Dead Horses Page 2

  “Tell me what you know about this incident, Mr. Romero,” Palafox asked.

  Again, I described what little I’d found at the scene, the stalker, and the vehicle he drove.

  “We have a perplexing situation here.” Palafox paused. “Al-Fadi was out of Bask, the sire of 196 national champions. Stud fees for him range around ten grand plus. Studs like that would sell for three-fifty grand or more, easy. Theft of an expensive Arab I get, but kill one? Got any ideas?” He asked the question deadpan, but I suspected Palafox was fishing. I get it. Too often the finder is the killer.

  “Well, you got two valuable horses killed in a week and your friend Richmond is more than a little touchy about the subject. But this is your case.”

  Palafox nodded, gave me a knowing smile. “Send us an invoice for the hauling,” he said as a ranch hand drove up a front-end loader, scooped him up, and took Al-Fadi behind a barn. Sounds of the front-loader faded into silence.

  The dead horse’s stench of rotting cheese and feces flooded my nose. But, it smelled more like insurance fraud. I focused on the door that Richmond had disappeared into.

  The dead animal haunted me as I drove south on Interstate 25. Part of me hoped to spot the Chevy pickup that had tailed me earlier. I kept an eye out for it, if for no other reason than to relieve the tedium of driving. No such luck. Monotony stuck with me until I sighted home.

  Adrenaline replaced boredom when I spotted the beat-to-shit Chevy parked in my driveway. The man leaning against it hung an AK-47 from his shoulder.

  Chapter 3

  I parked short of the man, the grim reaper himself for all I knew. An Indian but not from here. Black hair, forties, but younger than me, five-ten like me. He carried a few extra pounds, needed a shave and a bath. He didn’t gesture or speak, but I caught from his nasty scowl he meant unpleasant business.

  The Jeep’s V-8 grumbled like Bear in the quiet afternoon. I shut the engine down. Nothing but a dull hiss filled the void. The man waited while growing a grin that revealed some missing teeth.

  My wife always insisted I was trouble-prone and I could never deny that claim. I’d already been jacked up enough today with the dead horse and that asshole Richmond. Now, trouble smiled a big fuck-you with a Kalashnikov.

  Six years of active duty in the Corps as a military policeman and fourteen in the reserves had earned me duty during the ass-end of Vietnam and a call-back for Desert Storm, so facing armed hostiles was nothing new. Twenty years as a cop had introduced me to all kinds of unpleasant characters in its own right. Seeing the armed man sent me into full alert. My heart red-lined, nerves tingled, muscles swelled, eyes became clear and quick like Hawk, ears sensitive like Deer.

  Being within shooting distance of a military firearm did not encourage my sense of well-being, however. I swallowed my heart, stepped out of the Jeep, and walked toward the man as sweat rolled down my back. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no open-carry on this reservation unless you’re a resident and we prohibit automatic weapons.”

  The man glared from under his eyebrows. “What?”

  “Place that weapon in a carrying case or lock it in the rear of your vehicle.” If logic won’t work, bullshit might.

  “You shittin’ me?”

  “Do it now.” As I stepped closer, he seemed puzzled for a moment, then amused.

  “Where I come from, the fella who’s armed gives the damn orders,” he said.

  “I’m Pueblo Officer Romero and you are in my jurisdiction. Pack the weapon away and leave this reservation.”

  “Or what?”

  I stepped forward but stopped when the stranger jerked away from the truck and planted both feet. “Identify yourself and state your business, sir. Place your weapon on the ground,” I said.

  The man slipped a hand into his hip pocket, said, “Do believe it’s fine where it is. You got a badge?”

  I ran, more like flew, the ten feet it took to get to him and jammed an elbow to his Adam’s Apple. He dropped fast, grabbing for his throat. He gagged, flopped like a hooked fish.

  Kicking the weapon away, I leaned over the gasping body.

  “I said state your business!” I stepped away and waited for the man to find air. Maybe I’d been too heavy-handed and hurt a guy that didn’t need it, but I’m a cop first, nice guy second.

  “You understand me now?” I glared down at him.

  The man nodded, not able to speak. He tried to rise but collapsed into a wracking cough.

