Guillen tapped the microscope and stepped away from the table. “These hairs and fibers were found in the van. Take a look.”
Molina looked into the eyepiece and saw what appeared to be several blond strands of hair. “They look the same to me.”
“It’s really a combination of human hair and modacrylic fiber of exactly the same length,” Guillen said. “Modacrylic is a long-chain polymer used in clothing, bedding, paint, carpets, curtains, upholstery-all kinds of stuff. The only producers are in Japan. These strands came from a wig.”
“How can you tell?” Molina asked as he raised up from the eyepiece.
“The combination of hair and fiber, plus the ends are curled, which means they were doubled over and machine sewn into the wig cap.”
“Can you identify the manufacturer?”
Guillen laughed. “Sure, give me a round-trip plane ticket, a hefty expense account, and a year in Asia, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Why Asia?” Molina asked.
“Because that’s where most of the cheap wigs and hairpieces are made.”
“Victoria Drake was a brunette,” Molina said, “with a full head of hair.”
“Well, somebody who was in the van wore a blond wig,” Guillen said. “Maybe your suspect or some other victim.”
“I’ll check it out,” Molina said, as he patted Henry on the back.
He went down the corridor to the fingerprint section, where Cruz Tafoya was watching the tech at work. “Anything?” he asked.
“The cell phone has Olsen’s prints on it,” Tafoya said. “He’s checking a page in the scrapbook now.”
The tech had carefully peeled off one of the newspaper articles taped to a page and was scanning both documents with a laser light. He turned them over and repeated the process.
“No prints here,” the tech said, “and none on the inside or outside of the binder. But I’ve got a lot left to examine.”
“Let’s us know what you find,” Molina said.
Outside, there was a steady whine of traffic along Cerrillos Road. Molina watched it for a moment before turning to Tafoya. “Henry Guillen says somebody in the van wore a blond wig. Olsen has long blond hair, or at least he did. Call his mother and ask her if he’s balding and wears a wig to hide it.”
Tafoya checked his pocket notebook for a number and dialed his cell phone. It ran a long time before Meredith Olsen picked up and answered in a blurred voice. Cruz asked the question.
“Oh, no,” Meredith Olsen replied. “He has shiny, long, baby-fine hair. I used to curl it for him when he was a little boy. He looked so beautiful.”
Cruz thanked Meredith Olsen and clipped the cell phone to his belt. “No wig,” he said.
“It could be that Clayton Istee’s theory about another victim is on target,” Molina said.
“You’d think Olsen’s prints would be all over that scrapbook he put together on Chief Kerney,” Tafoya said.
“I know it,” Molina said.
Cruz Tafoya shook his head. “Things aren’t jibing.”
“I know,” Molina said.
The men separated and walked to their units. As Molina pulled out of the parking lot, he considered the inconsistencies in the case, tried to reconcile them, and came up short. There were still too many unanswered questions that cast doubt in his mind.
The large guest room at Andy and Gloria’s house had a separate entrance off the rear patio, a private bath, and two comfortable easy chairs positioned in front of a window that provided a view of the backyard. An antique pine chest under the window was filled with toys used to entertain visiting grandchildren, and a large walk-in closet contained two folding beds and all the necessary linens to accommodate four guests.
Kerney’s attempt to brief Sara on the case had suffered from a stream of constant interruptions as phone calls came in from various personnel. It seemed that everybody in the department felt a need to keep Kerney fully informed about each and every new development, no matter how small.
Sara sat in a chair watching Kerney talk to Sal Molina on his cell phone. From what she’d overheard, it was clear the investigation was far from being wrapped up. The evidence seized in Socorro had raised troubling questions, as had the interviews conducted with Olsen’s friends and acquaintances. The possibility that Olsen had an accomplice was still up for grabs, as was the theory that there might or might not be another victim.
Sara had tried to keep a sunny disposition and hold back on expressing the feeling of imprisonment that continued to annoy her. Although the two state police agents remained discreetly in the background, their presence was a constant reminder that she was under guard. And Gloria Baca’s gracious attempts to put her at ease during the course of the day hadn’t diminished her growing sense of uselessness. It wasn’t a feeling Sara liked.
Half-listening as Kerney talked to Sal Molina, she told herself the situation was, after all, dangerous. When that didn’t work, she told herself that Kerney’s effort to keep her out of harm’s way was instinctual and protective. She found no comfort in either thought.
Since the day Sara had entered West Point, she’d functioned in a male-dominated world, never once thinking that she couldn’t be a man’s equal. The bureaucratic barriers didn’t faze her, nor did the chauvinistic attitudes of some of her superiors and colleagues. Eventually, the glass ceiling would be shattered and no rank or duty assignment, including combat arms, would be closed to women.
She knew Kerney wasn’t a chauvinist, or simply pretending not to be, as many men did. His endearing ability to accept her as an equal without the need to dominate or control had drawn her to him in the first place.
When Kerney disconnected, Sara decided to approach him head-on with the fact she could no longer tolerate the situation. She held up a hand to keep him from talking.
“We have to reclaim our lives, Kerney,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if a bomb goes off in five minutes, hours, or days and blows us both to kingdom come, I can’t stand being held hostage any longer. I want to go back to our own place, visit the new house, and do some shopping for the baby.”
Kerney put the cell phone down, rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes, and let out a deep breath. “That’s not such a good idea right now,” he said as he raised his head to look at her.
“Maybe not,” Sara said, “but we’ve come through tough times before and survived them. We can do it again.”
“Under completely different circumstances,” he said.
“I’m not asking for your permission,” Sara said. “I want you to call Larry Otero and tell him we’re not to be bothered for the next twenty-four hours. Then turn off that damn cell phone and we’ll go back to our place and try to organize one day of normal living with no agents hovering around and no interruptions before the baby comes.”
Still thinking of all the reasons it was a bad idea, Kerney studied the determined look on Sara’s face. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“It’s time to stop hiding and go home.”
“Will you accept having an officer stationed outside?” Kerney asked.
Sara nodded. “That’s agreeable.”
“Okay. So what do you want to do first?”
“I’d like to take an evening drive in my new car to see how our house is coming along.”
Kerney smiled and flipped open his cell phone. “Give me a couple of hours in the rack, and it’s a date. Why don’t you tell Gloria about our change in plans, and I’ll let Andy and Larry Otero know.”
Sara got out of her chair, kissed him, and went to speak to Gloria. Patrick Brannon gave a wiggle and something told Sara the twenty-four hours she’d demanded might not be as normal as she hoped.
Doing a comprehensive field search of eighty acres was no small task. Using the boundary fences as a guide, the three officers spread out and walked the perimeter of the property before separating at the back fence to sweep down the hill toward the house.
Shrub vegetation, mostly creosote, sage, and broom snakeweed, dominated several rocky terrace slopes, and there were clusters of hedgehog, prickly pear, and barrel cactus growing in pockets of coarse sand. Limestone, sandstone, and shale lined shallow runoff gullies, and gusts of wind raised dust swirls that dulled the pale-green, drought-stricken bunchgrass.