"In the meantime," said Wilier, "there are a couple of points I'd like to clear up. Mind?"
Here we go, thought Tom. "Do I need a lawyer?"
"It's your right."
"Am I a suspect?"
"No."
Tom waved his hand. "Lawyers are expensive. Go ahead."
"You said you were riding along the Chama the night of the killing."
"That's right."
Tom felt the doctor's fingers in his hair, poking around, holding a large pair of tweezers in the other.
"You said you took a shortcut up Joaquin Canyon?"
"It's not really a shortcut."
"That's just what I was thinking. Why'd you go up there?"
"As I said before, I like the route."
Silence. He could hear Hernandez's pen scritching on the paper, then the rustle of a page turned. The M.E. plucked one hair, two, three. "Done," she said.
"How many more miles did you have to ride that night?" Wilier asked.
"Ten, twelve."
"How long would that have taken you?"
"Three to four hours."
"So you decided to take a shortcut that was actually a long cut, at sunset, when you would have had at least three hours of riding in the dark."
"It was the night of the full moon and I'd planned it that way. I wanted to ride home by moonlight-that was the whole point."
"Your wife doesn't mind you coming home late?"
"No, his wife doesn't mind him coming home late," said Sally.
Wilier continued, not varying from his stolid tone. "And you heard the shots, went to investigate?"
"Haven't we already gone through this, Detective?"
Wilier pushed on. "You say you found the man, dying. You administered CPR, which is how you got his blood all over your clothes."
"Yes."
And he spoke to you, told you to find his daughter-Robbie her name was?-to tell her what he'd found. But he died before he could say what it was he found. Am I correct?"
"We've been over all this." Tom had not told, and had no intention of telling, that the prospector had a notebook or had mentioned a treasure. He had no confidence in the police's ability to keep it confidential, and news of a treasure would cause a stampede.
"Did he give you anything?"
"No." Tom swallowed. He was surprised at how much he hated lying.
After a moment Wilier grunted, looked down. "You spend a lot of time riding around up in that high mesa country, right?"
"That's right."
"Looking for anything in particular?"
"Yes."
Wilier looked up sharply. "What?"
"Peace and quiet."
He frowned. "Where do you go, exactly?"
"All over-the Maze, up over Mesa de los Viejos, English Rocks, La Cuchilla-sometimes as far as the Echo Badlands if it's an overnight trip."
Wilier turned to Sally. "You go with him?"
"Sometimes."
"I'm told that yesterday afternoon you went to the monastery up in the wilderness, Christ in the Desert."
Tom rose. "Who told you that? Are you having me followed?"
"Take it easy, Mr. Broadbent. You drive a distinctive truck and I might remind you that most of that road is visible from the top of Mesa de los Viejos, where my men are searching. Now: did you go up to the monastery?"
"Do I have to answer these questions?"
"No. If you don't, I'll subpoena you, and you'll need that lawyer we talked about, and then you'll be required to answer them under oath at police headquarters."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a statement of fact, Mr. Broadbent."
"Tom," said Sally, "take it easy."
Tom swallowed. "Yes, I went up there."
"What for?"
Tom hesitated. "To see a friend of mine."
"Name?"
"Brother Wyman Ford."
Scritch, scritch went the pen. As he wrote, Wilier made a sucking noise through his teeth.
"This Brother Ford a monk?"
"Novitiate."
"What you go up there to see him about?"
"I wondered if he'd heard or seen anything related to the killing up in the Maze." He felt terrible lying again. He began to realize that the others may have been right, that he never should have kept back the notebook. But there was that damn promise.
"And had he?"
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all. He didn't even know about it. He doesn't read the newspapers." If the cops went to see Ford, Tom wondered if he would lie about the notebook. It seemed most unlikely-he was, after all, a monk.
Wilier rose. "You going to stick around here for a while? Case we need to talk to you again?"
"I don't have any traveling plans at the present time."
Wilier nodded again, glanced at Sally. "Sorry, ma'am, for the interruption."
"Don't ma'am me," said Sally sharply.
"No offense intended, Mrs. Broadbent." He turned to the M.E. "Got what you needed?"
"Yes."
Tom saw them to the door. As he was leaving, Wilier paused, his black eyes fixed on Tom. "Lying to a police officer is obstruction of justice-a felony."
"I'm aware of that."
Wilier turned and left. Tom watched them drive out, then came back in and shut the door. Sally was standing in the living room, arms crossed. "Tom-"
"Don't say it."
"I am going to say it. You're sinking in quicksand. You've got to give them the notebook."
"Too late now."
"No it isn't. You can explain. They'll understand."
"The hell they will. And how many times do I have to repeat it? / made a. promise"
She sighed, uncrossed her arms. "Tom, why are you so stubborn?"
"And you're not?"
Sally flopped down on the sofa next to him. "You're impossible."
He put his arm around her. "I'm sorry, but would you have me any other way?"
"I suppose not." She sighed. "On top of all this, when I came home this afternoon, I got the feeling that someone had been in the house."
"How so?" Tom said, alarmed.
"I don't know. Nothing was stolen or moved. It was just a creepy feeling-like I could smell some stranger's B.O."
"You sure?"
"No."
"We should report it."
"Tom, you report a break-in and Wilier will be all over you. Anyway, I'm not sure at all-it was just a feeling."
Tom thought for a moment. "Sally, this is serious. We already know the treasure is worth killing for. I'd feel better if you broke out that Smith & Wesson of yours and kept it handy."
"I wouldn't go that far, Tom. I'd feel silly walking around with a gun."
"Humor me. You're lethal with a gun-you proved that in Honduras."
Sally rose, slid open a drawer under the phone, took out a key, and went to unlock a cabinet in the den. A moment later she came back with the gun and a box of .38
cartridges. She opened the cylinder, pushed five rounds into the chambers, snapped it shut, snugged it into the front pocket of her jeans. "Satisfied?"
19
JIM MADDOX HANDED the car keys and a five-dollar bill to the pimply-faced attendant at the curb and walked into the lobby of the El Dorado Hotel, his new Lucchesi snakeskin boots making a pleasing creaking sound. He paused to look around, giving his jacket a little tug. On one side of the large room was a roaring fire, and on the other an old faggot sat at a grand piano, playing "Misty." At the far end stood a bar done up in blond wood.
He sauntered over to the bar, hung his laptop on the back of the chair, eased himself in.
"Coffee. Black."
The bartender nodded, returned with a cup and a bowl of spicy peanuts.
He took a sip. "Say, this is a bit stale, think you could manage a fresh pot?"
"Of course, sir. My apologies." The bartender whisked away the cup, disappeared in the back.
Maddox dipped his fingers into the peanuts, tossed a few in his mouth, watched the people coming and going. They all looked like him, dressed in Polo shirts and sports jackets and nice corduroy or worsted slacks, people who lived their lives on the straight and narrow, two cars in the garage, two point four kids, living off corporate paychecks.
He leaned back, tossed in a few more, and bit down. Funny how many attractive middle-aged women-like that one crossing the lobby with the tan slacks and sweater and pearls with her little black handbag-went all wobbly thinking about a tattooed, pumped-up, prison Jeff doing hard time for rape, murder, or assault. He had a lot of work to do tonight, at least twenty new cons to write up and post. Some of the letters were so illiterate he had to make it all up from scratch. No matter: the subscriptions were still rolling in, the demand for cons growing steadily. It was the easiest money he'd ever made in his life, and what amazed him was that it was legal, all of it handled by credit card through an Internet billing company; they took their cut and the rest was wired to his bank account.