“What do you want?” the man asked suspiciously. His face was covered in a film of adobe dust and his large hands were calloused and rough looking.
“I’m investigating a crime in Santa Fe County,” Thorpe said, “and I need to talk to your driver.”
“I’m the manager and the driver,” the man said. “What crime?”
“You delivered to a construction site where a horse was killed sometime yesterday.” Thorpe gave him the location and the contractor’s name.
“I wasn’t at that site yesterday. Trujillo’s next order isn’t due for another week.”
“When were you out there?” Thorpe asked.
“Five, maybe six days ago.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
The man shrugged. “Not really.”
“What did you see?” Thorpe asked.
“I had three deliveries to make that day so I got out there real early. A vehicle passed me coming down the ranch road. I figured it was one of the crew off to get something he needed for the job. But when I got to the site there wasn’t anybody around. I unloaded where Trujillo wanted the bricks and left before Bobby and his crew showed up. That’s all I saw.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“A van. One of those big, older models, maybe an eighty-two or eighty-three. A blue GMC with a crumpled front fender on the driver’s side. I got a good look at it because he had to slow way down to get past me on the road.”
Thorpe was impressed. The man had a good eye. “Did you see any passengers?”
The man shook his head. “Nope, at least not in the front. The rear windows had curtains.”
“Who was driving?” Thorpe asked.
“A man.”
“Anglo? Hispanic?”
“I didn’t pay any attention to his face.”
“Can you give me the exact date you were there?”
The man looked through his invoices and read off the date.
“Thanks for your help,” Thorpe said.
“Did you stop at the tribal office before you came here?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Well, you should have. This is sovereign land. You’ve got no jurisdiction to be here without permission.”
Thorpe threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry about that.”
The man looked Thorpe up and down. “Dumb rookie mistake.”
“Excuse me?” Thorpe said, taken aback.
“I said you made a dumb, rookie mistake. I spent ten years as a tribal police officer, and met a lot of young state cops who thought they could go anywhere they wanted. Had to throw a few of them off the pueblo a time or two. Would have done the same to you, if I was still in uniform.”
“I can understand your point of view,” Thorpe said, unwilling to apologize twice. He reached for his pocket notebook. “I’ll need your name for my report.”
“Donald Naranjo,” the man answered as he handed Thorpe a business card. “You can call me here at the office if you’ve got more questions. Good luck with the case. Anybody who puts a good horse down for no reason needs his butt seriously kicked before he gets locked up.”
“Maybe so,” Thorpe said. “Thanks for your help.”
Naranjo gave him a tight smile in reply.
Thorpe left, vowing to bone up on tribal jurisdictions. That issue aside, just maybe he had his first lead. He’d talk to Bobby Trujillo in the morning to see if anyone driving a blue van had been working at the job site. If not, he’d have to look for the vehicle, which could set back his investigation a good bit.
But either way, he still had a start.
Tug Cheney looked at the dead rat. “Most likely it was poisoned,” he said. With a gloved hand he picked it up by the tail and put it in a box. “I won’t know for sure until I cut it open.”
“Can you tell me anything else?” Sara asked.
“I’m no expert on rodents,” Tug replied. “But I do know rats are nocturnal. They feed at night and usually sleep during the day, so I doubt it crawled onto your front porch by itself. You’re sure there hasn’t been a pest exterminator out here recently?”
“That’s what I was told by the estate manager,” Sara replied.
“Let’s look for a burrow,” Tug said, eyeing Sara’s bulging stomach. “If I remember correctly, rats have a fairly limited territory. Are you up for it?”
“Of course,” Sara said. “I’m pregnant, not disabled. What exactly are we looking for?”
“Any kind of mound where the earth has been disturbed. It might look like a prairie dog hole, or be a smaller burrow system under a tree or shrub.”
Tug viewed the lush landscaping surrounding the estate. Whoever owned the property didn’t give a hoot about water conservation. Non-native annuals filled flowerbeds bordering the main house and driveway, a large swath of thirsty blue grass ran down to the adobe wall, and mature fruit trees and several big Navajo willow trees that required intensive irrigation shaded open patios around the huge, rambling structure.
“I’ve got to tell you,” Cheney said, “this doesn’t look like a good rat habitat to me. They prefer open, native grassland and more arid, sandy places.”
They walked the property several times and found no evidence of burrows. Back at the guesthouse, Tug took a small address book out of his truck and flipped through the pages. “I know a retired wildlife biologist here in town,” he said. “Maybe he can tell us something about the rat.”
On his cell phone, Tug spoke to the biologist, a man named Byron Stoll. He described the situation and the dead rodent. The information intrigued Stoll, who agreed to come and take a look for himself.
Within ten minutes, Stoll arrived on a motorcycle. “Can’t say I’ve heard of many kangaroo rats in Santa Fe,” he said, pulling off his helmet and shaking Sara’s hand.
A slightly built man in his sixties, Stoll had a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed matching mustache and beard. He went straight for the box containing the dead rat and opened the lid.
“This is a D. merriami, commonly known as the Merriam Kangaroo Rat,” he said.
“How can you tell?” Sara asked, looking over Stoll’s shoulder.
“Four toes per hind foot,” Stoll answered. “The Ord rat has five, although that extra toe is sometimes hard to see because it’s so tiny. But this is clearly a Merriam.”
Stoll looked at Tug and Sara. “This animal shouldn’t even be here.”
“What do you mean?” Tug asked.
“There are three species of native New Mexico kangaroo rats. The Ord, Merriam, and the Bannertail. The Bannertail is easy to spot because the last one-third of its tail is white. When you called, I would have bet you had a dead Bannertail on your hands, because they have a preference for places where grass is readily available. But the Merriam is only found from about Albuquerque southward in the Rio Grande Valley, and over by Santa Rosa, along the Pecos River Valley.”
“Which definitely means it was brought here,” Sara said.
“Without a doubt,” Stoll said.
“Maybe it was a pet that was turned loose by its owner,” Tug said.
“That could be,” Stoll replied. “They’re relatively gentle and easily handled.”
“I’d like to know specifically what killed it,” Sara said, turning to Tug.
“It was undoubtedly poisoned,” Stoll said.
“Where can we have it tested?” Sara asked.
“There’s a lab in Albuquerque,” Tug replied.
“No need for that,” Stoll replied, smiling at Sara. “I’ve got a small lab at home. I’ll run some toxicology tests after dinner and give Tug a call.”
“I think it should be handled by a police lab,” Sara said.
Stoll laughed. “It would still come to me in any case. I do contract work for a number of law enforcement agencies. Don’t worry, I’ll enter it into evidence and preserve the chain of custody.”
“That will work,” Sara said.
Stoll strapped the box with the rat on a rack over the rear wheel of his motorcycle, waved goodbye, and roared off.
“Call me after you hear from Mr. Stoll,” Sara said as she walked Tug to his truck.
“I will,” he said. “I think you and Kerney need to be cautious for a while.”