Murder on Sagebrush Lane

By Patricia Smith Wood

A murder on a quiet street in Albuquerque leads a psychic amateur sleuth and her FBI agent husband into an investigation of stolen government secrets.
 
Trouble always seems to find Harrie McKinsey. From the darkness that haunts her dreams at night, to the morning she discovers a toddler sitting in the flower bed on her front porch, covered in blood. A search for the little girl’s parents leads Harrie and her husband, FBI agent DJ Scott, into a grisly murder investigation of the child’s father, a computer lab employee at Sandia National Labs with a security clearance at the highest government levels.
 
Whatever Katie’s father knew, it led to his brutal death. And now with the child’s life at stake, Harrie won’t sit still until the killer is caught. Along with DJ, her best friend Ginger, and Ginger’s husband, Harrie is drawn into a world where there are those who would stop at nothing shy of theft, kidnapping, and murder to gain power. Harrie might just be in over her head this time. But that doesn’t stop her from pursuing a killer who intends to make her his final victim.
 
“Filled with tension and suspense. . . . This is Patricia Wood’s best book yet.” —Joseph Badal, Hillerman Prize–winning author of Ultimate Betrayal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jan 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781504090667

Book preview

1

Monday, June 9

A dark room—a large pool of blood—the body of a man with no face. And just like that, they were back.

Harrie McKinsey Scott sat on the edge of the bed, taking slow, deep breaths, waiting for her wildly beating heart to resume a more normal rhythm. Each time she thought the dreams were gone for good, and each time they returned. Her brain fought to focus on the real world and leave behind that dimension reached in sleep. She glanced over at her husband, who still slept peacefully. Good. He needed this extra hour.

When the panic had subsided, she grabbed her robe and pushed her feet into fuzzy slippers. She eased the bedroom door open, and Tuptim paced back and forth, meowing pitifully. The sleek Siamese cat bounded down the hall, leading her mistress into the kitchen.

At 5:00 a.m., a hint of the beautiful day to come already painted the predawn sky. Harrie opened the curtains over the kitchen sink. On a clear day like this, the view was spectacular. At this elevation she could see the vast mesa west of Albuquerque, with its three volcanoes, and the splendor of Mount Taylor in the distance. She felt her spirits lift, and the feeling of dread lessening.

She needed coffee—lots of coffee—and the newspaper. Reading about all the world’s problems made hers seem insignificant. She fed the eager cat, took a moment to stroke the animal’s velvety fur, and chuckled. Cats. Two squares a day, a soft place to curl up, people to dominate, and they were happy. Harrie pushed the button to start the coffee maker and slipped out the side door to retrieve the paper in her front yard.

Even at the beginning of summer in the high desert of New Mexico, mornings arrived with a slight chill in the air, and she pulled her robe tighter. As she approached the front of the house, she spied the newspaper in the driveway. Leaning over to pick it up, she thought she saw movement in the front yard. Probably a rabbit. They often nibbled on a bit of grass at this hour. She straightened up slowly and turned her head to look. Much too large for a rabbit.

A small child with long blonde hair, wearing pink pajamas, sat on the edge of the lawn next to the flowerbeds. She looked to be maybe two years old. She was barefoot and seemed intent on what she held in her hand. Harrie walked slowly toward her.

Hi there, Harrie said. What’s your name?

The little blonde head bobbed up and looked at Harrie with interest, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she held out a stuffed bear for inspection. Harrie moved closer and hunched down.

The bear had a big stain on its head. Harrie noticed a dark smear on the child’s hands and on the front of her pink pajamas. She reasoned it must be mud since the flowerbeds in her yard were still damp from the sprinklers that morning. Irritation flared in Harrie at the carelessness of this child’s parents. How could she be out before sunup, wandering all alone, playing in the dirt? Harrie had no idea who the child might be or where she belonged. She and DJ had lived on Sagebrush Lane only a short time, and she had no knowledge of any small children living in the immediate area. How far could this little girl have walked before she got tired and stopped here?

Harrie looked at the houses across the street and on either side. No apparent activity in any of them. Draperies were still closed, and the only sound came from a neighbor’s sprinklers down the street.

