of my detectives search several escort-rating Web sites.”

“An escort what?” Ramona asked.

Vialpando smiled. “Your education about vice and the Internet has just begun. Many hookers are rated by their clients on the World Wide Web. Some women even post the testimonials they’ve received from satisfied customers on their personal Web sites. Sultry Sally has gotten her first grade, and it’s a good one.”

He handed Ramona a computer printout. It read:

“This is mind-boggling,” Ramona said.

Jeff waited for the busboy to pour water and go away. “It could be fake. Many of the Internet ads and testimonials are. You don’t always get what you call up and ask for.”

“So that’s why some of the sites guarantee that it’s an actual picture of the girl.”

“Exactly. Truth in advertising, so to speak.”

“Now what do we do?” Ramona asked.

“Order lunch,” Jeff said as a waiter approached with a basket of freshly baked breads and rolls. “I recommend the cup of soup and the house salad.”

Ramona grabbed one of the menus that had been left on the table and scanned it. Nothing jumped out at her. “You’re not a meat and potatoes kind of guy?”

“Not at this time of day.”

“Soup and salad sounds good,” Ramona said, handing the menu off to the waiter.

Vialpando ordered the same. The waiter nodded and left.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ramona said. “What’s the next move?”

“You still don’t have anything solid on Bedlow,” Jeff replied.

“Yeah, I know it. But I got this feeling about her. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow or give me a motherly lecture about smoking dope and popping sleeping pills when I copped to being a user. It was almost like she was pleased that I wasn’t a straight, Goody Two-shoes. Then she laid this job possibility on me. Don’t you think that was a little strange?”