The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [89]
Landscaping pretty much blocked Clayton’s view of the house, although he could see a light from a room above the garage and another in the main residence.
The clear sky darkened, sapping away the heat of the day. Clayton pulled on his gloves and his ski mask, zipped up his sleeping bag, and adjusted his night-vision scope to draw in the maximum ambient light from the rising quarter moon. Above, he heard the distinctive sound of a bat winging by.
A car exited the driveway. Clayton locked in on the plate as it turned onto the road, and he almost let out a whistle. The vehicle carried the distinctive New Mexico license plate of the state senator from Lincoln County.
Clayton checked the make of the vehicle as it sped away. It was Senator Norvell’s vehicle, for sure. Clayton had seen it often on the highways traveling in and out of Ruidoso. What was Norvell doing with Rojas? Could it possibly have anything to do with the investigation? Maybe yes, maybe no, but certainly worth looking into.
He broke out a canteen and some trail mix from the backpack and waited to see what happened next. Within an hour two cars drove away from the house. He got license plate numbers, makes, and models, but couldn’t see inside to spot the drivers.
Clayton waited, hoping for more action at the house. Except for an occasional vehicle passing by, everything stayed quiet. Finally, he decided to call it quits, drive home, catch some sleep, and check in with Sheriff Hewitt in the morning. He packed up his gear, belly crawled until the slope of the hill gave him enough cover to rise, and made a beeline for his unit.
Jeff Vialpando held the money out to Sally Greer—three hundred bucks—which was a fair price for an hour of her time, given her good looks and knockout body. When she slipped the bills in her clutch purse, he showed his shield and told her she was busted.
With a poor-me, dismayed look on her face, Greer sat on the hotel-room bed and tried hard not to cry, holding it back in small, tight gasps. Her reaction surprised him. Most hookers either played it nonchalant or put on the tough cookie role with cops.
Vialpando looked down the front of her skimpy dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and there were faint bite marks on her breasts. The bruises on her arms had turned yellow, and makeup covered the mouse on her face.
“I have to call a lawyer,” Greer said.
Vialpando sat next to her, thinking about her interesting choice of words. Why not need to or want to? That’s what most of the working girls said when faced with arrest. Greer was a rookie.
Vialpando looked at her face. There wasn’t anything hard about it, just a vacant sadness. He smiled sympathetically. “That might not be the wisest thing to do. It makes your situation more complicated.”
“I can have a lawyer, can’t I?” Greer asked pleadingly.
“Have you ever been arrested before?” Vialpando asked.
Greer shook her head.
“Here’s the way it goes,” Vialpando said. “I haven’t read you your rights yet. If I do that, then you really are busted and I have to book you into jail. First off, you’ll be strip-searched. They never show that part on TV. All your body cavities will be probed. Then you’ll be dressed out in jail coveralls, fingerprinted, photographed, and locked in a tiny holding cell while I do the paperwork. It’s got a concrete bunk, a toilet, a light that never goes off, and a small window in the door so you can be watched at all times. When I’m finished, you get to make one phone call. It’s late by then, so the chances are good it will take the lawyer a couple of hours to arrange for your bail. Do you want that?”
Again, Greer shook her head.
“Let’s say you get out on bail,” Vialpando continued. “You’ll still have a court date. If you show up, I’ll make sure the newspapers cover it, especially your hometown paper.