She thought about calling the police. The parents would probably be terribly embarrassed and have to answer many questions. Too bad. Maybe they needed a wake-up call in more ways than one.

She reached for the little girl’s hand and said, Come with me, Sweetie. We need to find your mommy and daddy. My name is Harrie. Would you like a glass of orange juice? The child nodded solemnly and reached for Harrie’s outstretched hand.

As she clasped the small, cold hand in her own warmer one, Harrie became aware of stickiness on the child’s fingers. Now Harrie’s own hand felt sticky. She bent down to gather up the little girl, careful to avoid staining her own clothing. Chocolate or syrup?

Harrie sniffed at her hand. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise up, and she shivered. Such a distinctive smell—blood.

2

DJ Scott rose early most days and went for a quick run before showering and dressing for work. Last night’s late return from a taskforce operation had left him tired, so he hadn’t set his alarm. But this morning he jolted awake, his brain struggling to identify an unfamiliar sound. A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand showed 5:18 a.m. He noticed Harrie wasn’t in bed, and logically that could explain the sound. But something told him that wasn’t it.

He got his robe from the foot of the bed and felt for his slippers. In the dimness of the curtained room, he walked to the armoire and briefly considered taking his Glock out of the top drawer. Rejecting that idea he eased opened the bedroom door and listened a few seconds. He heard the faint sound of Harrie’s voice. She spoke quietly, and it didn’t seem like a conversation she’d be having with her cat.

He followed the sound and found her in the kitchen, bending over a chair hidden from his view. She seemed to sense his presence and turned toward him, holding a small glass of orange juice.

Oh Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.

DJ approached, preparing to take her in his arms. Then he noticed the small blonde head attached to a child sitting in the chair. She had a blanket wrapped around her tiny body.

Uh, who’s your little friend?

Harrie turned back to the child and handed her the glass of juice before she responded. She took DJ’s arm and led him a short distance away.

We have a little problem here, and I don’t know exactly who to call about it. She related what she’d found in their front yard and the condition of the child.

I cleaned off the blood from her hands and clothes the best I could.

DJ blew out a breath. We have to call the police. The authorities should know about a child that small, wandering around by herself, with blood on her clothing.

Harrie nodded, and she looked over at the child. I guess you’re right, but couldn’t we wait a little while? She hasn’t said anything. I’m not even sure she can talk. The blood isn’t coming from her, I’m positive of that. She doesn’t seem to be injured in any way. I wanted to warm her up and see if she could tell me her name and maybe where she lives. So far, she’s just sitting there, hugging that stuffed bear and drinking juice. She’s on her third glass.

DJ lifted Harrie’s chin up to look into her eyes. Why didn’t you just wake me? Us FBI types are supposed to be good at solving mysteries and dealing with damsels in distress.

Harrie put her arms around him. I thought I could figure it out so you could get more sleep. You looked so peaceful. If she’s not injured, and we don’t even know where she came from, where do we start? Besides, you don’t know any more about children than I do.

She pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes bright. That’s it! I’ll call Ginger! She’ll know what to do. With twin boys, she must have dealt with every imaginable childhood emergency in the book. By the end of this speech, Harrie was halfway to the telephone on the built-in kitchen desk.

Uh, excuse me, DJ said. It’s not even 5:30. Let’s don’t go crazy here. Give Steve and Ginger a break.

Harrie stopped, and her shoulders sagged. Of course you’re right.

DJ smiled at her. I’ll go in the bedroom and call this in. Why don’t you talk to our little friend, and see if you can get her name. He gave her a hug and left to make the call.

Harrie went back to their visitor and knelt down. Sweetie, can you tell me your name? She looked at the empty glass the girl held in her chubby hand. Are you still thirsty? The child nodded and held the glass out to her.

Harrie went to the pantry to see what else she could serve her guest, and pulled out a container of cocoa.

Do you like chocolate milk, Sweetie? Harrie held out the tin for the little girl to see. The child’s eyes brightened, and she nodded her head in approval.

By the time Harrie prepared the drink and delivered it to her thirsty guest, DJ was back, dressed in his FBI sweatshirt, jeans, and favorite running shoes. Harrie saw that he had concealed his smaller pistol in his ankle holster. She raised her eyebrows in the unspoken question.

