Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  “Tentatively. Remember, we have to factor in the weathering of the bones, but I’d give the victim’s age between twenty and thirty years, based on the microscopic examination of the fibula we found.”

  “The victim’s race?”

  “Probably Anglo or Hispanic, based on the size of the pubic bone. Find the skull and I can narrow it down further. If you do, I’ll have a facial reconstruction made.”

  “What’s next?”

  “I want to see if I can match up the saw marks to various types of hand or power tools. That will take some time. I’ll also do an X-ray examination to see if I can discover any foreign or metallic objects. I still don’t have a clue how the woman was killed.”

  “You do good work, Ms. Jordan.” Kerney turned away and started for the door.

  “Thanks.” Melody pushed her hair away from her forehead and stood. “Was that a mustang you were riding on the mesa?”

  Kerney paused at the door and looked back. “You know your horses.”

  “Do you ride a lot?” The thousand-watt smile Dale had noticed on the mesa lit up Melody’s face.

  “Not as much as I’d like. I don’t have the time.”

  “I have two quarter horses, a mare and a gelding. I stable them at a friend’s place. I think you’d like the gelding. I’ve been looking for somebody who can give him a good workout. He needs a firm hand. Interested?”

  Kerney pushed back the appealing thought of a day in the saddle accompanied by an attractive woman, and chose his words carefully. “I don’t see how I can fit it into my schedule. Thanks again for the good work.”

  Melody’s smile faded. She returned to the stool, lowered her head over the microscope, and spoke without looking up. “I’ll have a follow-up report for you as soon as possible.”

  Kerney waited a beat for Melody to say more. She kept her eye glued to the microscope, picked up a pencil, and started writing. He left thinking there were a lot of drawbacks to being a boss.

  • • •

  Sgt. Gabe Gonzales arrived at the district office after dark to find a pile of paperwork waiting for him. He thumbed through it quickly. It contained a note from his captain assigning him full-time to the murder investigation, a preliminary report of Melody Jordan’s examination of the skeletal remains, a copy of the most recent crime statistics for the San Geronimo area that had been faxed to Chief Kerney, and a list of missing persons reports on women who had disappeared in northern New Mexico during the past ten years. Clipped to the paperwork was a note indicating that investigative reports on the targeted missing women had been received from various law enforcement agencies and could be accessed by computer.

  Gabe read Melody Jordan’s report first before scanning the computer files on the ten women reported missing from northern New Mexico. He found no medical information on a woman with an old fracture to the upper left arm. It didn’t surprise him: that kind of detail usually didn’t surface in a preliminary missing persons report.

  He scrolled the computer files again. Eight of the missing women were residents of the state, and two were tourists passing through. Only three fell within the age range Melody had established. He would work those three as a short list before moving on to the others. If nothing promising materialized, he’d access the National Crime Information Center data bank on missing persons and see what popped up.

  He checked the time and grimaced. Since his divorce last year, getting home at a reasonable hour had become important to Gabe. He had one child from the marriage, Orlando, who lived with him, attended the local university, and worked part-time.

  Both were busy, but when Gabe worked the day shift he liked to get home early and fix dinner for the two of them.

  Tonight that wasn’t going to happen.

  He called home, got the answering machine, left Orlando a message, and started organizing his field notes for his report. It would take a good two hours to do the write-up, make fresh crime scene sketches, and mount the photographs on exhibit forms. Deputy Chief Kerney expected the report on his desk first thing in the morning, and Gabe wanted to make sure it got there complete and on time.

  He sat back in his chair, rubbed the back of his neck, and thought about Kerney. He was an outsider who had been quickly elevated to deputy chief, but his reputation as an investigator was outstanding. In short order, Kerney had personally cleared two major cases, a multimillion-dollar Santa Fe art theft and the murder of a small-town cop. But he was also an old friend of the state police chief, Andy Baca, which kept the issue of cronyism alive among the department gossips.

