The Lies that Bind Read Free

she’d ever thought that. Last I’d heard, they were living in Phoenix. She’d written me once to tell me her mother had moved to Albuquerque and to suggest I look her up, but I didn’t. Martha hadn’t approved of me when I was in high school—I was Cindy’s hippie friend—which made me wonder what she was doing at my doorstep now. Did she think a license to practice law had made me respectable?
    I led the way across the parking lot to my yellow Nissan, which was loaded with bumper stickers from the previous owner, stickers I’d been meaning to scrape off but hadn’t yet. McDonald’s recycled brown bags decomposed slowly in the compost heap the floor on the passenger side had become. The files from the Chávez case were sitting on the seat. I put the files in the trunk, picked the litter off the floor, took it to the Dumpster and dumped it in. I got in my side, Martha Conover got in the other. She straightened her back, placed her purse square in her lap and fastened her seat belt with a metallic click.
    This wasn’t exactly my living room, but it was as close as she was going to get. Here I was ready to talk, and before we went any further there were some things I wanted to know, like when, where, how and who. “When did this supposed homicide take place?” I asked.
    â€œLast night around ten-fifteen, the police say.” Martha peered around her as if the other cars had ears. I continued my line of questioning.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn the road at Los Cerros, the apartment complex I own and live in.”
    She was doing all right with her investments; Los Cerros was one of the largest apartment complexes in town. “How?”
    â€œ The police say I ran her over.”
    â€œWhat do you say?”
    â€œI hit a speed bump. I was going too fast, and I hit a speed bump.” Her blue eyes flashed at me. She spun a diamond and sapphire ring around on her finger.
    â€œDid you see anyone when you were driving up the road or entering your apartment?”
    â€œI don’t have an apartment. I have a town house.”
    â€œDid you see anyone?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid the APD indicate that they had witnesses?”
    â€œThey knocked on some doors, looking for the owner of my car, but my neighbors were asleep and hadn’t seen or heard anything, except for the one who found the body in the road and called the police.”
    â€œThey had to have some reason to impound your car.”
    â€œThere were dents in the bumper and the hood.”
    Was there any blood on the car, I wondered, hair or fibers that hadn’t washed off in the rain? The DA’s office would have that information sooner or later, but they were unlikely to give it to me, not unless Martha got indicted. There was one other question that always needs to be asked when motor vehicles are involved. “Were you drinking?”
    â€œI had two martinis at the Albuquerque Women’s Club meeting,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap.
    â€œDid the police take a Breathalyzer?” I asked.
    â€œI wouldn’t let them.” Her eyes were defiant and proud of it.
    â€œThey did tell you that refusing to take a Breathalyzer means an automatic suspension of your license for a year, didn’t they?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re lucky they didn’t put you in jail,” I said. She shrugged as if to imply she wasn’t the kind of woman who got sent to jail. “Did the police read you your rights?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou should have called me last night before you said anything to them.”
    â€œI wanted to discuss it with Whit and Cynthia before I called anybody.”
    I had a few more questions. “Who was Justine Virga?”
    â€œShe was once my grandson Michael’s girlfriend,” Martha Conover said.
    â€œYou knew her?” When the accused knows the victim (and they do 86 percent of the time), it