St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

cocks. The cops thank her kindly and promise to drive by when nothing else is happening in the city.”
    “Even with a sad-faced kid, the day would have to be really slow before I lead with a barrio story. I did a scab picker about dogfighting three months ago. Didn’t do shit for the ratings. Who the hell cares about chickens?” But while she said it, Dykstra made a note to see if the mother would agree to an interview before the kid’s face healed.
    Tits and tots, vets and pets. The grist of human interest stories hadn’t changed in a hundred years.
    “Is that it?” she asked.
    Tom flipped through the pile. “A bowl of posole reveals the face of the Virgin of Guadalupe.”
    “You better be making that up.”
    He tossed her a letter and a photograph.
    She glanced at the photo. “Okay, you aren’t.” She dropped the photo and letter in the trash. “When are these geeks going to figure out that I know about digitizing? Give me a computer and I could find the Last Supper in pond scum.” She looked at her assistant. “You through torturing me yet?”
    “Just about. Saving the good stuff for last.” He pulled an envelope out of the pile, waving the Quintrell ranch logo at his boss. “The governor’s aunt is a nutcase.”
    Dykstra perked up. “That has possibilities. Has he been ignoring or abusing her, denying her treatment?”
    “She didn’t say.”
    “She who?”
    Tom flapped the envelope and its contents. “The aunt.”
    Dykstra grabbed the papers and read quickly. The letter was quick and to the point. The photocopied document was more difficult. It was written in old Spanish with an equally old English translation at the bottom. Both versions were signed in the precise yet flowing script that centuries of nuns and schoolmistresses had drilled into students.
    Miss Winifred Simmons y Castillo’s handwriting was almost as dated, but the charge she made was very clear: in order to inherit the Quintrell ranch, Governor Josh Quintrell should have an mtDNA test to prove beyond any doubt that he is the descendant of Isobel Castillo.
    Dykstra snorted. Obviously the aunt was a head case, but that didn’t matter. The governor and presidential hopeful was news. With luck, this could be milked for a week, maybe even get featured on the evening news show. She’d have to set up an interview with the old bat, but first…
    “You know anything about, uh, mtDNA?” Dykstra asked.
    “Not a clue.”
    She handed back the letter. “Get busy. I want to do a brief promo on this at three o’clock.”

CHIMAYO
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
54
    WEARING A PAIR OF LEVI ’ S THAT HADN ’ T BEEN TAILORED OR IRONED , ANNE QUINTRELL met her husband at the door. There was no fanfare surrounding him, no town car and driver, no bodyguards. The vehicle in the driveway was one of the thousands of anonymous white rentals that infested airports. At Josh’s request they were staying at a supporter’s consciously rustic vacation house in Chimayo, rather than in the gubernatorial mansion. It was the only way he could dodge Dykstra.
    Sometimes freedom of the press was a real pain in the ass.
    As far as the public knew, the governor was still on the East Coast at a nonsectarian religious retreat to discuss the spiritual aspect of political office. Privately, Josh had thought it was a waste of time, but so was much of the public part of being a politician. When Pete had called, Josh had leaped at the reason for leaving, and everyone had agreed to keep it quiet so that he had time to grieve without the media ghouls hanging off every stoplight.
    “I’m sorry,” Anne said to her husband. She barely recognized him beneath the slouch hat and clothes that were better suited to a fishing trip than a public outing. White stubble covered his face from cheekbones to throat. He looked like he’d hitchhiked rather than flown in from his last fund-raiser. “I know there wasn’t much love lost between you and your aunt, but it’s still not easy.”
    Josh came inside so that Anne could close and lock the door behind him. He tossed his slouch hat aside, revealing his trademark thatch of silver hair. “I’m getting sick of bouncing back and forth for family funerals. In fact, I may be getting sick, period.” He thought of the flatout sprint for the presidency that awaited him. Eleven months of hell.
    On the other hand, with a little luck, this time next year he’d be president of the United States of America. Not bad for a kid nobody had ever