Always Time to Die Read online

  “Helping me.”

  “You were the only real color at the Senator’s funeral. Life is precious, Carolina May. You take it for granted. I don’t.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she followed Dan in silence, wondering how his hand could be so warm and hers so cold.

  Abruptly, he stopped walking and said something really unpleasant beneath his breath.

  Carly followed his glance. Her car was sitting oddly, like it had been parked on a stairway.

  At first she thought someone had let the air out of the tires. Then she realized that three out of four tires had been slashed. Shreds and chunks of tread were scattered around like pieces of black flesh. Red spray paint was smeared over the windshield. When she looked in through the open door, bloodred paint pooled all too realistically on the front seat.

  The driver’s seat.

  She swallowed past the sudden dryness of her mouth. “Your place. If you still want me.”

  TAOS

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  19

  THE SHERIFF’S TEMPORARY OFFICE WAS A LOT NEWER THAN THE TOURIST PART OF Taos. Most of the double-wide mobile home set down in a vacant lot was given over to various county functions, civil and criminal. The sheriff’s desk had been wedged into a corner. Office furniture of all ages was crammed everywhere in the room. There wasn’t any space left for partitions that would have offered at least the illusion of privacy.

  Carly grimaced. “You’re sure we need the sheriff? How about the city police? They must have better quarters.”

  “The sheriff has more territory.”

  “My car is inside the city limits.”

  “The rat was in the county. So was the governor’s threat. So was the phone call. I’d rather start with the sheriff and let him coordinate. Besides, the police chief is his cousin by marriage. What one knows, so does the other.”

  “Just what I need,” Carly muttered. “A general announcement that some nutcase is harassing me.”

  “Maybe when word gets out that you went to the cops, the asshole will think before he gets cute again.”

  “Don’t malign anal orifices. At least they have a useful function.”

  A smile flickered over Dan’s mouth.

  The aisles between desks were so narrow that Carly had to turn sideways in places just to get through. The radio dispatcher’s voice and the answering deputies or police officers made a background noise that was like the sound of a file gnawing through metal. There were three microphones and only one woman to handle them.

  “…scene with victim. We’ll need a chopper to get him down the mountain before…”

  The radio dispatcher took rapid notes while at the same time speaking into another microphone about a drunk and disorderly at a different location. A third call came in.

  “…request backup on milepost…”

  In the distance came the sound of a siren, either fire or ambulance or local police. Maybe all three.

  “Busy day,” Carly said.

  “They all are when you’re understaffed,” Dan said.

  Sheriff Mike Montoya was solidly built with just enough gray hair and gut to put him well into middle age. The wide leather belt circling his waist held everything—flashlight, handcuffs, keys, a big sidearm, plus other items Carly couldn’t identify. If the set of the sheriff’s jaw meant anything, he had the temperament of a chained pit bull.

  There were empty chairs at the desk closest to him, the one that had name plaques for three different deputies.

  “No wonder he looks mean,” Carly said under her breath to Dan. “Even though he’s the only one left to deal with the public, he still can’t cough without contaminating someone’s coffee.”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen more spacious prison cells.”

  “Really?”

  He ignored her and went closer to the man at the desk. “Sheriff Montoya? The lady at the door told us to come right in, because you’re the only one left to take a report.”

  Montoya grunted and said, “Been a long time, Duran.” His voice said it hadn’t been long enough.

  “This is Carolina May,” was all Dan said.

  “You the woman Winifred Simmons called in?” Montoya asked Carly.

  She nodded.

  In the background the radio kept spitting out partial phrases as deputies and dispatcher spoke in clipped words to each other. Carly shut out the other sounds and focused on the sheriff.

  “What happened?” Montoya asked her.

  “I parked my car in an alley—legally, by the way—and when I came back, someone had slashed three tires and smeared red paint around the inside.”

  The sheriff said something under his breath in Spanish that wouldn’t have been approved language in English. “Hijo de la chingada.”

  Carly felt like answering the sheriff’s gutter Spanish with some of her own, but didn’t. The man obviously had enough on his plate without a smart-mouthed bilingual Anglo civilian adding to his troubles.

  Besides, there were some currents running between Dan and Montoya that she didn’t understand. Until she did, she’d be a polite, cooperative seat cover.

  “Within city limits?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You need to see a city cop.”

  Carly gave Dan a look.

  “It’s part of a pattern of harassment that began at the Quintrell ranch, which is county territory,” Dan said. “So let’s save everybody double paperwork, handle it as a county matter, and you can tell the Taos police chief over beers tonight.”

  Montoya gave Dan a hard look. Then the sheriff stood up, went to the empty desk, and began rummaging through drawers until he found the correct form. He returned to his own desk and gestured at the empty chairs where deputies sat when they weren’t on patrol.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Carly and Dan chose chairs, knocked knees and elbows, and waited. They answered questions patiently while the sheriff filled in the blank spaces on the form. When he was finished, he glanced up at them.

  “What happened at the ranch?” he asked.

  Carly told herself the sheriff was tired rather than bored or indifferent. Not that she blamed him for being less than excited. The staccato words coming out of the dispatcher’s radios made it clear that the sheriff had a lot more important things to cope with than an ugly prank.