  Gabe decided not to waste his time worrying about whether or not Kerney was a good boss. That question would be answered as Gabe learned more about how the chief operated. He picked up the crime statistics report for San Geronimo that Kerney had requested. During the last year there had been two incidents of cattle theft, two reports of illegal wood harvesting, and three acts of vandalism to cabins, along with eight burglaries to summer homes.

  Gabe got out the two prior-year statistical reports and paged through the property crimes information. Up until last year, San Geronimo had been virtually crime free. He made a note to check with the county sheriff for an update on recent criminal activity in San Geronimo. If the rising crime trend had continued into the new year, that would be very interesting information.

  He put the reports away, turned to the keyboard, and began typing. Tomorrow started his two days off, but he’d be back on the mesa at first light. They hadn’t found the dead woman’s skull yet, and Gabe wasn’t about to stop searching until every inch of ground had been covered.

  • • •

  Before heading home, Kerney made a quick stop at a supermarket where he bought everything he needed to care for a dog. In the apartment he found Shoe on his feet, wagging his tail, with one of Kerney’s sneakers clasped in his mouth. Three more shoes had been brought from the bedroom and scattered around the living room floor.

  “Quite a collection you got there,” Kerney said, as he extracted the sneaker from the dog’s mouth. Wet with slobber, it had chew marks on the heel and tongue and some of the padding had been gnawed away. “I guess it’s yours now, boy.”

  He dropped it on the floor in front of the dog. Shoe snatched it up and gave it a shake.

  The other shoes the dog had fetched were only slightly damaged. Except for the mate of the shoe he’d given to the dog, Kerney put the rest away with a reminder to himself to keep the bedroom closet door closed in the future. He spent an hour brushing tangles out of Shoe’s matted coat, sprayed him again, cleaned up the dog hair on the carpet, and fed the mutt.

  As Shoe ate, Kerney eyed the result of his efforts to groom the dog. Salt-and-pepper hair dangled from his hindquarters and belly, and his tail was a twisted knot that needed clipping. The mutt still looked pretty ratty.

  Kerney picked up and fanned through Saturday’s mail, looking for a letter from Sara Brannon. He’d written to her last week. Given the distance his letters had to travel, he didn’t expect a rapid reply, but occasionally their correspondence crossed in the mail. This time there was nothing. He hoped Sara hadn’t changed her mind about coming to Santa Fe when her tour of duty ended.

  All of the mail was junk, except for an envelope from Erma Fergurson’s personal representative and executor of her estate. He opened the envelope and read Milton Lynch’s letter. The appraisal had come in at two thousand dollars an acre. The land was worth almost thirteen million dollars. The final appraisal report would be mailed to Kerney within the week.

  He stared at the amount in stunned silence before calling Lynch’s home phone number. Lynch answered on the third ring.

  “I thought I might be hearing from you,” Lynch said.

  “How in the hell can that land be worth thirteen million dollars?” Kerney asked.

  “I haven’t seen the complete report, but it seems that some of the ranchers in the area have sold out to high bidders, or are subdividing their land. Five years ago, ten sections
might have gone for eight or nine hundred dollars an acre, but not any more.”

  “Doesn’t the land qualify under the farm-use value reduction provision of the tax code?”

  “The two-thousand-dollar-per-acre figure is the reduction. Subdivided five- to twenty-acre tracts are selling at four to six thousand dollars per acre.”

  “What will the taxes be?”

  “You’ll be taken to the cleaners, I’m afraid. The Taxpayer Relief Act defines a qualified heir as either a family member materially involved in the operation of the ranch for five of the last eight years, or an employee with ten or more years of employment prior to the decedent’s death. You don’t qualify for the one-point-three-million-dollar taxable estate exclusion. You’ll pay taxes on the full value, less seven hundred thousand dollars.”

  “How much will I owe?”

