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“I had a couple of cases in Albuquerque that were marked by your old partner.” I thought about how to phrase the question without scaring Armenta into kicking me out. “Judge Winters and his entire family were killed just this past week. Garcia has reported it as a murder-suicide, despite inconclusive evidence. And another young woman—”

“Judge Winters is dead?” Armenta seemed shocked.

“Yes. Someone shot him and his whole family.” I lowered my head. “He was just getting ready to start trial for the incident that had him thrown off the bench.”

“I tried my best to convince him to come back to the land of the living—back to putting these kinds of people in jail. But there was a huge batch of heroin and oxycodone coming, three million dollars’ worth.” Armenta picked at his cuticles, his fingernails bit down to blood. “It was coming up from Sinaloa through the rough territory out by the Antelope Wells Port of Entry, where there’s only one border agent stationed, right across from El Berrendo in Chihuahua. They were doing the same run at least four times a month. And Marty was set up to get thirty percent of the take.”

“Did you help him with this deal?” I watched Armenta’s eyes.

“I was working with him,” he answered.

“What did you have to do?”

“It was supposed to run the way it usually did. Matias Romero, Ignacio Marcos’s right-hand man, waited on the US side of the border for the drop, then drove up Interstate 25 to Albuquerque and brought the drugs to Pino’s Upholstery. It was our job to keep a distance and keep Matias from being busted.”

“Something went wrong?” Night had fallen—the snowdrifts outside the window were reflecting purple from the shadows. Armenta walked to the woodstove and threw two logs on the fire.

“The DEA didn’t care about Marty’s agreement with Marcos. About an hour from Albuquerque, Matias Romero’s SUV was swarmed by three dark trucks with hidden flashers between their front grills. We drove by the scene like we knew nothing about it. Ten DEA agents had Matias on the ground. They charged Matias with drug trafficking, and there was really nothing that Marty could do to change it.”

“How was Judge Winters involved?” I couldn’t figure out how a buttoned-up guy like Winters could have been so deep into a thing like this.

“Judge Winters was the one who gave Matias twenty years. Marty tried to derail the investigation—threatened Winters to get him to drop the charges.” Armenta looked at the floor. “When Winters wouldn’t budge, Marty set up his bust.”

Armenta described how Marty Garcia had paid for the prostitute and planted the drugs in the car; he then took Winters out for a beer and dropped in a Rohypnol. When Judge Winters woke up in the downtown lockup, he knew nothing except that his career was over.

“He was fighting the charges when he died,” I said.

“Marty thought arranging his downfall would be enough for the Marcos family. But it sounds like they wanted their own revenge on Judge Winters.”

“And I guess they got it,” I said. “They even killed the kids and the dog.”

Armenta avoided my eyes. “Were you on scene?”

“I took the photos. It was horrible.” I got out of the chair and peered out the window at the piling snow. I had no idea how I was going to get out of here. At this rate the roads would not be passable in the morning. “Did Detective Garcia know an Erma Singleton?”

“That’s Matias Romero’s girlfriend. She ran front of house at the Apothecary while Matias ran deals out of the back room. He was cutting the drugs with her and making a fortune.” Armenta took down a bottle from the top of his fridge. He poured pills in his hand and swallowed more coffee. “Erma Singleton was trouble and Marty knew it.”

“A loose end.” Why hadn’t Erma told me what she was involved in? What had she dragged me into?

Armenta came over and stood by the window with me. “Erma couldn’t stop talking and spending Matias’s money. I knew something bad would happen to her.” Armenta paused. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more. All I could do was get away from it. Faking a heart attack was as simple as paperwork. I haven’t spoken with Marty since I left.”

“Thank you for telling me what you know, Detective Armenta.” I began to gather my things.

“I’ll make up the spare room, Rita. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

I hesitated, wondering about Armenta’s intentions.

He smiled and handed me a few blankets. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Hasselblad Portraits

THE UNIVERSITY WAS a lonely place, though I was never physically alone. There were long lines of students everywhere— for financial aid and housing, for food, for registration and schedule changes. I navigated through the process, finally finding my way to my dorm room. I could hear Bauhaus thumping from speakers. The door was open.

The girl sitting on the bed—Megan Ulibarri, according to my paperwork—had long, shiny black hair and black eyes accentuated with black eyeliner and mascara. She wore a black leather choker with silver spikes, matching bracelets, and tall, calflength black leather boots.

“Hey,” Megan said.

“Hi. Megan, right?” I offered my hand. “I’m Rita. I’m studying photography.”