The houses on either side of the street were almost entirely obscured by evergreen trees and shrubs. Most of the houses were dark, with only a few showing some interior lights veiled behind drawn curtains and barely discernible through the branches of the trees.
“What now?” Armijo asked.
Clayton opened the passenger door. “Let me do a little sleuthing.”
“Does that mean you’re going to trespass on private property without reasonable suspicion or probable cause?” Armijo asked.
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“I’m liking your style more all the time, Sergeant Istee,” Armijo said with a laugh. “And if Birch leaves while you’re out sleuthing?”
“Follow him,” Clayton said, “and give me a call.” He rattled off his cell phone number.
Armijo popped open the glove box and gave Clayton a night vision scope. “Here. You’ll need it.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t get caught sleuthing.”
Clayton stepped out of the vehicle. “Not a chance, Detective.”
Canyon winds coursing down from the mountains had dropped the temperature considerably. Clayton quietly closed the car door, zipped up his jacket, and turned up the collar, then scooted between two houses and paused behind a tree to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. From some distance away a dog barked lethargically, paused, barked again, and fell quiet.
The houses on either side of Clayton showed no sign of life. Moving low and slow anyway to avoid rousing any light sleepers, he passed into a backyard, staying as far away from the houses as possible. Hunched over, he took careful steps to the back end of the lot, where he found concealment behind a stand of trees that graced an empty stone pond.
Clayton froze at the close yelp of a coyote. Lackluster barks from the dog resumed. In the dim moonlight he saw the coyote quickly lope across the lawn in the direction of the barking dog. The coyote vanished, and Clayton moved on to the house where Birch had parked the Mustang. From a safe distance he made a full three-sixty reconnaissance. The house, on a double lot of at least half an acre, sat at the edge of a hill that dropped off steeply. There were no houses behind it, and thick stands of trees on either side blocked views from the adjacent houses. A high privacy wall ran from the driveway of the attached garage across the front of the house and severely restricted Clayton’s view. No lights showed at any of the windows.
Along with the Mustang, two other cars were parked in the driveway. From across the street, concealed behind some shrubbery, Clayton used the night scope to read the license plates. A late-model Audi coupe carried Canadian plates from British Columbia, and a domestic minivan had California tags. He called the information in to Armijo, switched his cell phone ringer off, and considered what he’d seen.
The house was a mid-sixties modern, with a vaulted roof, an expanse of glass windows that overlooked the backyard, and a soaring stone fireplace that rose above an elevated deck positioned to take in the city views below. There were no lights burning inside and no sign of activity.
He decided to take another tour of the property and crept through the trees on the north side of the house to the backyard. A closer look at the rear wall of glass through the scope revealed that some kind of material had been used to cover all the windows as well as the glass doors that opened onto the raised deck and the backyard patio. He checked all the windows on both sides of the house and found the same thing. It was impossible to see inside the house.
From the back of the lot Clayton mulled over the implications. Even though the house was almost completely secluded from prying eyes, every window had been blacked out. That meant the occupants were very serious about not wanting people to know what was going on inside. Also, the grounds at the back of the house were badly neglected, which didn’t fit with the character of the neat and tidy upscale neighborhood. But at the front of the house the grounds were well cared for, which meant that the occupants were hiding whatever they were doing in plain sight.
Clayton was pondering the possibilities when a car engine kicked over. He stayed put until the sound of the departing vehicle faded in the distance and then made his way to the street, staying in the shadows of a big tree. The Mustang was gone, which meant that Armijo should be tailing Birch. A text message on his cell phone told him that was exactly what Armijo was doing.
He decided to stake out the front of the house to see what happened next, and hunkered down under some low branches with his back against the trunk. All stayed quiet until the sound of a squealing, frightened dog pierced the silence and abruptly stopped. Within minutes Clayton saw the coyote come into view as it padded down the middle of the street carrying the limp body of a small dog in its tightly clamped mouth. A negligent owner had provided the coyote with a tasty meal.
Coyote, according to the Mescalero creation story, was a jokester put on the earth to remind human beings of their weaknesses and foolish ways. Almost without thinking, Clayton silently raised his chin to acknowledge the animal. The coyote glanced in his direction and passed by without pause, trotting toward the mountains that loomed above the Four Hills neighborhood and the city below.
Among the Mescalero, if you carried out a devious trick, such as trespassing on private property without cause, which was what Clayton was doing, or if you accomplished a stellar prank, it was called “pulling a little coyote.” The fact that the jokester had caught him red-handed almost made Clayton chuckle out loud.
The sound of an approaching car drew his attention back to the street. Headlights came into view and a vehicle passed by, continued up the road, and disappeared around a bend. Except for the canyon winds whistling through the trees and occasional traffic sounds that drifted over from Interstate 40, all was quiet for the next half hour. In spite of the growing cold and the deepening of the darkness, Clayton remained motionless, watching the darkened house for any sign of life, wondering what was inside.
Was it a safe house for illegal immigrants smuggled across the Mexican border? Was it a drug house run by a trafficker? Or a warehouse to store product for distribution along the infamous I-25 drug corridor? Maybe Birch and his buddies were operating a meth lab inside. Or a prostitution ring could be using it as a bordello, or to house sex slaves brought in illegally from one of the Eastern European countries. And what was with the Canadian and California license plates?
The sound of an automatic garage door opener drew Clayton’s attention back to the house. No lights went on as the door rose on its tracks, but a figure emerged from the darkness, got into the minivan, drove it into the garage, and immediately closed the door.
His curiosity aroused, Clayton decided to get closer to see if he could learn more. He crossed the street, approached the garage at an angle, and pressed his ear against the door. He could hear some movement—maybe boxes being lifted—and muffled voices, but couldn’t make out what was being said.
The sound of the van doors being slammed shut caused Clayton to back off quickly into the deep shadows at the side of the house and call Detective Armijo.
“Where are you?” he asked when Armijo answered.
“Still following Birch,” Armijo answered. “He’s made three quick stops since he left Four Hills. One at a house near the university, and two at Northeast Heights apartment complexes that cater to young singles. I’ve got addresses but no names yet. Right now I’m following him across the Rio Grande heading in the possible direction of Paradise Hills or Rio Rancho.”
“Has our gal Minerva Stanley Robocker been questioned?” Clayton asked.