  “Monday night,” Dan said, “somebody left a freshly gutted rat on her pillow at the Senator’s guesthouse.”

  The sheriff narrowed his dark eyes at Dan and said roughly, “I don’t remember reading a report about it.”

  “I blew it off,” Carly said, drawing the sheriff’s attention away from Dan. “Figured it was just some kid having fun with the lady outsider. But after the, um, phone call and—”

  “What phone call?” the sheriff asked.

  “The one at the ranch that played her a symphony of screams and sobs and told her if she didn’t leave town, she’d be next.”

  “Bottom drawer, blue file,” Montoya said flatly, looking at Dan. “I need more forms.”

  Dan pulled open the drawer, found the file, and pulled out fresh forms.

  Without a word the sheriff took them, filled in the personal information from the first form, and began asking questions. When he was finished writing, he pushed back and reached automatically for a package of cigarettes. Then he remembered the no-smoking edict and hissed out some more Spanish.

  “Who knew you were coming to town?” Montoya asked Carly.

  “I assume the entire household did,” she said.

  “Not much help. Who was there at the time the rat wandered in and died on your bed?”

  “It didn’t wander anywhere,” Dan said. “It was gutted on her pillow. It was still warm and its neck wasn’t broken, which means the rat had recently come from a live trap.”

  The sheriff gave Dan a look. “You were the first one in the room, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she with you?”

 
; “No.”

  “Then you could have done it.”

  “Excuse me, Sheriff,” Carly said before Dan spoke. “I’d have noticed if he had a foot-long live rat in his pocket while we walked to my room. Ditto for a foot-long dead rat.”

  Despite the neutrality in Carly’s voice, the sheriff’s mouth flattened.

  “In any case, why would Dan care if Miss Winifred hired me?” she continued.

  “He might not, but his mother sure would.”

  “Why?” Carly asked.

  “She and the Senator were close.”

  “Bullshit,” Dan said calmly. “He threw Liza out before she had Mom.”

  “So I hear.” The sheriff dropped the forms onto a mound of papers on the next desk. His body language said that the reports would be ignored. “Anything else?” he asked.

  How about you kiss my ass?

  But Dan didn’t say it aloud. He had better ways to spend time than having a dissing contest with the sheriff of Taos County.

  QUINTRELL RANCH

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  20

  “WHAT ABOUT JIM SNEAD?” MELISSA ASKED, RESTING HER HIP CASUALLY AGAINST Josh’s desk. “Do you want to keep him on?”

  Josh looked at the employment log, hesitated, and shrugged. “Keep him. He doesn’t cost much and he’s a hell of a shot.”

  “Blaine?” she continued.

  “I didn’t know Jim’s twin was on the payroll.”

  “Not full-time. Just whenever we need an extra hand for odd jobs or running ranch errands in town. He’s had a tough life. We help out when we can. You don’t remember it because you almost never came here, but he pretty much grew up on the ranch. We all did. It was a lot of fun.” Melissa smiled, remembering tagging along with the twins for raids on orchards. “Anyway, Blaine can be handy for the small stuff.”

  Josh frowned and weighed the political consequences of hiring a felon. On the plus side, it polished his liberal image. On the negative side, it polished his liberal image.

  New Mexico’s voters were a divided lot.

  The sound of a helicopter flying up the valley reverberated through the air.

  Impatiently Josh waved his hand. “As long as Blaine doesn’t show up drunk or loaded, hire him. Otherwise, send him away.”

  “Of course.” Melissa made a note in the margin of the employee log. “What about the maids and the cook?”

  Windows rattled lightly as the chopper set down.

  “You take care of adding or subtracting people and hours,” he said. “That’s what the Senator hired you for—running the place. As long as I keep the ranch, I’ll defer to your judgment. What’s the point of having good people if you don’t trust them?”

  Melissa smiled. “Thank you, sir. Do you need to see Pete again?”

  “Has he found out anything about those charities?”

  “He’s working on it.”

  “Good. As soon as he has anything, I want it. Even using Anne’s family money, I need every bit of cash I can get my hands on for my campaign.”

  “Yes, Governor.”

  Josh stood up and strode out of the room with the vigor of a man half his age. Quintrell blood might throw some wild cards, but the survivors tended to live long and healthy lives. He walked quickly through hallways and rooms without noticing their wealth and tasteful furnishings. Unlike the governor’s Santa Fe mansion, which was a showcase for the finest in New Mexican art and artisans, the Quintrell ranch home reflected a cosmopolitan lifestyle not bounded by any local artistic tradition.

  He knocked on the door to Sylvia’s suite and entered without waiting. Not for the first time, he thought that walking into the room was like turning back the clock. The youngest piece of furniture in the suite was thirty years old. Most pieces were sixty or older, much older. Only the medical equipment was recent.

  As usual, Winifred was in the chair beside her sister’s bed, holding her sister’s limp hand. Sylvia’s eyes were open, black, and empty, looking toward the door and focusing on nothing. Slowly, slowly, her head turned to the window and the outside pool’s dance and shimmer.

