The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [83]
“Including this one?” Clayton asked, pointing to Deborah Shea’s photo.
Rigby nodded. “But I haven’t seen her in quite a while.”
“Do you know who these women work for?”
“That, I don’t know.”
Pumped by what he’d learned, Clayton left Rigby and drove past Rojas’s house. In daylight it was even more impressive, probably a million-dollar property, which for El Paso was about as pricey as it got.
He cruised the neighborhood, trying to think of his next move. He still needed to locate Deborah Shea, but he wanted to do it without tipping off Rojas. All the houses—there weren’t very many along the paved street—looked down on El Paso over a wide stretch of open desert. At both ends of the road, signs of a private security company were posted, citing twenty-four-hour armed patrol.
That gave Clayton an idea. A security patrol vehicle had passed him when he’d been on his way to talk to Rojas. Maybe someone at the company could shed some light on who came and went at the residence. Maybe they even had a record of who lived on the property with Rojas.
After finding an address in the phone book at the closest convenience store, consulting his map, and getting lost again, he finally reached the business, which had a small suite of offices in a building across from an adult bookstore.
The owner inspected Clayton’s credentials, said that he was an ex-deputy sheriff himself, talked a little cop stuff, and pulled the file on Rojas.
“We’ve never had any problems at the Rojas place,” he said.
Aside from Rojas, two residents were listed: a personal assistant and a live-in housekeeper. Clayton wrote down the names. An attached frequent-visitor list carried the names of what looked to be Rojas’s friends and business associates. Shea’s name was included, along with a description and license plate number of the car she drove.
“Do your people check on unfamiliar vehicles traveling through the neighborhood?” Clayton asked.
“All the time,” the man replied. “It’s policy.”
“Can I look through your patrol logs?”
“How far back do you want to go?” the man replied.
“A week will do it.”
The man pulled the logs and let Clayton use his office, a small, tidy space next to a room where a uniformed security officer manned a radio. He sucked in his breath and whistled when he saw the entry for Harry Staggs’s car and license plate number. Then he checked the date, sat back in the chair, and smiled at the ceiling.
Staggs had been with Rojas just hours before Clayton had arrived to be fed a line of bullshit by Rojas and Shea.
A small copying machine stood on a rolling cart next to a file cabinet. Clayton checked with the owner for permission, and made a copy of the log and the frequent-visitor list, mulling over his next step. It was too soon to confront Rojas. He decided to stake him out instead. Maybe Deborah Shea would show, or someone else equally interesting.
He thought about the lay of the land in front of Rojas’s house. There wasn’t much that provided concealment, but he could make do. On the rez he’d stalked poachers through open fields, caught trespassers in vast meadows, and busted out-of-season hunters above the timberline. He had everything he needed in his unit to stay warm and comfortable when night came and it got cold.
The prospect of the surveillance pleased Clayton far more than the thought of spending the night in an El Paso motel. He checked the wall clock. There were two hours left before dusk. If he hurried, there was enough time to locate a place to conceal his unit at the bottom of the hill below Rojas’s house, hike up it, and pick a spot to hunker down.
The architect and the survey crew left just before sunset. Kerney stayed on at the building site watching touches of color fringe the few stray clouds, shadows deepen in the canyon, and the mountains fade into gray ghostly shapes. He stood behind the stakes that defined the placement of what would one day be his living room, imagining the house completed—the ceiling overhead, the plastered adobe walls, the tiled floor, the