Buford shrugged.
At this, Sheriff Watts finally spoke. “That seems awfully long to me, too.”
Buford turned to him. “Good old government bureaucracy.”
“And where do those tracks go? That might be worth investigating.”
There was a silence during which everyone looked at one another. Then Buford chuckled. “Sheriff Watts, if you want to exercise your famous tracking skills, be my guest! Chaves County will thank you.”
Watts seemed taken by surprise, but he laughed good-naturedly. “Well, if you’ve got no objection, Sheriff, I think I might just do that.”
“None at all.”
Watts turned to Tappan. “Do you have the scan to show where they are?”
It was quickly produced, and Watts examined it. “Interesting.” He turned to Skip. “I’ll need you to come with me, show me where the lights were. Can you do that?”
“Of course!” Skip said with enthusiasm. “Can I bring my dog?”
“No. We can’t let anything disturb the tracks. We’ll begin early tomorrow.” He turned to Tappan. “May I keep this survey?”
“It’s strictly confidential, but for your own use, yes.”
“Good. Skip, I’ll be here at five thirty AM sharp tomorrow.”
“So early?” Skip groaned.
“We’ll avoid the heat of the day. See you then, pardner!” He gave him a friendly clap on the back.
44
CORRIE MADE A turn onto the dark residential street, cruised halfway down the block, then slid into a parking spot, engine idling. It was an older Albuquerque neighborhood, with Southwestern homes typical of the 1950s and ’60s, but none of those overdone Pueblo Revival structures from which Fred Flintstone might emerge at any minute. She glanced around for a moment, making sure nobody was nearby. Then she examined the house opposite. It was of a type with the rest: single-story, split-level, with a yard of decorative lava rock instead of grass, punctuated by the occasional cactus or yucca. The house was painted beige, naturally, with low stone wall accents. The front light was on, as was a single interior lamp in what Corrie figured was the living room. On a timer, no doubt. Nobody was home. There was no Realtor’s sign out front—but then, she supposed, it was too early for that.
She verified the house number with the contact list on her cell phone. This was it.
She pulled away from the curb and drove her twenty-year-old Camry around to the back of the block, where—as Google Maps had promised—there was a small park consisting of a turnout, swings, and a few picnic tables. It ran the length of the block and was too well lit to be a trysting spot or drug hangout. Across the street was an electrical substation, the kind that was never manned unless something broke down. This was a relief: no houses with security cameras or smart doorbells to worry about.
Glancing at her watch, she let two minutes go by as she listened to the night. Nothing but the sounds of ZZ Top coming faintly from one direction, and Nas just as faintly from the other. Oil and water, she thought.
She stepped out of her car, pulling a canvas duffel off the passenger seat, then leaned against the door, easing it closed. She made a leisurely tour of the parking lot, observing her surroundings casually but closely. As she began a second circuit, she stepped off the gravel at the spot with the least light, made her way past a row of box elders and through some undergrowth, crawled over an old split rail fence, and paused in the shadow of the back deck of the empty house.
After checking that everything was still clear, she ducked under the deck and, taking the hooded flashlight from her duffel, dialed it to the lowest level and examined the windows set near the basement ceiling. They were small but passable. Next, she ran the faint beam along the sills, then the interior itself, looking for any active security measures or alarm system. She saw nothing. Knowing Agent Morwood, he may well have acted as his own security.
In the beam of her light, she could make out a worktable with a long rack of power tools arranged carefully above it, along with several suitcases stacked neatly in a far corner. It seemed the house was untouched, exactly as Morwood left it five nights ago. As far as she knew, he had no close relatives; it would probably take a while for the wheels of probate or whatever to start turning.
Putting aside her flashlight, she reached into her duffel for a long, narrow shim, which she worked into the space between the window and its lower frame, using a technique she’d learned during extracurricular activities in high school. It was a tight fit—Morwood’s house was, if not alarmed, secure from the elements—but after several minutes she felt a sudden loss of resistance as the casement latch slid free.