In the kitchen, which, except for one small first-floor bathroom, was the only room that had not been converted for production, there was evidence that harvesting had already begun. A stack of packaged one-pound bricks sat on a countertop. Bromilow gave it a street value of a hundred thousand dollars.
Two cots, some blankets, pillows, dirty clothes, several travel bags, and a small portable television on top of a step stool filled the breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen. The stove cooktop and a microwave oven were cruddy with baked-on and nuked food, and the sink was filled with filthy dishes, pots, and pans. The refrigerator had been freshly stocked, as had the pantry, where Clayton spotted mouse droppings on the floor. He wondered what other kinds of varmints cohabited the premises.
SWAT pulled out, and while Bromilow and his detectives started photographing, inventorying, bagging, and tagging, Clayton went looking for anything he could find that would lead him to Brian Riley. Wearing latex gloves, he dug through every cabinet, drawer, and closet that had remained untouched in the gutted house. He examined everything in the refrigerator and freezer, poked around behind appliances, pulled out everything in the pantry, and went through all the personal items and bedding in the breakfast nook. He inspected the one bathroom the gang members had used and emptied out the contents of all the garbage cans.
In the garage, he searched through boxes, dumped out the contents of several old storage lockers, and did a thorough sweep of the area. Then he moved on to the minivan and the Audi coupe in the driveway.
He finished with nothing to show for his efforts, leaned against the front fender of the minivan, stripped off the latex gloves, and looked at the house in disgust. From what he could tell, Mort Birch, his marijuana hothouse factory, and the two Vietnamese suspects had nothing at all to do with Brian Riley. Clayton’s sleuthing had scored one major bust for the good guys, but it hadn’t gotten him a step closer to finding Riley.
The sound of a car coming to a stop at the end of the driveway drew Clayton’s gaze. Rodney Eden, the DEA agent in charge of operations in New Mexico, got out of his vehicle and approached. In his early forties, Eden was a sandy-haired, boyish-looking man who oozed sincerity and had a winning smile to go with it.
Clayton had dealt with Eden several times on drug cases in Lincoln County and found him to be reasonable although somewhat condescending at times, which Clayton had long ago decided was a highly prized personality trait among those who worked in federal law enforcement.
“What a surprise,” Eden said with his soft Tennessee drawl as he shook Clayton’s hand. “What are you doing here, Sergeant Istee?”
“Looking for a kid who might have absolutely nothing to do with two homicides, and who apparently has nothing to do with drug production and trafficking either,” Clayton replied dourly.
“Ah, the Riley murders,” Eden said with a nod of his head. “A cop killing is bad enough, but to murder his wife.” Eden paused and shook his head. “I understand you’re looking for one perpetrator, is that correct?”
“That’s what seems to make sense,” Clayton replied.
Eden smiled in agreement. “Of course. As you asked, I put the word out to my people to keep an eye open for the kid.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Not at all. Now, where would I find Lieutenant Bromilow?”
Clayton nodded toward the open overhead garage door. “Inside with his troops, harvesting a multimillion-dollar cash crop of marijuana.”
“Ah, the joy of it all.” Eden wandered off in the direction of the detective who’d been assigned to control access to the crime scene.
The sound of another arriving vehicle caught Clayton’s attention. Detective Lee Armijo pulled to a stop behind Eden’s unmarked car, opened the passenger window, and called Clayton over.
“Get in, amigo,” he said.
Clayton opened the door and joined Armijo. “Tell me you have something that might interest me.”
“I got some factoids for you,” Armijo said. “According to a DEA drug gang expert, who just called in with the news, the two Vietnamese men we busted are Tran Anh Toan, aka Rabbit, and Nguyen Hoang, aka Ricky Hoang. Both are members of a gang called the Black Wolf Crew that got its start in Canada and has been moving south over the past five years. This is the gang’s first known incursion into New Mexico. You’ve helped us put a big dent in their expansion plans, for which APD will be eternally grateful. We may even someday give you a plaque recognizing your contribution to the department.”
Clayton, who wasn’t in a wisecracking mood, changed the subject. “Are there any tie-ins to my investigation?”
“Not a one, as far as we know,” Armijo replied. “But our pal Morty was about to get in bed with a big-time international cartel. The Black Wolf Crew operates dozens of pot hothouses, manufactures Ecstasy powder worth tens of millions, owns private overseas investment banks, runs an international Internet-based sport betting operation, and launders their money in Vietnam by building and managing high-end hotels and upscale resorts on the central coast.”
Clayton nodded and forced a smile. Armijo was enjoying recounting his factoids, and why not? It was a bust well worth feeling good about.
Armijo read the strained politeness in Clayton’s expression. “Sorry, man. Here I am gloating and you’ve got nada.”
“I still have Stanley,” Clayton replied. “Where is she?”
“Since she agreed to cooperate, I saw no need to arrest her,” Armijo replied. “So I’ve got her under wraps at her apartment in the company of a female officer.”
Armijo put the car in gear. “You want to go talk to her?”
Clayton nodded.
Armijo made a U-turn. The cop manning the barricade at the end of the street let them pass. “I think once Robocker and Birch have their legal problems behind them, they ought to hook up and get married.”
“Why’s that?”
“Think about it; with names like Morton and Minerva, it’s a marriage made in Heaven.”
“Minerva is a pagan name,” Clayton replied.
“Really?”
“She was the Roman goddess of wisdom and invention, along with a few other things.”
“What other things?”
“Art and martial prowess, I think.”
“Interesting,” Armijo said. “I wonder what the name Stanley means.”
“I haven’t a clue,” Clayton replied.
“Do you think the Romans had a goddess named Stanley?” Armijo asked. “Or maybe the Greeks?”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” Armijo retorted innocently.
“So fast with the quips, the puns, the repartee.”
Armijo laughed. “I just use it to hide my angst.”
Clayton cracked a big smile, but didn’t for a minute doubt that Armijo meant what he said. “And I suppose Bromilow showboats so he can hide his angst.”
Armijo nodded. “Exactly. What do you do with yours?”
“Apaches don’t do angst.”
“Why not?” Armijo asked.
“We don’t have a word for it.”
Armijo slapped the steering wheel with his hand and laughed. “That makes total sense.”
Stanley—the original meaning of her name currently unknown but under discussion by the two officers—lived in an apartment complex that catered to young singles. In the parking lot, Armijo pulled into an empty space next to Brian Riley’s motorcycle, shifted in his seat, typed in something on the laptop, waited a minute, and then typed some more. Whatever came up on the screen made him smile.
“Stanley is an old English masculine surname that means ‘stone clearing,’” he announced.