  “Tell me your name.”

  The man tried to talk between gags, then pointed to his hip, so I fished out his wallet from his pocket. An ID card displayed the name of Clement Ouray Pokoh. A gold badge dangled from the inner flap.

  “Shit, man. Why didn’t you say something?” I had just cold-cocked a detective of the Southern Ute Indian Tribe Department of Justice and Regulatory, CID, headquartered at Ignacio, Colorado. I helped the man to his feet and led him toward the house. I fumbled with my keys and helped Pokoh inside to the living room couch. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. “Drink. Jesus, man.”

  Pokoh sat without speaking until he could find air. “Damn, you’re fast.” He sipped water, took a breath.

  “Why the hell didn’t you ID yourself? Going for your pocket like that put a shot of cold piss through my heart. I’m sorry as hell, but goddamnit, man, I told you who I was.”

  “Saying it don’t make it true. My mistake. I was going for my wallet. I should a

  said something.” He palmed his throat and swallowed. “Don’t think anything’s broke. I’ll live.”

  “Now that I damn near killed you, how can I help?” I tried to grin.

  Pokoh showed what could pass for a smile, but his eyes stared cold. “Horses. Dead horses.”

  “What I saw over in Tent Rocks?”

  Pokoh nodded.

  “Why the interest?”

  “Someone dumped a filly on the reservation last week. Could tell she was Blue List just by looking at her.” Every Blue List Arabian traced directly to ancient Egyptian Bedouin bloodlines and were bred according to strict rules. Pokoh shook his head. “No doubt in my mind.”

  “That filly from the Rancho Camino de Rincon up near Santa Fe?” I asked. He nodded. The man knew his horses.

  “Tracked leads to this area. Figured you might be one of the perps. Bad call.” Pokoh massaged his throat, swallowed.

  “Any idea who the horse-killers are?” I asked.

  “Talk says wackos got a beef with Muslims, Arabs in particular. Horses included. Some sort of crackpot theory, if you ask me. Survivalists, and the like, who hang around the Colorado-New Mexico border. Cortez and Durango, mostly. Make money selling drugs. Legal marijuana put a kink in their style, so I think they’re looking to branch out, but I don’t know what. Gotta be big.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Any dumbshit knows an Arabian horse is walking money. Ransom, extortion, whatever. What moron fucks up that kinda opportunity?”

  “Well, I wish you luck on finding these perps but not much I can do except tell what I know, which is less than you.” His investigation might prove useful to me later, but my gut said to play dumb for now.

  Pokoh started to rise, took my outstretched hand. “Well thank you, sir. For the water…not the throat punch.”

  I opened the front door, trailed him to his pickup. “Good luck. I hear more, I’ll let you know.”

  “I think you’re gonna hear a lot more,” Pokoh said, driving off.

  The rest of the afternoon, I was too busy to wonder what he meant. Routine tasks demanded all my time: chasing kids throwing rocks at cars on Highway 22, mediating a recurring argument between neighbors over a rooster, discussing a surveillance plan of suspected TV signal theft with a local media provider, and an hour trailing a suspicious auto with dusty Colorado plates and redneck decals—guns, NRA, second amendment—on the rear window. The driver finally understood he was not welcome when
I blue-lighted him and crowded his black Hummer H3. The guy, hair high-and-tight with bushy beard, did not belong here and was most likely up to no good. The man departed the pueblo at high speed after rendering a middle finger salute. Off the rez, the asshole was someone else’s problem.

  At home, I hung my Stetson on a peg and dropped my car keys on my desk. I shuffled through paperwork and read emails. About the time the routine had me bored to death; the phone rang. The readout showed unknown caller, but I picked up anyway.

  “Yes sir, Officer Romero, this is Tommy Palafox, Santa Fe County Security Consulting, we talked earlier today at Rancho Camino de Rincon.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m afraid we have another horse theft,” he said.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “This time it’s a mare, Rababa. Pregnant, too. Hell of a loss. Sheriff found her up near Ignacio, Colorado. Shot in the head.”

  “Terrible thing. What can I do for you, Mr. Palafox?”