  “Federal taxes will exceed six million dollars. I haven’t factored in the state tax bite.”

  “How soon do I have to pay?”

  “Nine months after Erma’s death.”

  “Is that a firm date?”

  “The tax forms are due then, but I could file a six-month extension for payment on your behalf.”

  “Is there anything I can do to avoid selling the land?”

  “Installment payments to the IRS are possible. The estate can spread the cost out over fourteen years. But the IRS will charge interest—four to six percent.”

  Kerney did some quick mental calculations. “That amounts to over four hundred thousand dollars a year, plus interest.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who did the appraisal?”

  “I believe I’ve secured the lowest possible appraisal on the property.”

  “I’m sure you have. I need the appraiser’s name for police business.”

  Lynch paused. “Hold on.”

  After a minute, he came back on the line and read off the information. A Santa Fe firm had done the appraisal.

  Kerney scribbled down the name and address. “Do you know who sold Erma the land?”

  “She bought it from Nestor Barela in nineteen-sixty. Don’t ask what she paid for it. It would only depress you. May I say something, Mr. Kerney?”

  “Please do.”

  “Erma’s estate is quite considerable. Not only did she inherit a sizable amount from her parents many years ago, she invested it wisely, and added to her net worth as the demand for her art drove up the price of her paintings. Except for the land she willed to you, the remainder of her estate will become an endowment to the university art department.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Erma wanted you to be able to keep all of the land. She knew how much it would mean to you. I advised her to establish a trust in your name, and she directed me to do so, with the proviso that I encumber sufficient resources in the trust to pay the inheritance taxes on the property. Her death occurred a week before the trust was to be established.”

  “I see.”

  “If you want to keep at least part of Erma’s gift, let the estate sell some of the property for taxes. You’ll still own a sizable chunk of land. I’m no rancher, but it seems to me you would have enough acreage left to start a small cattle operation.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You’ll need to make a decision fairly soon,” Lynch said.

  “I know it.”

  “Let me know what you decide, Mr. Kerney. Remember, you stand to come out of this very well-off.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  Kerney hung up in a foul mood, realizing he had no call to be so abrupt with Milton Lynch; he was a good man doing a good job. Erma had picked her executor wisely.

  What grated Kerney had nothing to do with the windfall inheritance, although the amount of his net worth on paper staggered him. The thought of giving up thirty-two hundred acres felt like fate slapping him down again. As a child, he’d watched his parents lose the ranch on the Tularosa to the army when White Sands expanded. Now, he faced losing half of the best, and perhaps only, opportunity he would ever have to return to ranching. It felt like a bad dream or a sick joke coming back to haunt him.

  He was glad he’d resisted Dale’s offer to come in as a partner. With a tax bite in the high seven figures, it was totally out of the question.

  For now, he didn’t know what the hell to do, other than mull it over and think about options.

  Shoe was at his feet, head resting on the sneaker, his eyes locked on Kerney. He reached down, picked up the sneaker, and tossed it through the archway into the living room. Shoe got up and fetched it back, his tail wagging.

  “Let’s see what else you can do.” Kerney tried some common commands, and Shoe promptly obeyed each of them.

  “Smart dog.” He fed the dog a treat. Shoe dropped down on the floor and ate his biscuit.

  Seconds before the doorbell rang, Shoe raised his head and let out a long howl.

  “So you’re a watchdog, are you?” Kerney said as he pulled himself upright.

  Shoe followed him to the front door, the sneaker firmly clasped in his jaws, and sat. Kerney opened it to find Sara Brannon smiling at him from the front step.

  “Good God, what are you doing here?”

  “The army took pity on me and sent me home early. You have a dog, Kerney,” she said. “Does it have a name?”

  “His name is Shoe,” Kerney said, grinning in delight.

  “I can see why. He’s pretty mangy looking.”

  “He’s had a rough time of it. But he’s smart; he can come, sit, fetch, roll over, and stay. He just moved in.”

