Chapter 40

In most mystery novels where there's a PI as the main character, he doesn't tell the cops anything unless they already know it or they force it out of him. There are two things wrong with that. First, PIs don't go around investigating murder after murder – their work is like mine. They hunt bail skips, follow spouses who may be committing adultery, investigate insurance claims, serve subpoenas, and otherwise operate around the fringes of law enforcement. They're not cops, and mostly don't want to be cops or they would be, and don't pretend to be cops.

And second, when a PI does have information that's relevant to a case the police are working, he'd better turn it over to them or he'll find himself having to get a day job. It's not just that the police can make someone's life miserable if they want to – ticketing the most minor traffic violations, enforcing noise ordinances to the letter, arresting him if he gives his 13-year-old daughter a sip of beer since that's giving alcohol to a minor and a crime, doing all the little things that the law permits police officers to do but most don't since they've got better things to do with their time. It's also that it's just plain illegal to conceal knowledge of a crime or of information that could lead to prosecution of the criminal. And cops and DAs just don't much like anyone who by withholding information from them prevents them from doing their job, which is, after all, investigating crimes, arresting suspects, and trying them before a jury of their peers ... though a jury of the average criminal's peers would be a frightening thing, not just because it would be 12 criminals, but because the chairs they sat in would have higher IQs.

At any rate, neither Cecelia nor I thought for a minute of not letting Stubblefield know what we'd learned. I drove, and Cecelia called. I was headed for police headquarters, where we'd turn over our notes and give fuller statements than are practical over the phone. And then the army that police agencies can unleash would go to work. Stubblefield would have the Motor Vehicle Department give him the information on all registered vehicles with those letters on the license plate. With that list, he could then weed out all which weren't dark colored SUVs, and further take note of which were registered at addresses in the general area of San Antonio.

He would also have MVD get him the driver's license pictures of everyone who owned a vehicle with those letters on the plate, and he could see which ones fit the description. And then he could cross reference pictures with addresses. Or he'd have his people do it – if there's one thing a police administrator doesn't have, it's time to do all the grunt work. An ordinary cop does so much paperwork that he keeps timber companies in business, and when he's running a multi-agency task force, with the necessity of distributing everything to each agency, he spends more time on paperwork than on breathing.

In a way, Cecelia and I might have just worked ourselves out of a job. If the information Holly had given us led to an arrest, the task force wouldn't need us anymore, and we could go back to our regular lives – except that it would probably be a long process getting the city to pay the bill for our time and expenses. But I knew how to handle that. I'm not the greatest fan the media has ever had, having seen how they tend to deliver shallow and often inaccurate information without regard for decency or others' privacy, but I know a couple or three reporters who would be glad to run stories on how the city had to call us in and then tried to stiff us. But that would be an absolute last resort, since I need to keep on the good side of a lot of police officers.

I parked in the official garage, and we did our necessary deed. Already things were buzzing, and it was a lowly uniform who made copies of our notes and took our statements. But that's how any organization works – when the "high hiedyins," as Ian Rankin's Scottish police officers call them, are busy, the low people on the totem pole get the boring jobs.

With that out of the way, Cecelia and I headed for some relaxation. We could have gone home, but instead I drove us, going cattycorner through side streets, toward the tram. It had been a while since we'd ridden it up to Sandia Crest, and I'd taken a notion to get away from the city, to look at it from a mile higher and see it from a different perspective. I had no illusions – I wasn't going to have any profound insights nor come up with any great and wise conclusions, but I've found that looking at the whole spread of city sitting 5,000 feet below me is a nice thing. Albuquerque is nowhere near as large in population as New York City or LA, and it certainly doesn't cover anywhere near the area that LA does, but with a million people in it and houses and buildings spreading all over all the time, it can begin to seem gigantic. From the Crest, it's obvious that it isn't all that big compared with the sweep of the Rio Grande Valley, and mentally it becomes more manageable.

And besides, it's just plain fun to look down at the city, to see Mount Taylor huge on the horizon, and to walk on the Crest with the pine trees and the limestone and the view eastward into a cooler and wetter country. Sandia Crest divides two worlds, almost, the west which is arid and brown, and the east where there's a ski slope just half a dozen miles by tram from Albuquerque's Far Heights.

We paid the fee at the gate, for there's more to the tram area than just the tram – it's possible to wander along trails, and eat in the restaurant, and otherwise spend time and money too if you want without ever setting foot in the car. But Cecelia and I bought tickets for the next "flight," as they call it with some reason, and went outside to watch the tram car descending toward us. When it landed, the passengers got off, we got on with eight or 10 other people, and took off. I've got a mild case of acrophobia, nothing serious but enough to make me careful on ladders, but I've found that when I'm inside something it doesn't bother me. I can fly without any problem, and I love standing at the windows of the tram and watching the ground go by hundreds of feet below. To Cecelia the main attraction of the tram is the fact that you can get to the Crest without driving miles around and then up a very twisty road on the eastern slope of the Sandia Mountains. But I could cheerfully ride it all day long, just looking at the scenery. We both love scenery, and she enjoys watching it go by when we drive, but for some reason it doesn't interest her when she's riding up to the top of the Sandias.