LITMIR.BIZ

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lobby, hand painted tiles and potted palms, he found it almost as crowded as the Plaza. He heard mariachis playing in the bar and the murmur of a hundred voices talking at once. Oddly enough, he spotted the hulking figure of Antonio at the front desk, talking to Fred Mondragon, the manager.

      Some sort of disturbance must have occurred, because Antonio was taking notes while Mondragon gestured toward a bellhop who stood between the two older men. What the hell now? He pushed his way through the crowd toward the blue uniform of Antonio who, at six feet seven inches tall, towered over Mondragon, the bellhop, and everyone else in the noisy lobby.

      “What’s the problem?”

      Antonio shook his head. “Got a report here that two Indians were seen prowling around upstairs.” He sounded annoyed, as if he thought the whole thing was a waste of his time.

      “Not prowling,” Mondragon protested, a neat little man wearing a tan suit and a necktie that was as white as his hair. “Jimmy saw them come out of one of the rooms. Go on, tell the man, Jimmy.”

      The bellhop started to say something, then stopped abruptly when he saw Suino and Naranjo coming up behind him. “There. That’s them.” He pointed at Suino and Naranjo. “The two men I saw leaving the room.”

      “Grab them!” Mondragon shouted.

      But Suino was too fast. He shoved him hard in the back, sending him flying into a man wearing a backpack and then into a tall beanpole of a woman wearing a straw sombrero. Falling, he grabbed the woman around the waist and felt his nose press up against the heavy squash blossom that dangled between her breasts.

      “Get off me!” the woman screamed, swatting him on the head with her purse. The blow knocked him sideways and sent him reeling to the floor, where he landed on his elbow. He gasped for air as a sharp pain shot up his right arm into his shoulder. By this time everyone in the lobby seemed to be pushing and shoving and shouting at one another.

      He tried to make amends. “Sorry...sorry.”

      Amid the chaos, he struggled to a sitting position, fearful of being trampled by the mob of rowdy tourists. No way he could let that happen, he told himself, struggling to get to his feet. Luckily, the tall woman with the sombrero had been pushed back toward the bar where she staggered from side to side like a wounded animal, screaming and flailing away with her purse at anyone who came near enough for her to swat.

      “Stop it!” Mondragon shouted, raising his arms. With the help of the bellhop, he climbed up on the front desk and looked down on the angry mob. “Please. Calm down. Stop pushing. There’s been a misunderstanding. Please. Clear out and give us some room. Someone’s been injured.”

      He realized that Mondragon meant him. He was the injured person.

      Slowly the crowd began to disperse.

      As the noise subsided, he could hear Antonio speaking to him.

      “Are you okay? Fernando? Are you okay?”

      “Yeah...sure...I think so.” He let Antonio help him to his feet. He rubbed his sore arm and then glanced around the lobby.

      “They’re gone. They ran outside. Someone said they went up San Francisco Street past the cathedral.”

      He frowned. “I know where to find them.” He turned to Mondragon. “Do you want to press charges?”

      Mondragon shook his head. “Not really. Not if you can keep them out of here. They didn’t take anything, according to Jimmy. So why bother, unless they come back.”

      Both Antonio and the bellhop had to help Mondragon down from the front desk.

      Leaving Antonio to make peace in the lobby, he got a key to Soto’s room from the front desk and took the elevator to the fifth floor. As soon as he stepped out he lit his emergency cigarette, tossing the match on the terra-cotta tile floor. The burst of nicotine picked him up immediately, just enough to make him feel capable of taking care of this last piece of business. He bypassed the chance to rest a moment on the hand-carved bench in the sitting area across from the elevator. For a little while longer he would have to run on sheer determination.

      Down the dark carpeted hallway—its walls lined with Mexican tiles and pressed-tin light fixtures—he found Soto’s room and unlocked the door. The room turned out to be a small suite complete with sitting room, bedroom, and bath. There was even a balcony overlooking La Fonda’s pool three floors below. The pool shocked him. He had no idea La Fonda had such amenities. Imagine that. Living in a city for sixty years and not knowing that its most famous downtown hotel had a swimming pool. What else didn’t he know about Santa Fe?

      “This is a non-smoking room,” someone said from the hallway behind him.

      He turned to find a skinny maid with chemically blond hair carrying a stack of clean towels.

      “I’m a police detective.” He showed her his badge.

      She ignored the badge. “Did you know that John Kennedy stayed in this room when he came to Santa Fe in nineteen sixty?”

      “No kidding. So Kennedy and Michael Soto have at least two things in common.”

      “Two things?” The maid looked puzzled, waiting for an explanation.

      “If you will excuse me.” He closed the door in her face.

      Once again he could not locate an ashtray, so he tossed his cigarette in a potted cactus by the door. Then he crossed the room and stepped out on the balcony, which turned out to be a mistake because as soon as he did he spotted the tall woman with the sombrero sitting at a poolside table sipping a gigantic mixed drink. Even from this distance he could see the pink color of the murky concoction, complete with doll-size umbrellas. When the woman pointed him out to her companions, two other women wearing layers of turquoise jewelry, he frowned and went back into the room.

      A horrible thought occurred to him. Maybe he would keep running into this woman. Forever.

      Sitting on the Taos sofa, he surveyed the room. He couldn’t help but admire the handcrafted furniture, all rubbed with the same gray wash and embellished with the some motifs, zigzag arrows, bear claws, and feather plumes. Not bad for five hundred dollars a day, or whatever Soto paid to live at La Fonda. The sitting room came equipped with a wet bar stocked with bottles of scotch, tequila, and exotic liqueurs. Not bad at all. He put his feet on the coffee table and looked around the room, impeccably arranged and decorated in the best Southwestern style. For people who could afford it.

      People like Soto. And John Kennedy.

      But for all the expensive Southwestern décor, the room still looked like a sterile hotel room. In contrast, the bedroom looked lived in. On the floor he found a pile of books, a plastic bag stuffed with soiled clothes, and a cardboard box containing Indian pots, individually wrapped in plastic foam.

      He checked the two side-by-side trasteros that served as closets. Soto’s collection of Giorgio Armani suits impressed him, as did the rows of silk and linen shirts. A real yuppie, all right. Too fancy for his taste. Then something caught his eye in the second trastero. A row of women’s clothing. Dresses and an assortment of skirts and blouses. Interesting. Either Soto enjoyed cross-dressing, or he’d had a frequent overnight guest. Wanda LeClair?

      After he finished rummaging through Soto’s clothes, he decided to call it quits. He’d have to come back tomorrow when he had more time, and more energy. Leaving, he noticed a photograph on Soto’s nightstand. A small photograph in a silver frame of an attractive middle-aged woman standing between two teenage boys, both of whom looked like Michael Soto, sleek and darkly handsome even at that raw age. He guessed it was Soto with his mother and twin brother, even though the woman happened to be blond and fair-skinned, clearly an Anglo. Did that mean Soto’s father had been Hispanic?

      Who was Soto? Now the question began to interest him.

      But the clock on the nightstand reminded him of the time. Nearly seven. Estelle would be furious.

      He wondered if he should call her. Or would

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