The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [52]
Situated near a river lined by ancient oak trees, the main fort consisted of beautiful old military buildings around a grassy quadrangle. Currently it served as a minimum security prison for women, and was probably one of the prettiest lockups in the entire country.
In an unusual way the fort had reverted to its original purpose, with one notable variation: women—not Apaches—were now imprisoned on the grounds. Clayton wondered if only the Mescaleros appreciated that irony.
At the airport, a facility that served mostly private planes, Clayton quickly made the rounds of everybody on-site, flashing Johnny Jackson’s likeness and the grainy photographs of the blonde, and asking questions. He got a possible make on the blonde from an airplane mechanic.
“Maybe it’s her,” the man said, “but I can’t say for certain. I only got a sideways look at her from a distance.”
“Tell me about it,” Clayton said.
The mechanic shifted his chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other. “The pilot wanted me to check the idle on his starboard engine. Said it sounded a little rough. The blonde—if that was her—stayed outside the maintenance hangar.”
“Did the blonde arrive with the pilot?”
“I’m pretty sure she did. He landed, taxied right up to the front of the hangar, and came in to talk to me. Wasn’t a minute or two before I saw her standing outside next to the plane. Nobody can get here walking from the terminal that fast.”
“Who was the pilot?”
“Luis Rojas. He was right about the engine: it needed adjustment.”
“From El Paso?”
The mechanic spit out some tobacco juice into a handkerchief. “Yeah, he flies in here pretty regular. Keeps a car in the parking lot.”
“When did Rojas arrive?”
The mechanic rubbed his nose. “A few days ago. Let me pull the invoice.”
He leafed through a folder smudged with greasy fingerprints and read off the date. “He rolled in here at about sixteen hundred hours.”
If the blonde was the right one, it all jibed. She had been caught on videotape at the casino that very same night.
“Did the woman go with him when he left for El Paso?” Clayton asked.
“Nope, he flew out alone.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely. After he paid, I walked him to his plane and showed him what I’d done. I watched him taxi and take off.”
Before leaving the airport grounds, Clayton checked the thirty or so cars in the parking lot for a late-model Lincoln, found two, and ran the plates. Both were registered to prominent, well-known Ruidoso businessmen, neither of whom matched Staggs’s description of Johnny Jackson. Jackson and his car were looking more and more like figments of Harry Staggs’s imagination.
But the blonde and Luis Rojas were very real. It was time to find Staggs and lean on him harder.
Ramona Piño sat at the small conference table that butted up against Chief Kerney’s desk and made her report. She finished to smiles and nods from Kerney and Lieutenant Molina.
“Good job,” Sal Molina said.
“Interesting,” Kerney said, sliding his chair back from the conference table so he could cross his legs. He dangled a foot over his knee and rubbed his leg to relieve the pain.
He’d changed out of his uniform during the day and now wore jeans, boots, and a blue shirt that matched the color of his eyes.
Piño found him rather good-looking for an older man. “Should I go back to meet with Cassie Bedlow?” she asked.
“First let’s hear what Lieutenant Molina has learned,” Kerney replied.
Sal consulted his notes. “The background checks on the people Osterman contacted after he returned to New Mexico weren’t helpful, Chief. Of course, we haven’t had a chance to dig very deep yet, but I don’t see a killer lurking in their midst.”
“What about Montoya’s college roommates?” Kerney asked.
“She had four. We talked to three of them.” Molina listed the women by name. “One lived with her for two years in a dorm until she moved off campus. During her junior and senior years,