I called the police and found out APD was dispatched a few minutes ago to a multiple vehicle accident on I-25. There’s an eighteen-wheeler on its side, spilling a noxious liquid all over the road. It’ll be at least an hour before they can send anyone to investigate a lost child.

Harrie opened her mouth to protest, but DJ stopped her.

Yes, my darling. I told them about the substance on the child’s clothes and hands. I also told them I would see if I can determine the situation and locate her parents.

Harrie nodded reluctant agreement. She knelt back down beside the little girl. DJ joined them, but had to sit on the floor, cross-legged, just to get down to the child’s level. Hey young lady. If I took you outside, do you think you could point to your house?

To their astonishment, the little blonde head nodded, and she reached out her arms to DJ. He picked her up and pulled himself up to his full 6 feet 4 inches. Harrie scrambled up.

You are an amazing man, DJ Scott. What’s your secret? Harrie grinned at him and stroked the little girl’s soft blonde hair.

I don’t know, Ma’am. I guess small mysterious women just take a hankering to me. He winked at his petite wife. Why don’t you go put on some clothes, and we’ll see if we can figure out where this young lady came from.

Harrie dressed and returned in less time than DJ would have believed possible. She had on sweatpants and a shirt similar to his, but she had stuffed most of her hair up inside a lavender baseball cap.

They walked out their front door, and DJ and Harrie surveyed the area. Sagebrush Lane ran north and south, with their house on the west side. Their block ended in a cul-de-sac, and Harrie and DJ’s house sat right next to the house on the curve. It seemed logical to start on their side, scope out the three houses beyond theirs, then cross over and come back down. Harrie said, If she shows any recognition, I’ll go knock on the door.

I’ll do the door knocking, DJ said. You will stand with her and wait until I see what’s up.

Harrie rolled her eyes, but agreed, and they headed south for the first house. She smiled to herself at the picture the three of them presented: a tall man wearing an FBI sweatshirt, holding a tiny blonde child in pajamas, accompanied by a short woman with no makeup, and a funky lavender cap partially covering her auburn hair. Not a great way to introduce yourself to your neighbors.

DJ spoke softly to the child as they walked. As they passed each house, he whispered in her ear, and she would shake her head. When they reached the end of the street, DJ started to cross over to the other side and start back down. But he stopped when the girl spoke for the first time.

No! Be way down dar way, way down dar way! She became animated for the first time since she’d held out her arms to DJ.

He looked at Harrie, confusion on his face. What’s she saying?

Harrie reached for the child. Come tell Harrie what you want, Sweetheart.

But the little girl clutched DJ harder, buried her small head in his chest and sobbed. Dadoe down dar way. Dadoe boo boo. Way down dar way.

Harrie said, I think she wants to go across to the next block.

Okay, Kiddo. It’s all right. You want to go down there? DJ pointed to the next block down Sagebrush Lane. The tiny head bobbed vigorously. She rubbed her eyes and pointed with a stubby finger in the direction DJ indicated.

DJ shrugged. She seems to know what she wants.

The sun inched up above the Sandias, bathing the far west side of the city in brilliance. Being this close to the mountain, their neighborhood remained shaded and eerily deserted. Occasionally a car proceeded along a street several blocks away, but otherwise everything stayed quiet. As they walked, their running shoes made almost no sound. DJ repeated the same procedure he’d followed with the child before, whispering to her and waiting for her response. When they’d walked six houses from the corner, the little girl responded. She looked where DJ pointed, nodded slowly, then pressed her face back into his chest. Harrie looked at the house.

DJ, she said in a stage whisper, the front door is open. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.

The house was a two-story southwestern style with a large covered porch area. The front door, painted a deep turquoise, stood open about three-quarters of the way.

DJ’s jaw clenched, and a muscle twitched close to his temple. Turn around, he whispered to Harrie. Be very casual and just turn around. We’re going back home. Harrie had already started up the walk toward the door, but she stopped at the tone of his voice and turned back.

Shouldn’t we make sure everything’s okay? she whispered back at him.

DJ reached for her arm and pulled her toward him. Don’t look back, he said quietly but with definite urgency. Harrie stifled any protest when she saw his face.

