"I hope Joaquin is taking good care of you and the baby."
"He bought me my house, my car, the furniture, and he pays all the bills. He's a good man."
"I bet he is. Joaquin and Lenny must do a lot of business together."
Bernadette nodded in agreement.
"He keeps Lenny working a lot."
"A lot?"
"Well, for Lenny it's one of his biggest contracts."
"When will Lenny and Gloria get home?"
"Not until tomorrow sometime."
"Mind if I take a look at Rudy's truck in the garage?"
"Go ahead."
Gabe walked into the garage and let the grin he'd been holding back break across his face as soon as he saw the vehicle. He put on a pair of plastic gloves, opened the truck door and popped the glove box. It contained a handgun. Gabe didn't touch it. He looked closely at the exterior of the doors. On the driver's side was a random pattern of minute brown specks, quite probably Boaz's blood. He checked the tires; the tread pattern matched with those found at Boaz's cabin.
Outside, he called Thorpe on his cell phone.
"We've got a bunch of stolen stuff out of Angle's house," Russell said, before Gabe could start talking.
"Good deal. Is Art Garda with you?"
"Roger that."
"I want you both down in Anton Chico, pronto, with a crime scene unit.
I've found Rudy's truck and the handgun."
"Ten-four." Russell's voice rose in excitement.
"Give me your twenty, Sarge."
Gabe gave Thorpe the directions he'd asked for, disconnected, and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.
It was time to talk to Bernadette again. Since she had been willing to let him in the garage, she just might give him permission to take a look inside Lenny's house.
Gabe figured Bernadette was an innocent, gullible kid with nothing to hide, other than her relationship withjoaquin. He decided the best approach would be to convince Bernadette that Rudy Espinoza was the sole object of his investigation.
A brief conversation with Bernadette yielded a signed form giving Gabe permission to search, and a key to Lenny's front door.
After his phone conversation with Emmet Griffin, Kerney felt he finally had a suspect. He stopped off at a Las Vegas hardware store, bought a lock and chain for the gate to his property, several tools, and a pair of work gloves. Then he drove out to Erma's old cabin.
All the crime scene activity had occurred on the mesa, and no one had yet searched the cabin for evidence.
Dale's discovery of Erma's love letter should have triggered Kerney's interest. He wondered if anything else-like the missing skeletal remains-might be hidden under the rotting hay. It was worth checking.
He got to the cabin and started bailing out the deep, wet layer of hay with a long-handled pitchfork. Two feet down, the prongs struck a solid surface. Kerney scraped a section clean and exposed a partially rotted plank floor.
He kept bailing, throwing the hay out the open door, until the pitchfork prongs twanged against rock. He brushed away the last bit of black decomposed hay, and found the edge of the old fireplace hearthstone. The planking that butted against the stone was warped and saturated with moisture. He dug his fingers under the board and pulled it free. Wood joists for the floor rested on the original hard-packed dirt surface.
He cleaned out the rest of the hay, stood in the center of the cabin, and looked around. All he'd uncovered were the nests of pocket mice and pack rats-no bones.
Except for one small section at the side of the hearthstone, the floor squeaked and sagged under his feet. He took a closer look. The nails holding down four boards were not the same as the others.
He pulled the boards free one at a time and found another rat's nest next to a partially chewed-up, disintegrating cardboard box filled with water-stained faded stationery. Carefully, he peeled away one pulpy sheet, held it up to the sunlight that poured through a hole in the roof, and read the salutation.
Kerney scanned the contents and didn't bother to look for the signature; he recognized the handwriting.
He gently removed the cardboard box, carried it to his car, popped the trunk, wrapped the box in a blanket, and put it inside.
He closed the cabin door, drove through the gate, locked it, and headed for Las Vegas. He'd promised Nestor Barela a key to the new gate lock, and it was time to deliver it.
Nestor Barela's living room was a combination of old and new. Two hand-carved, antique pine blanket chests served as side tables for an overstuffed couch and an imitation leather reclining chair that faced a television set.
On one wall was a handmade shelf containing an array of framed family photographs, the largest of which, draped in black bunting, Kerney took to be of Nestor's wife. Beneath the shelf was a low wooden stool on which Nestor parked his work boots.
On the wall behind the television were two paintings.
One was a portrait of a much younger Nestor Barela, and the other was a landscape of the cabin at the foot of the mesa. Both were dearly Erma's work.
Nestor sat on the edge of his reclining diair, holding the forgotten key in his hand, staring at the cardboard box on the coffee table in front of him.
Kerney said nothing and waited.
Finally Nestor looked warily at Kerney.
"What happened between Erma and me occurred many years ago.
I would rather my children not be told."
"From what I could tell, Erma stopped writing to you thirty years ago."
"You read them?"
"Not really."
"Our affair ended after three summers. Erma was not comfortable with it. After she stopped coming to the mesa, I hid her letters in the cabin. I couldn't bring myself to destroy them."
"I understand."