The Big Gamble Read Online Free PDF Page A

some real digging into Anna Marie Montoya’s past. Besides, it would be a kick to clear a case that had stymied Kerney. He smiled at the prospect of it.
    The day was more than halfway gone. With all that was left to do, Clayton figured he had another full day or two of work before he could leave for Santa Fe. He called the tribal day-care center where Grace worked as a teacher and told her that he wasn’t going out of town right away.
    “When will you go?” Grace asked.
    “I’m not sure yet,” Clayton said. “Maybe the day after tomorrow.
    “Sometime soon, I think all of us should go to Santa Fe.”
    “I can’t take you and the kids with me.”
    “I know that,” Grace said. “I’m thinking of a weekend family outing.”
    “If we left early in the morning, we could make it a day trip,” Clayton said, thinking about how pricy Santa Fe could be.
    “That wouldn’t be enough time,” Grace replied.
    Since neither Clayton nor Grace worked in high-paying professions, Clayton constantly worried about family finances. “I thought we were saving money to build the addition,” he said.
    “A weekend trip to Santa Fe won’t bankrupt us, Clayton.”
    “Yeah, you’re right.”
    “Will you be home for dinner?”
    “I don’t see why not.”
    “I’ll see you then,” Grace said before hanging up.
    He checked in with dispatch. Kerney still hadn’t called back. He gave his ETA to Carrizozo and told the dispatcher he’d be at John Foley’s real estate office when he got into town.
    The office was in an old building where Central Avenue curved and became E Avenue. One of the town’s first permanent structures, it had started out as a tin shop in the early part of the twentieth century. Foley’s late-model Cadillac was parked at the side of the building.
    Inside, Foley pressed a cup of coffee into Clayton’s hands and sat with him, making small talk. A big man in his late seventies, Foley had slightly hunched shoulders and carried some extra pounds around his midsection that spilled over his tightly cinched belt and showy turquoise and silver buckle.
    With some difficulty, Clayton guided Foley to the topic of the fruit stand. After talking about the fire, he got a short history of Foley’s failed attempts to sell it. He asked if Foley had records on any prospective buyers that went back eleven or twelve years.
    Foley shook his head. “I only keep information about potential clients who are solid prospects. I don’t recall ever showing that property to a serious client. It’s too far out of town to have any commercial value and there’s no water, phone, or electricity to the property line.”
    “When was the last time you were out there?” Clayton asked.
    “Let me think,” Foley replied. “Two, three years ago. I showed it to a fella who was interested in starting a flea market and living on the property. But he didn’t want to invest any money in extending the utilities and digging a well.”
    “Did you ever go into the fruit stand?”
    “There was no need to,” Foley said. “According to the Ruidoso newspaper, you found a murder victim in that fire.”
    “I didn’t realize that information had been released.”
    Foley handed Clayton the newspaper. Sheriff Hewitt had not only briefed the press about the homicide, but had gone on at some length about assigning his highly qualified Apache deputy, Clayton Istee, as lead investigator.
    Clayton folded the newspaper, gave it back to Foley, thanked him for the coffee and his time, and left the office. He understood the sheriff’s decision to go public about the homicide, but he would have liked to have been forewarned. He also wondered when all the sheriff’s self-congratulatory public and private back-patting about hiring an Indian cop was going to end. Soon, he hoped. It was getting tiresome.
    He sat in his unit and wrote up some notes before checking in with dispatch. Kerney still hadn’t returned his call, and Quinones and Dillingham were