  “We’re leaving now,” Josh said to Winifred.

  She just looked at him.

  “Be careful what you let your historian print,” he reminded her.

  “Good-bye, Governor. Ask Melissa to—Oh, there she is.”

  “I was just coming to check on you,” Melissa said. “Would you like tea and cookies?”

  “Yes. And some of that soup we had for lunch, if there’s any more.”

  Without a word Josh turned and left.

  Winifred’s black eyes tracked every step he took until he was out of sight. When the sound of his footsteps faded into the lazy whap whap whap of the idling helicopter blades, she switched her fierce glance to Melissa.

  “What is he going to do?” Winifred asked bluntly.

  “Nothing yet.”

  Winifred let out a rasping breath. “He’s smarter than I thought.”

  “Don’t count on it staying that way.”

  “You think he’s going to sell everything?”

  Melissa nodded.

  “Over my dead body,” Winifred said, coughing.

  Melissa looked at the slack outline on the bed. Or hers.

  But Melissa didn’t say it aloud.

  TAOS

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  21

  AS CARLY CLIMBED DOWN THE STEPS OF THE SHERIFF’S TEMPORARY QUARTERS, THE high-mountain sunlight cut like a knife across her eyes. She stumbled slightly and caught herself, ignoring Dan’s hand held out to steady her.

  He stopped on the sidewalk, pulled his cell phone out of a jacket pocket, and called a local garage to pick up Carly’s car.

  She kept walking, not even looking over her shoulder to see if he was following.

  Dan finished the call in record time. His long strides closed the distance between himself and Carly before a block had gone by.

  “You planning on telling me why you’re mad?” he asked.

  “You know why.”

  “Probably, but I’d rather not guess.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were related to the Senator?” she said curtly. “You knew I was researching the—”

  “Winifred hired you to do a Castillo history,” Dan cut in. “I don’t see how my mother fits into that.”

  “She’s part Castillo, that’s how.”

  “Winifred doesn’t see it that way. She’s only interested in past Castillos, not present ones.”

  Carly wanted to argue but couldn’t. He was right. Not once had Winifred showed any interest at all in the governor or his son, even though Castillo blood ran in them as surely as did Quintrell.

  “And you’re only interested in the present,” Carly said.

  Dan shrugged and nudged her toward his truck. “The present is where things happen. Like getting your SUV hauled to a garage for new shoes and a bath in paint remover.”

  “That’s such a load of crap.”

  He opened the truck door. “You don’t want your SUV fixed?”

  She climbed in and ignored the change in topic. As soon as he started the truck, she said, “You’re way too smart to believe that the present just invented itself without any help from the past.”

  “And you’re way too smart to believe that the past is more important than the possibilities of today.”

  Dan steered the truck down a block, turned onto a side street, and drove toward his little rental.

  Carly said something under her breath and leaned back into the seat, feeling twice her age. “Don’t tell me you thought I wouldn’t care about who your mother is.”

  “She’s my mother and John’s wife and a good woman who has helped a lot of kids become worthwhile adults. That’s who she is. Period.”

  He slowed for an ancient pickup truck that was hauling a load of willow poles. Blue-black smoke poured from the truck’s exhaust as it turned a corner and headed off at a right angle. The truck’s load shifted and shiv
ered beneath the twine holding it in place. The peeled willow poles were between five and six feet tall and one to two inches thick. People in the valley had been using similar poles for fencing for a thousand years.

  “The fact that my maternal grandmother was a psychopathic liar and an addict who turned tricks for a fix doesn’t mean squat today,” Dan added. “Not to me and not to anybody else in town who matters.”

  He accelerated down the street.

  Carly bit the inside of her lip. It was one thing to think of Liza Quintrell as a wild child; it was quite another thing to think of her as a member of Dan’s family, his grandmother, the mother of his mother.

  An addict who turned tricks for a fix.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Why? It was long ago, far away, and besides, the bitch is dead.”

  “Whew. Did you know your grandmother?”

  “No. Before I was born, she was murdered by a nutcase wired on angel dust. Mom left home when she was fourteen. She married Dad when she was sixteen. I came along real quick after that.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “It must have seemed better than staying with what her mother had become.”

  “Did the Senator help your mother?”

  Dan shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  Carly waited.

  “My mother hates the Senator so much she won’t allow his name to be spoken in her house,” Dan said finally. “Dad thinks it’s because of the way her mother was treated, the hypocrisy of a womanizing son of a bitch getting his dick in a knot because his daughter does the nasty with any man who can get it up. Or maybe it was the fact that the Senator couldn’t find room for his fourteen-year-old granddaughter on a ranch the size of Delaware.” Dan shrugged. It didn’t make much sense to him; but then, he’d never had to live his mother’s life. “Whatever. Mom doesn’t talk about her mother or the Senator or her childhood as the daughter of a psychopath, an addict, and a whore.”

  Carly blew out a breath and wondered how a fourteen-year-old had supported herself until she married at sixteen; then Carly decided not to ask. She’d had enough of tiptoeing through the minefield of Dan’s family.