“Could I speak with you outside, please?”
In the solemn darkness of the anteroom, the man flipped open an ID wallet and aimed it in Skip’s direction. “I’m Lieutenant Detective Al Martinez, Santa Fe Police Department.”
Skip nodded.
“You’re a hard man to reach,” Martinez said in a voice that managed to be both friendly and neutral at the same time. “I wonder if I could have a bit of your time.”
“My time?” Skip managed to say. “Why?”
“We’ll get to that at the station, Mr. Kelly, if you don’t mind.”
“The station,” Skip repeated. “When?”
“Let’s see,” said Martinez, glancing first at the floor, then at the ceiling, then back at Skip. “Right about now would be nice.”
Skip swallowed. Then he nodded toward the open laboratory door. “I’m at work right now. Can’t it wait until later?”
There was a brief pause. “No, Mr. Kelly,” the policeman replied. “Come to think of it, I don’t believe it can.”
21
SKIP FOLLOWED THE POLICEMAN OUT OF THE building to a waiting car. The detective was enormous, with a neck like a redwood stump; yet his movements were light, even gentle. Martinez stopped at the passenger side and, to Skip’s surprise, held the door open for him. As the car pulled away, Skip glanced in the rearview mirror. He could see a pair of white faces framed by the open door of the Artifactual Assemblages building, watching motionlessly, dwindling at last to invisibility.
“My first day on the job,” Skip said. “Great impression.”
They pulled through the gates of the compound and began to accelerate. Martinez slipped a stick of gum out of his breast pocket and offered it to Skip.
“No thanks.”
The detective folded the stick into his own mouth and began to chew, muscles in his jaw and neck working slowly. The irregular form of the La Fonda Hotel loomed on his right. Then they passed the plaza and the Palace of the Governors, Indians selling jewelry under the portal, the sunlight glinting off the polished silver and turquoise.
“Am I going to need a lawyer?” Skip asked.
Martinez chewed his gum diligently. “I don’t think so,” he said, “’Course, you’re welcome to one if you want.”
The car moved past the library and pulled around behind the old police building. Several Dumpsters sat in front, filled with broken pieces of drywall.
“Renovating,” Martinez explained as they entered a lobby draped in plastic. The lieutenant stopped at a desk and took a folder offered by a uniformed woman. He led Skip along a hallway smelling of paint, down a flight of stairs. Opening a scratched door, he ushered Skip in. Beyond lay a bare room, devoid of furniture except for three wooden chairs, a desk, and a dark mirror.
Skip had never been in such a place before, but he’d seen enough television to instantly recognize its purpose. “This looks like some kind of interrogation room,” he said.
“It is.” Martinez took a seat with a protest of wood. He laid the folder on the table and offered Skip a chair. Then he pointed to the ceiling. Skip glanced up to see a lens, pointed almost insolently at him. “We’re going to videotape you. Okay?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes. If you say no, the interview will be over, and you’ll be free to go.”
“Great,” said Skip, starting to get up.
“Of course, then we’d have to subpoena you, and you’d spend money on that lawyer. Right now, you’re not a suspect. So why don’t you just relax and answer a few questions? If at any time you want a lawyer or want to terminate the interview, you can. How does that sound?”
“Did you say suspect?” Skip asked.
“Yes.” Martinez looked at him with uninformative black eyes. Skip realized the man was waiting for an answer.
“Okay,” he said, sighing mightily. “Roll ’em.”
Martinez nodded to someone behind the one-way glass, then turned back to Skip. “Please state your name, address, and birthdate.” They rapidly went through the preliminaries. Then Martinez asked:
“Are you the owner of an abandoned ranch house beyond Fox Run, address Rural Route Sixteen, Box Twelve, Santa Fe, New Mexico?”
“Yes. My sister and I own it together.”
“And your sister is Nora Waterford Kelly?”
“That’s right.”
“And what are the whereabouts of your sister at the moment?”
“She’s on an archaeological expedition to Utah.”
Martinez nodded. “When did she leave?”
“Three days ago. She won’t be back for a couple of weeks, at least.” Once again, Skip began to stand. “Does this have to do with her?”
Martinez make a suppressing motion with one palm. “Your parents are both deceased, correct?”
Skip nodded.
“And you are currently employed at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute.”
“I was until you showed up.”
Martinez smiled. “And how long have you been employed by the Institute?”
“I told you in the car. This was my first day.”
Martinez nodded again, more slowly this time. “And prior to today, where were you employed?”
“I’ve been job hunting.”
“I see. And when were you last employed?”
“Never. Not since I graduated from college last year, anyway.”
“Do you know a Teresa Gonzales?”
Skip licked his lips. “Yeah. I know Teresa. She was our neighbor out at the ranch.”
“When did you last see Teresa?”
“God, I don’t know. Ten months ago, maybe eleven. Shortly after I graduated.”
“How about your sister? When did she last see Ms. Gonzales?”
Skip shifted in his chair. “Let’s see. A couple of days ago, I think. She helped Nora out at the ranch.”
“You mean Nora, your sister?” Martinez asked. “Helped her how?”
Skip hesitated. “She was attacked,” he said slowly.
Martinez’s neck muscles stopped working for a moment. “Care to tell me about it?”
“Teresa used to call my sister when she heard noises at the old place. Vandals, kids, that kind of stuff. Lately there’s been a lot of messing around over there; she’s called my sister several times. Nora went over about a week ago. Said she was attacked. Teresa heard the racket, came over with a shotgun, scared them off.”
“Did she say anything more? A description of the attackers?”
“Nora said . . .” Skip thought for a moment. “Nora said it was two people. Two people, dressed up as animals.” He decided not to mention the letter. Whatever was going on here didn’t need any more complications.
“Why didn’t she come to us?” Martinez asked at last.
“Can’t say for sure. Going to the police really isn’t her style. She always wants to do everything for herself. I think she was concerned it might delay her expedition.”
Martinez seemed to ponder something. “Mr. Kelly,” he began again. “Can you account for your whereabouts over the last forty-eight hours?”
Skip stopped short. Then he sat back, took a deep breath. “Except for showing up at the Institute this morning, I was at my apartment all weekend.”
Martinez consulted a piece of paper. “2113 Calle de Sebastian, number two-B?”
“Yes.”
“And did you see anybody during that time?”
Skip swallowed. “Larry, at Eldorado Liquors, saw me Saturday afternoon. My sister phoned me late Saturday night.”
“Anybody else?”
“Well, my neighbor called me three or four times.”