As they turned to go back up the street, the little girl started to cry, but DJ spoke to her so softly Harrie couldn’t hear what he said. Whatever it was, the child went quiet, clutched the bear tighter, and rested her head on his shoulder.

When they reached the end of the block and were ready to cross back to the cul-de-sac, Harrie said, Why didn’t we at least check out the place?

Because, DJ said quietly, his head turned away from the child, you were right. Something is very wrong. I want the two of you safely back in our house.

Harrie’s skin felt cold, despite the now warmer air. What … DJ put a finger to her lips.

I saw someone watching us from a window on the second floor.

3

Caroline Johnson loved her job, and on this particular morning felt grateful for the way fate often served up its surprises. Who would have thought less than three years ago she would be so content at this stage of her life?

She parked her car in front of Southwest Editorial Services and noted it was just before seven. No other cars were there yet, and that suited her. She enjoyed the solitude that allowed her to plan for the day. She could get a head start on whatever problems needed her attention before the rest of the staff arrived at eight. Her daughter-in-law Harrie, and Harrie’s friend Ginger Vaughn, owned the company and worked in the office most days. Caroline, as their Office Manager, had supervised a full staff of editors and typists for more than three years now. She didn’t need the work—she had plenty of money. But she planned to continue as long as Harrie and Ginger needed her.

She wasn’t surprised when she saw the blinking message light on her phone. Clients often called at all hours and left messages. She learned early on that writers were a different breed. Many of them preferred working late at night or in the very early morning hours. If they had questions or problems, they felt free to call and leave messages on voice mail. It worked out fine for everyone.

She dialed the code to retrieve her messages, and jotted down notes as she listened to each. The last message came from Harrie. She sounded breathless and agitated.

Caroline, I don’t know when or if I’ll be in today. Sorry to dump this on you at the last minute, but we have a tiny situation here. There’s nothing wrong with DJ or me, but we have an unexpected guest to deal with this morning, and I don’t know how long it will take. Could you please call Dr. Mead and tell him I’ll phone him tomorrow and reschedule our meeting? Also I need you to gather up the last hundred pages of his manuscript if it gets typed today. I’ll need it when I meet with him. Don’t worry. I’ll fill you in on everything as soon as I can. Oh, and tell Ginger I’ll call her, too. I just don’t know when.

The message ended, and Caroline hung up the phone. Her imagination conjured up all sorts of scenarios to explain Harrie’s agitation, and who the unexpected visitor might be. She shook her head and smiled. Life had not been dull since she met Harrie and Ginger.

Ginger arrived shortly before eight, and Caroline went in to give her Harrie’s message.

What’s going on? Is there a problem? Why didn’t she call me? Ginger, as usual, went in to her protective mother mode.

Caroline said, Nothing is wrong, at least not with Harrie or DJ. Beyond that and the message she left, I don’t know. You could try to call her, but she sounded … Caroline paused and searched for the right words, she sounded excited and tense at the same time. She promised she’d call you as soon as she could.

I don’t know, Ginger said and frowned. "She knows this kind of thing makes me crazy. Why wouldn’t she just call me on my cell?

Caroline shrugged. "I don’t know what to tell you. She said she’d call as soon as she could. She must be involved in something important. I’m sure we’ll hear from her soon.

Ginger tapped her index finger on the telephone. Caroline recognized that as a sign she was weighing the pros and cons of preempting Harrie by calling her first. The two friends seem to share a mysterious wavelength that allowed them to function at times by instinct. Ginger tapped the phone firmly one last time and reached for her coffee mug.

I’ll give her half an hour. If she doesn’t call back by then, I’m heading over there.

4

It seemed to Harrie that several hours had passed since she found the little girl playing in the flowerbeds. A glance at the kitchen clock told her it had been only three. Her house had become a temporary meeting place for the swarm of police officers sent to the scene. She pulled out another package of Styrofoam cups and filled two of them from the freshly brewed pot.

Who needs more coffee? She held out the steaming cups, and attracted the attention of the two closest men.

You didn’t really have to do this, Ma’am. Officer Harley, the younger of the two, shyly claimed one of the cups. He blushed furiously when his hand briefly touched Harrie’s.