  Sara knelt and scratched Shoe under the chin. The dog dropped the sneaker and gave her a kiss. “Do you have any other roommates I need to know about?”

  Kerney shook his head. “None.”

  She held out a bottle of wine as she stepped inside. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Kerney took the bottle from Sara’s hand. “I think I need one.”

  “Don’t you like surprises?”

  “This one I do.”

  She slipped out of her coat and dropped it on the arm of a sofa that faced a corner fireplace and a patio door. On one side, an archway opened onto a kitchen that contained a small café table and two chairs. Opposite the kitchen, on the wall next to an open bedroom door, hung a small watercolor of a herd of horses moving through a snowstorm. It was the only personal touch in the room.

  Sara inspected the watercolor. “That’s very nice.”

  “Fletcher Hartley did it. I wrote you about him. I think you’ll enjoy meeting him.”

  “From what you’ve told me about him in your letters, he sounds like quite a character.” She turned back and gestured at the bottle in Kerney’s hand. “Are you going to open the wine, or not?”

  “You bet.”

  “Well, let’s get started celebrating this reunion.”

  Sara sat at the kitchen table while Kerney searched for wineglasses and a corkscrew. He took his time doing it, glancing at Sara out of the corner of his eye. He had a snapshot of her, but it didn’t convey the full impact of her physical presence. Her strawberry blond hair was a bit shorter now, further accenting the sensual line of her neck. Her green eyes sparkled with a hint of something Kerney couldn’t quite decipher. Even in blue jeans and a mock turtleneck pullover, Sara look stunning.

  He brought the glasses to the table, sat across from her, uncorked the bottle, and poured the wine. “Cheers.”

  Sara touched her wineglass to Kerney’s and took a sip. “So tell me, Kerney, have you slept with many women since I’ve been gone?”

  “How would you define ‘many women’?”

  “More than one,” Sara answered.

  “Then I have not slept with many women.”

  “Only one?”

  “One.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Her name is Karen Cox. She’s a lawyer, an ADA. Divorced. Two children. She lives in Catron County.”

  “Attractive?”
r />   “Very.”

  “Are you still seeing her?”

  “No. I got a note from her recently. She’s hooked up with a ranch foreman.”

  “She likes cowboys.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “That shows good taste. Any regrets?”

  “No. And you?”

  “I’ve been a very good girl, which hasn’t been easy. Will Andy let you take some time off?”

  “He’s out of town for the week at a convention in Florida. He left me in charge.”

  “That simplifies matters. I’ve really never spent much time in Santa Fe. Will you tour me around?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Start the tour,” Sara said, putting down her wineglass. “I’d love to see your bedroom.”

  • • •

  With her head on his shoulder and her leg draped over his thigh, Sara gently scratched Kerney’s chest with her fingernails. The heat from her body felt like a long warm ember against Kerney’s skin.

  “That was a lot of fun,” she said.

  “It was my pleasure, Major Brannon.”

  “It’s Lieutenant Colonel Brannon.”

  Sara’s statement surprised Kerney. He had spent one tour in Vietnam late in the war as an infantry lieutenant and knew that only a remarkable circumstance would accelerate a very junior major to light colonel. “Congratulations. How did that happen?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Why so secretive?”

  “I’m not accustomed to telling war stories. Have you ever wanted to be a father, Kerney?”

  “I always thought I would, some day.”

  “Still interested?”

  “I’m too long in the tooth.”

  “Not at all.”

  Kerney pulled back his head.

  “Are you staring at me in the dark?” Sara asked. Her fingers traveled down to the gunshot scar on Kerney’s stomach. She rubbed it lightly and felt the rough texture of the skin and the hard abdominal muscle underneath.

  “I have excellent night vision.”

  Outside the closed bedroom door, Shoe whined quietly in dismay. “Your dog wants to come in,” Sara said, moving her fingers down to Kerney’s hip.