questions, or of the police, but of all of it. Of death, or the possibility of it.
Lucy left her money on the table and waited for Gerald to catch up with her by the front door. He was taking his time, shaking and reshaking hands and smacking a few backs. She looked down at the racks of newspapers. Her newspaper was there, the
Capital Tribune,
along with the competition, the
Santa Fe Times
. There were also at least three weeklies there called things like
Light Source,
which sounded like it should be about proper lighting techniques for your home, or
Heart Spirit,
which sounded more like a name of a Kentucky Derby winner. Actually both newspapers were about the same thing—alternative healing. Santa Fe’s million-dollar industry. The weeklies advertised tarot readings, energy work, past life regressions, and somatic polarity. Lucy had lived in Santa Fe for a year and a half, but she had yet to get used to the Weird White People Syndrome—an illness afflicting only the entitled rich who came to town to experience the “magical healing” of the area.
They all came from the same cookie cutter. They were well-off, in their fifties or sixties, from back east; they drove huge SUVs and moved to Santa Fe for “the wide-open vistas.” They shopped atorganic food stores. Went to art gallery openings. Sipped wine and talked about holistic bodywork.
Lucy turned her attention to a nearby bulletin board covered in a collage of the same kind of advertisements. There were flyers for yoga classes and various types of massage using crystals, Reiki, and organic honey. There was one for communicating with pets, including those who “had passed.” Lucy couldn’t imagine any reason someone might want to contact a dead pet. Unless Fluffy had learned how to talk, what the hell good would it do?
Laura had pulled Justin’s hand onto her lap. She was definitely the one in charge of the relationship.
They sat in the living room, the two teenagers on the couch with Gil across from them in an easy chair. Joe stood nearby, restless as usual, while Mrs. Rodriguez went to check on Ashley.
Justin was fidgeting, tapping his foot, which was in contrast to his casual posture as he leaned back into the couch. Nervous but trying to hide it.
“It’s possible we found Brianna,” Gil said. Maybe, he thought wistfully, if he had been allowed to interview them properly, he could have saved that information to be used as needed, to get a response—but the chief had been clear.
“Yeah, we guessed that,” Justin said.
“You don’t seem too broken up,” Joe said.
“Whatever. This time, just check to make sure it’s human,” Justin said. Joe, perpetually pissed off, snorted in disgust.
Gil knew what Justin was referring to. A month after Brianna went missing and a week before the family filed the lawsuit, forensic teams were digging in the backyard of the Rodriguez house. They were using heat-sensing technology that could locate decaying flesh. The equipment and the tech were on loan from the FBI. Someone had gotten too excited by a heat signature coming from a few feet underground—or maybe because of the FBI presence. The family had been corralled in the house and kept there, being questioned on and off, while forensic techs dug carefully for over twenty-four hours, finally uncovering the family dog, which had been buried a year earlier.
“This isn’t no dog,” Joe said.
“But it’s not Brianna,” Laura said with a cock of her head.
“What makes you say that?” Gil asked as the phone in his pocket started to vibrate. He ignored it.
“Because of your track record,” she said, annoyed.
“Besides, Brianna drowned in the arroyo,” Justin added.
Gil looked over at Joe, who looked out the window. Gil wasn’t sure what else they would get out of the visit. He wasn’t even sure what they had hoped to get. He felt like he had just opened a book in the middle and started reading, with no sense of plot, characters, or back story.
Lucy left her money on the table and waited for Gerald to catch up with her by the front door. He was taking his time, shaking and reshaking hands and smacking a few backs. She looked down at the racks of newspapers. Her newspaper was there, the
Capital Tribune,
along with the competition, the
Santa Fe Times
. There were also at least three weeklies there called things like
Light Source,
which sounded like it should be about proper lighting techniques for your home, or
Heart Spirit,
which sounded more like a name of a Kentucky Derby winner. Actually both newspapers were about the same thing—alternative healing. Santa Fe’s million-dollar industry. The weeklies advertised tarot readings, energy work, past life regressions, and somatic polarity. Lucy had lived in Santa Fe for a year and a half, but she had yet to get used to the Weird White People Syndrome—an illness afflicting only the entitled rich who came to town to experience the “magical healing” of the area.
They all came from the same cookie cutter. They were well-off, in their fifties or sixties, from back east; they drove huge SUVs and moved to Santa Fe for “the wide-open vistas.” They shopped atorganic food stores. Went to art gallery openings. Sipped wine and talked about holistic bodywork.
Lucy turned her attention to a nearby bulletin board covered in a collage of the same kind of advertisements. There were flyers for yoga classes and various types of massage using crystals, Reiki, and organic honey. There was one for communicating with pets, including those who “had passed.” Lucy couldn’t imagine any reason someone might want to contact a dead pet. Unless Fluffy had learned how to talk, what the hell good would it do?
Laura had pulled Justin’s hand onto her lap. She was definitely the one in charge of the relationship.
They sat in the living room, the two teenagers on the couch with Gil across from them in an easy chair. Joe stood nearby, restless as usual, while Mrs. Rodriguez went to check on Ashley.
Justin was fidgeting, tapping his foot, which was in contrast to his casual posture as he leaned back into the couch. Nervous but trying to hide it.
“It’s possible we found Brianna,” Gil said. Maybe, he thought wistfully, if he had been allowed to interview them properly, he could have saved that information to be used as needed, to get a response—but the chief had been clear.
“Yeah, we guessed that,” Justin said.
“You don’t seem too broken up,” Joe said.
“Whatever. This time, just check to make sure it’s human,” Justin said. Joe, perpetually pissed off, snorted in disgust.
Gil knew what Justin was referring to. A month after Brianna went missing and a week before the family filed the lawsuit, forensic teams were digging in the backyard of the Rodriguez house. They were using heat-sensing technology that could locate decaying flesh. The equipment and the tech were on loan from the FBI. Someone had gotten too excited by a heat signature coming from a few feet underground—or maybe because of the FBI presence. The family had been corralled in the house and kept there, being questioned on and off, while forensic techs dug carefully for over twenty-four hours, finally uncovering the family dog, which had been buried a year earlier.
“This isn’t no dog,” Joe said.
“But it’s not Brianna,” Laura said with a cock of her head.
“What makes you say that?” Gil asked as the phone in his pocket started to vibrate. He ignored it.
“Because of your track record,” she said, annoyed.
“Besides, Brianna drowned in the arroyo,” Justin added.
Gil looked over at Joe, who looked out the window. Gil wasn’t sure what else they would get out of the visit. He wasn’t even sure what they had hoped to get. He felt like he had just opened a book in the middle and started reading, with no sense of plot, characters, or back story.
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