But we do appreciate the fact that you did, said his seasoned partner as he reached for his coffee and frowned at Harley. The young officer blushed again when Harrie flashed him a big smile. The older officer leaned over to him and whispered, Forget it, Harley. She’s way out of your league, and she’s married to an FBI agent.

At that moment Lt. Bob Swanson, who was a friend of theirs and a seasoned detective from the Intel Unit, walked into the kitchen from the garage. He frowned at his coffee-sipping colleagues as they passed him, then smiled at Harrie. You don’t have to wait on us like that. We appreciate your making coffee, but we can serve ourselves. Come sit for a while. You’ve had quite a morning. He steered her into the family room.

Harrie shook her head. It’s nice of you to look out for me Swannie, but I can’t sit still. I tried, I really did, but I have to keep busy. She looked at her watch, shook it and looked at it again. Impatience tinged her voice. Haven’t you found out anything yet?

Swannie scanned the crowd of people in the family room, then focused his attention on Harrie. He lowered his voice. Where’s the child?

She’s in the guest room. While we waited for you, she fell asleep in my arms. Poor little thing fought it off as long as she could. When I carried her in and put her down, she didn’t even wake up. What did you find in the house?

Swannie’s jaw tightened, and he put both hands on Harrie’s shoulders. Lots of blood and the body of a man missing his face.

Last night’s bloody dream surged back into Harrie’s memory, and she felt her stomach churn. Then another thought occurred to her. My God! You don’t think that child saw what happened, do you?

I don’t know if she saw the murder, but I’d take odds on her being in the house when it happened. Swannie noticed Harrie’s ashen face. Are you sure you’re okay?

If you don’t mind, I think I will sit. She reached for the nearest chair and dropped into it, shaken by the implication of his words.

DJ hurried over and knelt beside Harrie. What’s wrong? He looked up at Swannie. What happened? What did you say to her?

Swannie motioned to DJ, and they walked into the kitchen. There’s a dead guy in that house, DJ. It’s pretty bad. The M.E. can’t say yet how he died, but probably by being bludgeoned. We can’t rule anything out though, until after the autopsy. Swannie filled him in on more of the details. He looked over at Harrie. I guess I shouldn’t have told her the part about him having no face.

DJ shook his head, No, it’s okay. There’s no way she would have let you out of here without hearing some of what you discovered. Do we know this guy’s identity?

Swannie took a notepad from his breast pocket and consulted it. We found a driver’s license in a wallet upstairs in the master bedroom. The name on it is Michael Rinaldi, age 35, five feet eleven inches, 175 pounds, blue eyes, black hair. We’re assuming that’s the body in the living room. We also found a Sandia National Labs security badge on the dresser. I called their Human Resources office and discovered Rinaldi is a kind of super computer geek there. He has a Top Secret clearance, and went to work at Sandia two years ago.

DJ frowned. Top Secret? That’s odd. Sandia is Department of Energy and their highest clearance is ‘Q.’ A Top Secret would indicate Department of Defense clearance. What’s his job out there?

He’s been working in their high security computer lab.

Doing what, exactly?

They wouldn’t say. I briefly interviewed a neighbor and discovered other information. Seems the little girl’s name is Katie, and she’s just two months past her second birthday. Rinaldi’s wife died of cancer about six months ago. Everything’s been in turmoil since then.

DJ shook his head. I’d say that’s an understatement. What about next of kin? Does he have family here in town?

Not according to his neighbor to the south. She says she talked to the deceased wife a few times when they first moved in. It seems the Rinaldis moved to Albuquerque two years ago when he got the job at Sandia, and they lived in an apartment until they found this house. They’ve been in the neighborhood about a year and a half. The neighbor said they came from back East but she’s not sure where. She said they had no family and apparently not many friends.

DJ looked down at his shoes. Great! The poor kid has nobody.

Swannie said, Not so fast. The neighbor across the street said the wife— he stopped and consulted his notes again— "Laura, had a stepsister. The neighbor said she didn’t know the stepsister’s name, but she’s been hanging around a lot ever since the wife died. Said this stepsister came out of the woodwork and told Rinaldi that Laura wanted her to take care of Katie. The neighbor said Rinaldi didn’t trust the woman and had