“Is that unusual?” Kerney asked.
“The only people I know who clean bones are anthropologists, not morticians. Whoever did it effectively erased any trace evidence.” Grant stripped off his gloves and closed the lid. “Okay, that’s it for now. I can’t tell you much more until the remains are in the lab in Albuquerque.”
Kerney nodded. The ambulance driver loaded the casket and drove away. He could feel Grant’s stare and turned away from it. Behind him the backhoe roared to life with a coarse vibration that seemed to penetrate his skin. He watched until the operator finished filling the empty hole.
“You’ll keep me informed?” the VA official asked.
“Yes,” Kerney said. Without another word, he joined Grant, who was waiting in the car, and headed back to Albuquerque. Preoccupied by his thoughts, he was grateful for Grant’s silence.
Tied up with paperwork and phone calls, Detective Bill Price didn’t get to leave his office until late morning. The warrant to seize and examine the original document giving Claudia Spalding spousal permission to take lovers was making its way through the system. Additionally, at Ramona Pino’s request, Price had asked for a judge’s order requiring the release of Clifford Spalding’s last will and testament. If all went without a hitch, Price planned to personally serve both before the end of the day.
Sergeant Pino had also passed on some very interesting information about a man named Coe Evans, including his present whereabouts. Based on the details he’d been given, Price had no doubt Ellie had played a hand in tracking Evans down. He’d said nothing about his suspicions when Lieutenant Macy stopped by his office to tell him the surveillance of Claudia Spalding had been dropped.
Tomorrow, Claudia would bury her husband, and Price had already decided to watch from a distance to see what she did after Clifford got planted.
He found the ranch where Evans worked on a lightly traveled two-lane highway that ran from Atascadero to Santa Margarita, a sleepy little farming town. He turned onto the paved driveway, his progress halted by a custom-made gate adorned with the silhouette of a horse, bracketed by two ten-foot squared columns that displayed its famous owner ’s initials. He announced himself over the intercom, held his shield up to the security camera, and stated his business, and the gate swung slowly open.
The paved drive cut between two low hills where sunlight spilled on pastures and lethargic brood mares stood beneath oak trees, tails whisking, foals nearby. The drive followed the curve of a small streambed, and descended to a hidden valley revealing a compound of buildings stretched out along both sides of the creek.
On the north side of the creek, a sprawling, modern timber-frame house with a wall of vaulted windows was placed to take in the view of the rolling hills coursing southward. On one side of it was a guesthouse, and on the other side a detached four-car garage, all tied together by broad cobblestone walkways that wandered through Japanese-style gardens.
On the other side of the creek two barns faced each other across two large fenced pastures. A tree-lined lane ran between the pastures to a cluster of small cottages, outbuildings, storage sheds, and corrals, then continued on to a dirt landing field at the foot of a hill where a twin-engine plane sat next to a hangar. Sunlight flashed off the metal roof of the hangar like a beacon.
Price pulled to a stop in front of the house, got out of his unit, and watched a pickup truck coming in his direction rattle over the wooden bridge spanning the creek. The man who jumped out of the truck had an agitated expression on his face.
“What do you need to talk to me about?” he demanded abruptly.
“Coe Evans?” Price asked, looking the man over. He was a pretty-boy, with cropped curly hair, symmetrical features, and a solid six-foot frame.
“Yeah, that’s right. What do you want?”
“You sound worried,” Price replied pleasantly. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Evans said, glancing up at the big house. “You tell me.”
“As far as I know, you’re not in any trouble,” Price said. “What can you tell me about Claudia Spalding?”
Evans looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Not much. I barely know the woman.”
“How did you come to meet her?”
“At the tracks where I used to work. She likes the ponies-owns a few and races them. I’d see her around and sometimes we would chat. Small talk stuff.”
“Just casual conversation about horses and racing,” Price rephrased.
“Horses and racing,” Evans said. “Exactly.”
“That’s it?” Price asked. “You had no social interaction with her outside of work?”
Evans smirked and laughed. “Are you kidding, outside of work? She didn’t hang out with my crowd.”
“So you only saw her at the track.”
“I just said that.”
Evans was repeating Price’s words, averting his eyes, omitting information-all signs of a liar.
Price decided to stop acting so amicable and ask a slightly tougher question. “You never slept with her?”
Evans tilted his head and closed his eyes. “That’s bullshit. Who have you been talking to? Who would say something like that?”
Pleased with the response and convinced he was reading Evans correctly, Price backed off. “When was the last time you talked with Mrs. Spalding?”
“I can’t recall,” Evans replied. “It wasn’t like I kept track of her. She was just another rich bitch who hung around during racing season.”
“Try to remember,” Price encouraged.
Evans gave a slight, cooperative nod of his head. “Probably it was just before she built a house somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Four, maybe five years ago.”
“What would you say if I told you we think Claudia Spalding arranged to have her husband murdered?”
“I heard he died in his sleep.”
“What type of woman would do something like that?”
“Man, who knows why women do anything?”
Price glanced at the gold band Evans wore on his left hand. “You’re married, I take it. Is it the same woman you were living with back when you knew Claudia Spalding?”
Evans stiffened. “Have you been checking up on me?”
Price smiled. “A little bit. Is she?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Perhaps I should speak with her. Is she here?”
Evans waved off the notion with a wagging finger. “You have no cause to do that.”
“Maybe she’d be interested in learning what your old buddy in Santa Fe, Mitch Griffin, has to say about your relationship with Claudia Spalding, and what you told him about the murder plot she had in mind for her husband.”
The cockiness in Evans washed away, replaced by hot-wired apprehension. “Shit. That crazy bitch. I cut it off with her then and there. I swear, I did nothing. My wife would kill me if she ever found out about Claudia.”
“I believe you,” Price said consolingly as he opened the passenger door to his unit. “Let’s take a ride to my office. We’ll start all over again, and this time you can tell me the truth.”
In a laboratory at the university, Kerney watched Grant assemble the bones into a recognizable partial skeleton, studying each one carefully before he laid it out. After he took measurements, he picked up the breastbone and shattered rib for a closer examination.
“Definitely shot,” he said.
“Not shrapnel wounds?” Kerney asked.
Grant shook his head and put the bones back in place. “No way. It’s a male. Based on my measurement I make him to be between five-foot-eleven and six feet tall. I’m thinking he was probably in his thirties when he died, but it will take some time to confirm it. Since we’re missing the skull, I was hoping I might find an old break that could be compared to medical records, but there are none that I can see. I’ll do X-rays.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Not much until I do some tests. The important work will be the mitochondrial DNA comparison of the bones to the blood sample provided by Alice Spalding.”