A key lock slotted the doorknob. Cardenas turned the knob and the door swung open.

I said, “It’s never locked?”

“Sure it is,” he said. “But it’s not much of a lock. I got it open this morning with a nail file. Go ahead in.”

What remained of Stylish Lady was vacant space walled in warped panels of fake rosewood tongue-and-groove, darkened by the plywood window and filthy oilcloth shades concealing a high rear window.

Cardenas stayed in front, propping the door open with his body. “Otherwise it shuts and you’re in a cave.”

I thanked him and explored. Below the high window, the back door was hollow and flimsy. My footsteps were soft pads. Concrete floors created a great sound baffle. I thought of two woman savaged, their cries unheard.

In bad movies, detective savants learn volumes revisiting long-dormant crime scenes. This was dim, dead space and I wasn’t producing a single syllable.

“Where does the back door lead?”

“Kind of an alley. Go look.”

Behind the shop was a ribbon of rocky dirt that paralleled Ojo Negro Avenue, barely wide enough for one car. Dead end to the south, exit to the north.

I went back inside and returned to Cardenas. “The assumption was that Leonora had closed for the day, was cleaning up.”

“Makes sense,” he said.

“With the town being so quiet, she’d have no reason to lock up until she left.”

“People still don’t lock up, Doctor. Last year, right after I got here, a bobcat waltzed right into Mrs. Wembley’s house, managed to get in her fridge and ate a whole bunch of tuna salad. She’s eighty-nine, try changing her.”

“She the lady with the coyote?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Met your sister driving in. She’d just released a coyote trapped on an eighty-nine-year-old woman’s property.”

“Where’d Ricki release the darn thing?”

“Couple of miles out of town.”

“Meaning it’ll come right back.” He shrugged. “Up to me, I’d shoot it. Ricki’s one of those animal rights activists. Yeah, that’s Mrs. Wembley. Critters like her ’cause she’s always got open food around.”

“Is she one of the people you talked to this morning?”

“Nope, she was napping on her porch when I came by to get the trap and that woman can sleep. We can go over to her place, if you like. Lady’s got opinions on just about everything.”

“My kind of gal.”

“My ex was like that,” he said. “First you think it’s challenging. Then you get tired of being challenged.”

I laughed.

He said, “Ricki and I got divorced three months apart. Our parents split up when we were nine and now our younger brother’s making sounds like he’s about had it. Guess marrying’s not our talent – if there’s nothing else, I’m gonna close up, Doctor.”

We got into his Bronco; he U-turned and headed up the road his sister had taken past the town’s center. We came to a scatter of residences, mostly prefabs and trailers set on blocks.

No one in sight but Cardenas drove slowly, looking everywhere, the way cops do.

“So,” he said, “any ideas from seeing the scene?”

“Just how easy it would’ve been, especially after dark.”

“How so?”

“The killer could’ve come in through either door and gone out the back. Anyone develop a theory about who the main target was?”

“You mean Bright versus Tranh? Not that I heard. I’ve been assuming it was Bright, because the stranger was white, not Asian, and most nuts kill within their race. But maybe that’s limited thinking.”

“Any idea why Vicki moved here?”

He smiled. “You mean of all the godforsaken places how’d she find Ojo Negro? I couldn’t tell you. We do get immigrants from time to time, mostly Spanish. With all the surrounding ranches and vineyards, it’s kind of perfect for someone who wants to work hard and doesn’t want to be looked at too closely.”

“By who?”

“The INS, for one. Take the Ramirezes. When they got here, they barely spoke English but is anyone checking their El Salvador visas or whichever? They cut hair real well, everyone’s happy they’re here.” Cupping smooth, bronze cranial skin. “Not that I’m an expert.”

He turned the wheel easily, drove up a packed-earth driveway, pointed to a double-wide set well back from the road and preceded by an acre of weeds. “This is Mrs. Wembley’s place – and there she is, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

The trailer was shaded by an aluminum awning. As we rolled forward, a rotund pink form in an armchair looked up. At ten feet away, a mouth opened in a strawberry-pudding face and a magazine waved.

“Put some speed on, George. You’re the law, no one’s going to cite you.”

Cardenas said, “Don’t want to churn up your dirt, Mrs. Wembley.”

“Churn away,” she said. “Maybe something’ll grow.”

We parked, made our way through dead brush. Mrs. Wembley remained in her chair. A pink Las Vegas: Fun Fun Fun!!! sweatshirt matched her complexion. Gray sweatpants strained to package her thighs. Her feet dangled an inch above the porch boards. The rest of her body overflowed the confines of the chair.

As Cardenas began the introductions, she broke in, flashing a denture grin. “I’m Mavis, Missus was my mother-in-law and we don’t want to remember her with anything but unpleasantness.”

Pudgy fingers gripped mine and squeezed hard.

She said, “You’re a cute one.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“George is cute, too. That’s why I make sure critters visit, so I get to see my knight in khaki armor – this time you sent your sister, George. Is it my breath?”

“Ricki had some time-”

“Just kidding, Galahad. So serious. So tell me, that ca-yote was something, huh? Vicious teeth. Where’d she let it go?”

“Far enough.”

“I think she resents me for calling you all the time.”

She smoothed pleated white hair, tweaked a bulbous nose. Her cheeks glowed, smooth as a child’s. Fat’s a great wrinkle filler.

Cardenas said, “Of course she doesn’t.”

Mavis Wembley said, “She most certainly does,” and massaged an arm of her throne. The chair was slip-covered in blue-and-white duck cloth, like something from a Hamptons pictorial. Everything else on the porch was tubular aluminum and plastic straps.

“New upholstery?” said Cardenas.

Mavis Wembley slapped her magazine against a dimpled knee. “Like it?”

“Very pretty.”

“Pottery Barn, George. Love those catalogs, the whole world opens up to you. Especially suited for living in a metropolis like this one.”

Another slap of the magazine. The New Yorker.

Cardenas said, “Didn’t know you subscribe.”

“I don’t,” she said. “They sent me one of those special offers. Four free months and then you can cancel, no charge. I figured to cancel but now I’m not sure. They tend to go on too long – don’t you be like that when you write your book, George, the key is to communicate not to pontificate. But they do have some interesting tidbits. This one has a story about a New York Jew who sews fur coats for those Negro rappers. All those agitators screaming about cruelty to critters but this Jew keeps making ermine sweatshirts and the like. A man with backbone.”

Cardenas said, “Keep leaving food out, Mavis, and we can send him a bunch of skins.”

“Nice little ca-yote coat for the rappers.” She cackled. “Wouldn’t that be cute. Who’s your cute friend? Another policeman or another writer?”

“He’s a psychologist, Mavis.”

She gazed up at me. “I’ve known some people who could use one of those. As in mother-in-laws. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking into the murders of Leonora Bright and Vicki-”

“Tranh. Well, you came to the right place because I know who did it.”

Cardenas hitched his trousers. His holstered gun wobbled. “Really.”