anything. But I’ll try.”
Marla nodded, blinking her moist
dark eyes twice. “I know.” She sat in one of the chairs at the table, her body
sagging as if she’d used every scrap of energy to answer the door and pour the
coffee.
“May I take a look at the file?”
She reached toward Sam with her thin fingers.
“I guess it would be all right.”
Sam handed over the folder, giving a short verbal recap of what she’d just
read.
“The list of friends,” Marla
said. “We called most of them ourselves. The police wouldn’t even take a report
for more than two days. So Tricia and I started calling everyone we knew,
hoping he had run into a buddy and got sidetracked.” She shook her head. “No
one had seen him.”
Sam sipped from her mug. The
coffee was really good. “Did the Albuquerque police ever investigate?”
Marla shook her head. “Not
really. They said that he’d disappeared in Taos. I think they told Tricia that
she could file a separate report . . . I really don’t remember.”
“I assume she also called friends
there? People he worked with, maybe?”
“Oh, yes. He worked at Bellworth,
you know. Very good company, a very good job.”
Sam recognized the name.
Bellworth was one of those huge corporations that did a lot of government
contract work, often with agencies at Sandia Lab or Los Alamos. As she
understood it, the contracts usually lasted a few years, but then were often
renewed, so employment was steady and pay was good.
“Tito’s training in the Navy was
as an electrician. He was well qualified for the work he did at Bellworth and
had worked his way to one of the higher pay grades.” Pride in her son was very
evident in Marla’s expression. “He and Tricia bought a house in a nice
neighborhood. Jolie was still a baby, but they chose the area because of the
good schools. They were planning to have more children.”
She closed the folder and toyed
with the coffee mug in front of her. “Sam, Tito didn’t run away. That sheriff,
Orlando Padilla, he hinted that Tito had another woman and that he’d run off
with her. But that wasn’t true. He would never do that.”
An excellent character reference,
or a mother’s blind love? Sam didn’t know. She did know, however, that Padilla
had been lax as a lawman, a product more of New Mexico’s infamous nepotism in
government than any outstanding accomplishments on the job.
“When Tricia died and I brought
Jolie here, I sold their house in Albuquerque. Her death . . . losing the house
. . . it would have hurt Tito so bad.” She swallowed hard. “But I didn’t see
any other way. I used the money to hire a private investigator. I couldn’t keep
him very long. There wasn’t much equity in the house, so the money ran out
pretty fast. With a baby to raise, I couldn’t go into debt.”
“What did the investigator say?”
Marla leaned forward and gripped
the edge of the table to stand. “I have his reports. I’ll get them.”
Sam kept her seat at the table,
feeling an ache in her heart for this poor woman.
Five full minutes must have
passed before Marla came back. She had a manila envelope in one hand and a
stack of smaller ones—pink, lavender, yellow—in the other.
“These are the cards my Tito sent
me.” She set them on the table in front of her mug, just out of Sam’s reach.
She extended the large envelope to Sam. “His name was Bram Fenton, the
investigator.”
Sam knew the name. The man had
died this past summer. She took the envelope and bent the metal brads upward.
Inside was a small sheaf of paper, maybe ten pages at most.
“May I take these? I can make
copies and get the originals back to you right away.”
“It’s all right. There’s nothing
I can do with them now. Keep it as long as you need to.”
Marla had taken her seat again
and her left hand rested on the stack of personal envelopes. “These, I will
keep but you may look.”
She picked up the topmost
envelope, raised the flap and pulled out a
Marla nodded, blinking her moist
dark eyes twice. “I know.” She sat in one of the chairs at the table, her body
sagging as if she’d used every scrap of energy to answer the door and pour the
coffee.
“May I take a look at the file?”
She reached toward Sam with her thin fingers.
“I guess it would be all right.”
Sam handed over the folder, giving a short verbal recap of what she’d just
read.
“The list of friends,” Marla
said. “We called most of them ourselves. The police wouldn’t even take a report
for more than two days. So Tricia and I started calling everyone we knew,
hoping he had run into a buddy and got sidetracked.” She shook her head. “No
one had seen him.”
Sam sipped from her mug. The
coffee was really good. “Did the Albuquerque police ever investigate?”
Marla shook her head. “Not
really. They said that he’d disappeared in Taos. I think they told Tricia that
she could file a separate report . . . I really don’t remember.”
“I assume she also called friends
there? People he worked with, maybe?”
“Oh, yes. He worked at Bellworth,
you know. Very good company, a very good job.”
Sam recognized the name.
Bellworth was one of those huge corporations that did a lot of government
contract work, often with agencies at Sandia Lab or Los Alamos. As she
understood it, the contracts usually lasted a few years, but then were often
renewed, so employment was steady and pay was good.
“Tito’s training in the Navy was
as an electrician. He was well qualified for the work he did at Bellworth and
had worked his way to one of the higher pay grades.” Pride in her son was very
evident in Marla’s expression. “He and Tricia bought a house in a nice
neighborhood. Jolie was still a baby, but they chose the area because of the
good schools. They were planning to have more children.”
She closed the folder and toyed
with the coffee mug in front of her. “Sam, Tito didn’t run away. That sheriff,
Orlando Padilla, he hinted that Tito had another woman and that he’d run off
with her. But that wasn’t true. He would never do that.”
An excellent character reference,
or a mother’s blind love? Sam didn’t know. She did know, however, that Padilla
had been lax as a lawman, a product more of New Mexico’s infamous nepotism in
government than any outstanding accomplishments on the job.
“When Tricia died and I brought
Jolie here, I sold their house in Albuquerque. Her death . . . losing the house
. . . it would have hurt Tito so bad.” She swallowed hard. “But I didn’t see
any other way. I used the money to hire a private investigator. I couldn’t keep
him very long. There wasn’t much equity in the house, so the money ran out
pretty fast. With a baby to raise, I couldn’t go into debt.”
“What did the investigator say?”
Marla leaned forward and gripped
the edge of the table to stand. “I have his reports. I’ll get them.”
Sam kept her seat at the table,
feeling an ache in her heart for this poor woman.
Five full minutes must have
passed before Marla came back. She had a manila envelope in one hand and a
stack of smaller ones—pink, lavender, yellow—in the other.
“These are the cards my Tito sent
me.” She set them on the table in front of her mug, just out of Sam’s reach.
She extended the large envelope to Sam. “His name was Bram Fenton, the
investigator.”
Sam knew the name. The man had
died this past summer. She took the envelope and bent the metal brads upward.
Inside was a small sheaf of paper, maybe ten pages at most.
“May I take these? I can make
copies and get the originals back to you right away.”
“It’s all right. There’s nothing
I can do with them now. Keep it as long as you need to.”
Marla had taken her seat again
and her left hand rested on the stack of personal envelopes. “These, I will
keep but you may look.”
She picked up the topmost
envelope, raised the flap and pulled out a
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