  “Well, we’ve sort of run out of ideas. I need someone on the outside. You know, outside looking in.”

  “I can recommend someone.”

  “How about you?”

  “Can’t help you there, these thefts are outside my jurisdiction. This sounds like multi-state crimes. I think you need to call the FB —”

  “We’re willing to offer you a substantial stipend, Mr. Romero. Rancho Camino de Rincon’s owner is a man of means and is determined to put a stop to this.”

  “Plenty of private security and investigative contractors in New Mexico,” I reminded him.

  “I’ve done my research, Mr. Romero. You’ve been awarded the Public Safety Officer Medal of Valor recently, you have an excellent reputation, and come highly recommended.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Palafox, but my job keeps me busy.” I’m the pueblo’s only policeman. “Recommended, you say?”

  “Yes, Special Agent Jean Reel said you were the man for the job.”

  Hearing that name caused my heart to jump. I had worked with Reel on several cases and we’d grown close. Almost. Meaning she wanted to hop into bed, and I didn’t. I had a wife then. I pictured Reel’s body, imagined her naked, wished I’d accepted when I had the chance.

  “She speaks highly of you.”

  Reel had been detailed out of state, but it seemed, was still looking out for me. “Give her my regards, but no, I’m happy here.” I lied.

  My job resulted in divorce. Daily police work bored me shitless. The pueblo governor drove me nuts. All for pay that was less than previous offers from the Sandoval County Sheriff and Albuquerque PD.

  Flat-out quitting wasn’t an option. I’d used my car as collateral for my horse and the loan payments hurt. The idea of taking some of my banked vacation and moonlighting, like every other cop I knew, appealed to me.

  And this case was strange. Who would shoot expensive horses for no obvious reason? Criminal activity can be boiled down to either passion or profit and no such motives were apparent here. This case was trouble, something I never had to look for. Trouble usually walked in the door or called on the phone. Like now.

  “We’ll talk again, Officer Romero.” Palafox said goodbye after an off-hand mention of a retainer that caused me to fumble the handset like a third-string JV running back. I hung up, stared at the phone. What had I just refused?

  Chapter 4

  My police line rang at 3:00 a.m. I padded across the hall from my bedroom to the office.

  “Peter! Peter, come quick. There’s been a—my God.” It was Marta Pecos, the wife of a lifelong friend.

  “Marta, what?”

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” She screamed, then dropped the phone.

  “What is it, Marta?” She sounded terrified. My chest tightened as I listened to her wracking cries. “Marta? Talk to me!” More crying. “I’ll be right there!” I hung up, threw on clothes, and ran for the Jeep.

  I drove ten minutes to the oldest part of the pueblo which dated back to 1250. The Pecos’ home, located on Cedar Road, was a detached single-story adobe with a few windows on each side and a single door, front and rear. Vigas supported a flat roof.

  The front door was open when I arrived, and neighbors milled out front. Marta wailed as I shouldered through. She was huddled on the couch wrapped in a blanket over pajamas. She pointed to a bedroom.

  Marta’s husband, Juan, lay in bed. Blood covered his chest and upper arms. The wound, clean and quick, sliced deep across his throat. Arterial blood had sprayed up the wall behind the headboard. The bedroom showed no signs of struggle; Juan had died while asleep.

  Juan Pecos and I had attended school together from kindergarten through high school. I’d joined the Marines and Juan, the Army paratroops. That was worth a lot of ribbing when I still drank, when we hung out. Lately we hadn’t seen each other much, except for the less-than-occasional trouble with his son, Jason.

  The feds had jurisdiction for major crimes on the reservation and my only responsibility on such cases was crime scene protection until the FBI arrived. That pissed me off because I have more badge time than many of the kids, they called Special Agents. I hit speed dial. I swore and wanted to fight someone, but I needed to talk like a professional over the phone. I took a calming breath.

  The agent-on-duty promised a team from Albuquerque, fifty-five miles from here, in less than fifty minutes. “Forty minutes,” I demanded.

  I sat next to Marta on the couch. My face heated, my vision blurred. My eyes stung.

