although Ramona stayed focused on the tasks ahead, she couldnât help wonder if Daniel Peckâs unexpected come-on had been sincere or just a ration of BS.
Â
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Craig Larson spent a nervous couple of hours waiting for the last shuttle of the night to the Albuquerque airport. He killed the time in the small Santa Fe River Park that paralleled East Alameda, where he could keep an eye out for the arrival of the bus at the hotel across the street. When it showed up, he hurried across Old Santa Fe Trail and joined the half dozen tourists waiting to board. Once on board, he found a seat away from the rest of the passengers and pretended to sleep.
At the Albuquerque airport, Larson went inside, used the lavatory, went back outside, and took a courtesy bus to the airport parking lot on Yale Boulevard. After getting off at a row in the back of the lot, he waited until the driver left on another run to the terminal before slipping through the entrance gate when the attendant wasnât looking.
He hoofed it along Yale Boulevard to Central Avenue, a good two-mile walk, tensing up when spurts of traffic passed him on the roadway, thinking for sure some gung-ho cop would stop and want to question him about walking along the street late at night. He made it to Central Avenue, where Yale dead-ended. At a nearby all-night drugstore, he bought a local paper, some snack food, and a drink, and walked up Central to the next city bus stop. A sign posted at the bus stop told him heâd arrived ten minutes before the last run of the night.
While he waited, he chewed on the snacks, washed them down with soda, and thought about what he would do after he checked into a cheap motel on East Central where nobody would remember his face or care what name he used as long as he paid cash and didnât cause any trouble. First, take a hot shower to wash the grime off; second, get some sleep; third, find a good greasy spoon in the morning for a big breakfast; and finally, look in the newspaper for a car to buy from a private party.
That was as far as Larson wanted to take it for the night. It had been an exhausting day.
Chapter Three
At ten minutes after two in the morning, Russell Thorpe dropped Clayton off at the budget motel on Cerrillos Road where Grace had rented a room. Clayton got a key from a drowsy front desk clerk and quietly unlocked the door to find Wendell and Hannah asleep in one of the double beds and Grace fully dressed sitting wide awake in a chair at a small table by the window. Grace put a finger to her lips, picked up the keys to the sedan, and motioned for Clayton to join her outside.
They sat in the car with the windows open, cooled by a slight breeze. There was just enough illumination from the parking lot lights for Clayton to see that his wife wasnât happy.
âWell?â Grace asked. She avoided looking at Clayton, her eyes glued on the door to their room.
âIâm not canceling our vacation, if thatâs what youâre worried about. Sheriff Hewitt ordered me to have nothing more to do with the investigation after tonight, and thatâs fine with me.â He glanced at his wristwatch. âIâm due in class at the academy in a little under seven hours.â
âWhat took you so long tonight?â
âI had to break the news to Rileyâs wife, Lynette, and his parents, brief the state police chief, call Kerney in London, give a statement to the investigating officers, and talk to a city detective about another homicide by the same perpetrator.â
âAnd that took you hours and hours?â
âYes, sometimes it does,â Clayton replied. âI donât want to argue with you about this at two in the morning.â
âWhat did Kerney say when you spoke to him?â
âHeâs very angry and upset. Heâs leaving for Santa Fe as soon as he can get a flight out. He wants us to stay at the ranch as planned.â
âAre Sara and Patrick
Â
Â
Craig Larson spent a nervous couple of hours waiting for the last shuttle of the night to the Albuquerque airport. He killed the time in the small Santa Fe River Park that paralleled East Alameda, where he could keep an eye out for the arrival of the bus at the hotel across the street. When it showed up, he hurried across Old Santa Fe Trail and joined the half dozen tourists waiting to board. Once on board, he found a seat away from the rest of the passengers and pretended to sleep.
At the Albuquerque airport, Larson went inside, used the lavatory, went back outside, and took a courtesy bus to the airport parking lot on Yale Boulevard. After getting off at a row in the back of the lot, he waited until the driver left on another run to the terminal before slipping through the entrance gate when the attendant wasnât looking.
He hoofed it along Yale Boulevard to Central Avenue, a good two-mile walk, tensing up when spurts of traffic passed him on the roadway, thinking for sure some gung-ho cop would stop and want to question him about walking along the street late at night. He made it to Central Avenue, where Yale dead-ended. At a nearby all-night drugstore, he bought a local paper, some snack food, and a drink, and walked up Central to the next city bus stop. A sign posted at the bus stop told him heâd arrived ten minutes before the last run of the night.
While he waited, he chewed on the snacks, washed them down with soda, and thought about what he would do after he checked into a cheap motel on East Central where nobody would remember his face or care what name he used as long as he paid cash and didnât cause any trouble. First, take a hot shower to wash the grime off; second, get some sleep; third, find a good greasy spoon in the morning for a big breakfast; and finally, look in the newspaper for a car to buy from a private party.
That was as far as Larson wanted to take it for the night. It had been an exhausting day.
Chapter Three
At ten minutes after two in the morning, Russell Thorpe dropped Clayton off at the budget motel on Cerrillos Road where Grace had rented a room. Clayton got a key from a drowsy front desk clerk and quietly unlocked the door to find Wendell and Hannah asleep in one of the double beds and Grace fully dressed sitting wide awake in a chair at a small table by the window. Grace put a finger to her lips, picked up the keys to the sedan, and motioned for Clayton to join her outside.
They sat in the car with the windows open, cooled by a slight breeze. There was just enough illumination from the parking lot lights for Clayton to see that his wife wasnât happy.
âWell?â Grace asked. She avoided looking at Clayton, her eyes glued on the door to their room.
âIâm not canceling our vacation, if thatâs what youâre worried about. Sheriff Hewitt ordered me to have nothing more to do with the investigation after tonight, and thatâs fine with me.â He glanced at his wristwatch. âIâm due in class at the academy in a little under seven hours.â
âWhat took you so long tonight?â
âI had to break the news to Rileyâs wife, Lynette, and his parents, brief the state police chief, call Kerney in London, give a statement to the investigating officers, and talk to a city detective about another homicide by the same perpetrator.â
âAnd that took you hours and hours?â
âYes, sometimes it does,â Clayton replied. âI donât want to argue with you about this at two in the morning.â
âWhat did Kerney say when you spoke to him?â
âHeâs very angry and upset. Heâs leaving for Santa Fe as soon as he can get a flight out. He wants us to stay at the ranch as planned.â
âAre Sara and Patrick
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