Chapter 53

SANTA FE

SATURDAY MORNING

"Here are your nutcases for the day." Jeanette Dykstra's assistant dropped a batch of mail on the desk. Tom was a middle-aged former traffic reporter who'd nearly crashed in a helicopter once too often for his wife's comfort. His new job was to get paper cuts opening Dykstra's mail and pointing out the good stuff to her.

Dykstra looked up from the notes she'd been making on an expose of the bisexual lover of New Mexico's youngest elected member of the House of Representatives. The story had possibilities, but it wasn't going to get her show promoted on the six o'clock news. She needed that. Her ratings were flat.

"Anything juicy?" she asked without much hope.

"Anorexic pets of neurotic owners, how about that?"

"Next."

"Another alien kidnapping."

"Jesus." Dykstra shook her head. "What do these people think I am, a supermarket tabloid?"

"But this victim dropped a litter of little somethings nine months later."

Dykstra rolled her eyes.

"How about gambling?" Tom asked.

"Don't tell me, let me guess-Tuesdays at the Catholic church."

"Bingo," Tom said innocently.

She groaned.

He grinned. "The police chief is rumored to like little boys."

Dykstra's head tilted with her first sign of interest. "Proof?"

"He's a Cub Scout leader. And he buys candy from grade schoolers trying to go on trips."

"Funny," she said in disgust. "In your next life you'll be a comedian. And that life will begin real soon if you keep wasting my time."

"A fighting cock got loose in the barrio and raked a kid's face."

"Pictures?"

"If you hurry. It happened yesterday. The neighbor reported it. The kid's mother refused to press charges. Afraid of the dude that owns the cocks."

"Gee, I'm shocked," Dykstra said with a total lack of interest. She'd grown up in the barrios. She knew what it was like to be wary of neighbors who had enough money to buy fighting cocks, take bets, and carry guns.

From the mound of mail, Tom pulled an envelope with its contents fastened to the outside. "According to Ms. Mendoza-the one who wrote you-she's complained to the police numerous times about the presence and noise of fighting cocks. The cops thank her kindly and promise to drive by when nothing else is happening in the city."

"Even with a sad-faced kid, the day would have to be really slow before I lead with a barrio story. I did a scab picker about dogfighting three months ago. Didn't do shit for the ratings. Who the hell cares about chickens?" But while she said it, Dykstra made a note to see if the mother would agree to an interview before the kid's face healed.

Tits and tots, vets and pets. The grist of human interest stories hadn't changed in a hundred years.

"Is that it?" she asked.

Tom flipped through the pile. "A bowl of posole reveals the face of the Virgin of Guadalupe."

"You better be making that up."

He tossed her a letter and a photograph.

She glanced at the photo. "Okay, you aren't." She dropped the photo and letter in the trash. "When are these geeks going to figure out that I

know about digitizing? Give me a computer and I could find the Last Supper in pond scum." She looked at her assistant. "You'through torturing me yet?"

"Just about. Saving the good stuff for last." He pulled an envelope out of the pile, waving the Quintrell ranch logo at his boss. "The governor's aunt is a nutcase."

Dykstra perked up. "That has possibilities. Has he been ignoring or abusing her, denying her treatment?"

"She didn't say."

"She who?"

Tom flapped the envelope and its contents. "The aunt."

Dykstra grabbed the papers and read quickly. The letter was quick and to the point. The photocopied document was more difficult. It was written in old Spanish with an equally old English translation at the bottom. Both versions were signed in the precise yet flowing script that centuries of nuns and schoolmistresses had drilled into students.

Miss Winifred Simmons y Castillo's handwriting was almost as dated, but the charge she made was very clear: in order to inherit the Quintrell ranch, Governor Josh Quintrell should have an mtDNA test to prove beyond any doubt that he is the descendant of Isobel Castillo.

Dykstra snorted. Obviously the aunt was a head case, but that didn't matter. The governor and presidential hopeful was news. With luck, this could be milked for a week, maybe even get featured on the evening news show. She'd have to set up an interview with the old bat, but first…

"You know anything about, uh, mtDNA?" Dykstra asked.

"Not a clue."

She handed back the letter. "Get busy. I want to do a brief promo on this at three o'clock."

Chapter 54

CHIMAYO

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

WEARING A PAIR OF LEVl'S THAT HADN'T BEEN TAILORED OR IRONED, ANNE Quintrell met her husband at the door. There was no fanfare surrounding him, no town car and driver, no bodyguards. The vehicle in the driveway was one of the thousands of anonymous white rentals that infested airports. At Josh's request they were staying at a supporter's consciously rustic vacation house in Chimayo, rather than in the gubernatorial mansion. It was the only way he could dodge Dykstra.

Sometimes freedom of the press was a real pain in the ass.

As far as the public knew, the governor was still on the East Coast at a nonsectarian religious retreat to discuss the spiritual aspect of political office. Privately, Josh had thought it was a waste of time, but so was much of the public part of being a politician. When Pete had called, Josh had leaped at the reason for leaving, and everyone had agreed to keep it quiet so that he had time to grieve without the media ghouls hanging off every stoplight.

"I'm sorry," Anne said to her husband. She barely recognized him beneath the slouch hat and clothes that were better suited to a fishing trip than a public outing. White stubble covered his face from cheekbones to throat. He looked like he'd hitchhiked rather than flown in from his last fund-raiser. "I know there wasn't much love lost between you and your aunt, but it's still not easy."

Josh came inside so that Anne could close and lock the door behind him. He tossed his slouch hat aside, revealing his trademark thatch of silver hair. "I'm getting sick of bouncing back and forth for family funerals. In fact, I may be getting sick, period." He thought of the flat-out sprint for the presidency that awaited him. Eleven months of hell.

On the other hand, with a little luck, this time next year he'd be president of the United States of America. Not bad for a kid nobody had ever given a damn about.

"Did the Sorenson Foundation's lawyer reach you?" Anne asked, stepping inside so that he could follow.

"No. I had to change flights three times because of the weather. Unless somebody has my private cell number, I'm off the scope. I'd like it to stay that way. What did the lawyer want?"

She closed and locked the front door. "A discounted price on the ranch for public service."

"I'd like one of those myself, but I still have to pay for political ads the old-fashioned way-out of my own pocket."

"The old-fashioned way is out of some other guy's pocket," Anne said, smiling slightly. "Father always did it that way. Did you eat on the plane?"

"In coach?"

"I don't think I've ever flown coach."

"If you're lucky, they throw peanuts at you. Ten to a package, one package per customer."

Anne winced. "Do we have to do anything today or can you get some rest?"

Frowning, he set down his fat computer case and shrugged out of his coat. "I should see the lawyer about final arrangements for Winifred."