Mary Beth smiled shyly and touched the scarf. A series of long, thin scars ran up her forearm. “I wasn’t expecting company,” she said in a soft tenor voice. “Who are you?”
“I’m a police officer,” Romana said, showing her shield.
Patterson took a deep breath and patted her chest. “Why would you want to talk to me? I haven’t done anything bad to myself.”
“I’m sure you haven’t. May I come in?”
Mary Beth turned quickly and her skirt swished across her legs. “Only if you promise not to lie to me.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Ramona said.
“The police always lie to me,” Mary Beth replied with a pout, as she sat on an oversized ottoman with a worn cushion, crossed her legs, and demurely pulled her skirt down over her knees.
The front room of the apartment was furnished with what looked like castoffs and thrift shop purchases. An old couch covered with a faded quilt faced a large laminated-wood wall unit that contained a television set with a rabbit-ears antenna. A small table radio tuned to a country station was playing a mournful ballad about the pain of lost love.
In front of the couch, a battered piano bench had been cut down to serve as a coffee table. A collection of cheap glass figurines of dancing women were carefully arranged on the shelf above the TV. On the wall behind the ottoman were a Marine Corps insignia plaque and a shadow box containing military decorations, lance corporal stripes, and expert marksman awards.
“How do the police lie to you?” Ramona asked.
“They tell me I need help and then they take me to the hospital,” Mary Beth replied, still pouting. “I ask them not to do it and they say they have to. They could just leave me alone and go away, but they won’t.”
“Maybe they’re just trying to help you,” Ramona said.
Mary Beth arched her neck. “I don’t need help,” she said haughtily. “I’m much better now that I have my Kurt.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve come to ask you about Jack Potter.”
Mary Beth winced as though she’d been slapped. “Don’t say that name to me.”
“We have to talk about him.”
“Why?”
“He was murdered this morning,” Ramona answered.
Mary Beth put a hand to her mouth and giggled. “Goodie,” she said brightly.
“You don’t mind that he’s dead?”
She was silent for a moment and her face lost all expression. “I did everything for him. Anything he wanted. He said he loved me, but he didn’t.”
“That must have been hard for you.”
Mary Beth’s foot began wagging rapidly, bright red toenails showing through the open end of her sandal. She ran a finger up her arm, tracing one of the long, thin scars, and said nothing. Suddenly, she lunged off the ottoman and walked past Ramona to the bathroom.
Ramona followed and from the open doorway watched Mary Beth remove her scarf and start taking curlers out of her hair, dropping them in the sink one by one.
A baby blue shower curtain covered the tub and a shelf above the sink held a large array of inexpensive perfume and cologne bottles. On top of the toilet tank a pair of scissors were within easy reach.
“Let’s go back in the living room and talk,” Ramona said, stepping closer to the toilet.
Mary Beth shook her head in a fierce rebuttal. “If I talk to you, you’ll just think I killed him.”
“Why would I think that?”
The last curler dropped into the sink and Mary Beth started furiously brushing her thick, dark hair. “Because I used to say I wanted to. Because for a long time that’s all I would talk about. Because I stalked him and that was a bad thing to do.”
Mary Beth’s high tenor voice lost its feminine veneer. She sounded like a frightened, prepubescent boy.
“Everybody has someone in their life they want to hurt or get back at,” Ramona said. “Those feelings don’t make you a murderer.”
The hairbrush in Mary Beth’s hand stopped in midstroke. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not,” Ramona said. “Answer a few questions and we can clear everything up.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Easy ones,” Ramona said. “Have you been home all morning?”
Mary Beth relaxed a bit. “Yes, I only go out with Kurt because I don’t know how to drive and it’s too far to walk anywhere.”
“That’s important for me to know. Have you seen anybody this morning?”
Mary Beth put the brush down and ran her fingers through her hair to fluff it up. “Just Kurt. I fixed his breakfast and then he went to work.”
“What time was that?”
She studied her face in the mirror, turning her head from side to side to view her wavy locks. “He gets up at five during the summer when he’s busy. I had his breakfast waiting for him. I always fix his breakfast.”
“When did he leave?”
“About a half hour later. I packed him a nice lunch: a meatloaf sandwich and some cookies that I made last night. He’s a big man and he needs to have a good meal at lunchtime.”
“It sounds like you take good care of Kurt,” Ramona said. The comment earned her a pleased smile. “Has he ever expressed any resentment about Jack Potter?”
Mary Beth’s smile dissolved. “What do you mean?”
“Is he angry about the way Potter treated you?”
Mary Beth tentatively shook her head, reached for the brush and started in on her hair again with a trembling hand.
“He’s okay about Potter?”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” Mary Beth said sharply.
“Did Kurt ever say he wanted to get even with Potter because of the way he treated you?”
“My Kurt is a good man,” Mary Beth said, swiveling from the mirror to face Ramona. “Now you have to go.”
“Does Kurt own a gun?”
“I don’t like guns.”
“But does he own one?”
“You think Kurt killed Jack and you’re trying to get me to help you put him in jail.”
“Not at all,” Ramona replied. “What kind of gun does Kurt have, Mary Beth?”
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Mary Beth said sternly. She stormed out of the bathroom, walked to the front door, and opened it. “Go away.”
“Does Kurt have a cell phone?” Ramona asked as she followed along.
“No, and even if he did he’s much too busy to call me.”
Ramona stepped outside. “Do you know where he’s working?”
“Kurt didn’t kill anyone. Can’t you believe that?”
“I want to believe it,” Ramona said, “but you’re not helping me give Kurt a chance to clear his name.”
Mary Beth responded by slamming the door in Ramona’s face.
Ramona walked to the office thinking that no matter how batty Mary Beth might be, she still did one hell of a job of standing by her man.
Ramona checked in with Barbero, who reported there was no record of Jack Potter visiting the facility. She also confirmed that Mary Beth didn’t drive, never used the city buses, and rarely went out alone.
“Do you know if Larsen owns a gun?” Ramona asked.
Barbero winced at the thought of it. “That’s not allowed.”
Ramona blew past Barbero’s gullibility and asked for Larsen’s business number. She went inside, returned with a piece of paper and handed it to Ramona.
“It’s a cell-phone number,” Barbero said. “Did talking to you upset Mary Beth?”
“You could say that,” Ramona replied.
Barbero gave her a pained look and scurried off to check on Mary Beth’s emotional welfare.
Ramona dialed the number. Surprise, surprise, the line was busy. In her unit, she tried to make radio contact with Sergeant Cruz Tafoya, who had been assigned by Molina to find Larsen, and got no response. She called his cell phone and it rang through to his voice mail. She left a message that Larsen was possibly armed with a gun, then disconnected and asked dispatch for Tafoya’s location. He was at a house in an upscale rural subdivision in the foothills above the village of Tesuque, a few miles outside of town.
“When he calls in, tell him I’m en route to his twenty,” Ramona said. “Ask him to stand by.”
By the time the veterinarian arrived, State Police Officer Russell Thorpe had taken Kerney’s statement and photographed the dead animal, and then completed a field search with the chief around the perimeter of the horse barn looking for evidence. Kerney pointed out some shoe prints and tire marks in front of the corral, in a spot where no vehicle had been parked during construction.