  Marta’s skin had drained of color except under her eyes. Her tear-streaked and puffy face aged her twenty years. Her fingers pinched at the sofa’s fabric and she stared at the opposite wall. Framed pictures of men in uniform, her husband, his father, her father stared back.

  I hid my rage as best I could. Acting professionally in the face of tragedy is agony. Especially a personal one. No matter how long you wear a badge, no matter how many times you observe inhumanity visited upon victims, it’s never easy to keep your heart at bay. Juan was my friend since we were pups. We played, schooled, hung out, drank, and even duked it out a few times. A real friend.

  “I need to ask you some questions, Marta,” I said.

  Marta shook her head, wiped her face, and started to cry again. She pointed to the other bedroom.

  There, the copper smell of blood and the odor of shit permeated the air. The lights were off, so I used my flashlight. Marta’s son, Jason, twenty-one, lay on his bed. He stared at the ceiling; a glistening gash opened his neck. His skin stretched tightly over a scabby face. Peeling lips bared decayed, stained teeth. Husky as a kid, Jason’s now skeletal, almost fully sleeve-tattooed arms crossed his chest in a defensive move that had failed to protect him. His spiked rings never finding purchase in his assailant’s face. And, he’d seen it coming. Back in the living room, I asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She tried to talk, broke into tears. “I don’t know,” she said between deep sobs. She shuddered when I put my arm around her.

  “Please, Marta, talk to me,” My voice cracked.

  Marta inhaled, held her breath, then exhaled. “I fell asleep on the couch, I got up to get a glass of water and go to bed. When I returned from the kitchen, something was wrong. I turned on the lights and saw—” She started shaking. Her vacant eyes stared off somewhere.

  “It’s okay, keep going.” She shook her head and fell deeper into grief. She lay on the couch, clutched her stomach and quaked with silent cries, then rolled into a fetal position. She covered her head with her arms.

  A crowd had gathered in front of the house. Through the doorway, I spotted Marta’s sister, Rose, and motioned her over. “Rose, Marta needs you.”

  Fear distorted her face, but she only had eyes for her sister. She sat on the couch and cradled Marta’s head. She murmured softly in our language, Keres, and rubbed her sister’s hair. Marta seemed to calm. Her breath slowed and the shaking subsided.

  I took time to exa
mine the two corpses more closely. In the master bedroom, there were no signs of forced entry in the windows, no disruption of furniture. Juan’s glasses lay undisturbed at the edge of a bedside table. There was less blood on the bed than I expected. Juan had died quietly.

  In Jason’s bedroom, the victim had been killed with a violence that roiled my stomach. Blood spattered the walls. I’d seen the terrible things humans do to each other often enough, too often, but the callousness of this act surprised me. Given the efficiency and orderliness of the crime, it seemed the perp knew what he was doing. The FBI would glean details from the blood spatter, but I doubted they would find fingerprint evidence. This was professional.

  The disorder of Jason’s surroundings, however, echoed his life. Trash, old pizza boxes, and crushed coke cans littered the room. His thin jaw slacked open, the brown, ragged edges of his teeth hinted at a lifetime of bad choices and one in particular: Meth.

  Jason had been busted by County for possession, spent time in lock-up. I’d arrested him more than once and turned him over to his dad. Jason was my son’s age. While Junior had gone to UNM and the NFL, Jason had gone downhill. I knew, but never wanted to know, how far it had come.

  Rose came up. “Marta wants to talk,” then shook her head when she entered the room. “Stayin’ up all night, sleepin’ all day. Knew he’d come to no good,” she said. Rose showed no sign of grief over her dead nephew. People show grief in different ways, but I tucked her reaction away for future reference. I returned to the living room and sat next to Marta.

  Marta teared up, leaned toward another break down, but sniffed, then composed herself. “Juan knew Jason was doin’ terrible things besides drugs. To get them, you know. He wanted to turn Jason in. I told him to give the boy a break. He’d pull out of it.” She started crying again, this time she couldn’t stop. “Now both are gone.”

  Rose sat and hugged her close. It didn’t seem to help.

  I asked Rose to take her into the kitchen and as far away from the bodies as she could, give her some water, make some coffee. “The FBI will be here, soon,” I said.