Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  Sara looked at Shoe and decided the dog needed some TLC. She fanned through the Yellow Pages and found a pet grooming business that could take Shoe right away. She got directions to the shop, grabbed the new leash and collar Kerney had bought, and loaded the dog into her Jeep Cherokee.

  “Come on, Shoe,” she said, as she backed out of the driveway. “Let’s get you cleaned up. That way we can both knock Kerney’s socks off.”

  • • •

  After taking the tour of the crime scene, Kerney pitched in and gave Sergeant Gonzales a hand. He spent several hours helping Gabe systematically search the cabin, which yielded further information on Wanda Knox and her son. He now had a very good photograph of the woman, plus a small address book Wanda had left behind with the names and addresses of friends and relatives in Southern California.

  Back at state police headquarters in Santa Fe, Kerney prepared a brief summary of the known facts pertaining to the Boaz murder case, typed up questions for Wanda Knox, and photocopied the address book. According to the letters sent to Boaz, Wanda currently lived in Arcadia, California. Kerney checked her address against a map. Arcadia was close to Pasadena, and many of the entries in the address book showed friends and family living either in Arcadia, Pasadena, or surrounding communities.

  He called the Arcadia PD, talked to the chief, told him what he needed, and got quick agreement to have a detective follow up as soon as Kerney faxed the information.

  “If Ms. Knox can’t positively identify a man named Rudy, ask your officer to do an Identi-Kit,” Kerney said. The kit was used to produce a facial likeness of a person based on verbal descriptions furnished by a witness.

  “That’s no problem,” the chief said. “Anything else?”

  “A list of names of anyone else she knew or met in New Mexico would be helpful.”

  “You’ve got it. How’s the weather out there?”

  “High fifties, windy, and blue skies,” Kerney answered.

  “Jesus, what I’d give to see blue skies again. We’ve had solid smog for two months.”

  Kerney faxed the information to Arcadia, cleared some paperwork off his desk, and checked the wall clock. If he hustled he could get to the real-estate appraisal company before closing time.

  • • •

  Capital City Land Survey and Appraisal was located on De Vargas Street in a building that faced the Santa Fe River Park. The window in Donald Preston’s office gave a nice view of the park and the cluster of buildings across the way that defined the downtown city core. Preston sat behind a map-covered desk. On the floor were an assortment of surveying instruments and two metal field satchels.

  Somewhere in his forties, Preston had a prominent nose, thick lips that he rubbed together before speaking, and a florid complexion.

  “I just did the valuation assessment on your property,” Preston said. “We’re working up the final report to send to the estate executor this week.”

  “I’m really here on a different matter,” Kerney said. He showed Preston his shield and sketched out the facts of the skeleton discovered on the mesa.

  Preston’s eyes widened. “I walked right by that grove of trees.”

  “When did you do the appraisal?”

  “The week before last. I went out with my land surveying team.”

  “Were you with them all the time?”

  “No, only the last day. The team was on-site for a good three or four days before I got there.”

  “Who was on the team?”

  “Bill Kemp, Johnny Nelson, and Jude Mondragon.”

  “Did they mention seeing anyone during the survey?”

  “If they did, I didn’t hear about it.”

  “Did you see anybody while you were on the property?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Did you see a dog?”

  “I didn’t see a dog.”

  “Did you come across any old campsites, discarded clothing, or litter?”

  Preston shook his head. “I saw nothing like that.”

  “Did you see any woodcutters or loggers on the road?”

  “No, but I sure saw the clear-cut area in the canyon on the west boundary. I’m including it in my report.”

  “Did you inform Mr. Lynch?”

  “No. It’s not unusual to find logging on private property, although whoever did the cutting sure chewed up the area.”

  “Have you done other appraisals in the valley recently?”

  “Three, as a matter of fact. The Horse Canyon Ranch owner bought some parcels contiguous to her property. Each was about three hundred acres.”

  “Was there any woodcutting on those parcels?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are Mondragon, Kemp, and Nelson here?”

  “They should be in the back room.”

  “Do you mind if I speak with them?”

  “Not at all.”

  Brief conversations with Preston’s employees resulted in no additional information about the crimes. As a matter of personal interest, Kerney asked to see the surveys of the parcels bought by Alicia Bingham, the Horse Canyon Ranch owner. Except for the Boaz cabin property and the National Forest land on the west boundary, his ten sections were surrounded by Bingham’s holdings.

  Already late for this dinner date with Sara, Kerney thanked the men for their assistance and drove home in a hurry. He entered the house and stared at Shoe in disbelief. The dog was almost unrecognizable. His hindquarters had been clipped, his belly shaved, his paws and legs trimmed, and his coat glistened. Only the sneaker in his mouth identified him.

  The door to the bedroom was closed and Sara was nowhere in sight.

  “What did you do to my dog?” Kerney called out.

  “He got a shampoo, a cut, and a pedicure,” Sara said, stepping out of the bedroom. “He’s a handsome brute, isn’t he?”

  Kerney found it hard to answer. Sara wore a long brown dress that covered her from ankle to neck and revealed every curve of her body. “Both of you look fantastic.”

  “I’m glad you noticed. Change your clothes, Kerney, and take me to dinner. I’m hungry.”

  • • •

  The Canyon Road restaurant was in a low adobe building tucked behind some expensive condos. The maître d’ met them at the door in a finely tailored suit, greeted them in a Swiss German accent, and led them through the small antechamber into the dining area. The interior was painted an austere white, and a few understated weavings on the wall were accented by recessed lights. The tablecloths were linen, the glassware was crystal, and the place settings were silver. The customers were nicely dressed and the hum conversation in the room was muted and subdued.

  The maître d’ took them through the front dining area to a smaller, more intimate room. He seated Sara and Kerney at a corner table near a fireplace while a waiter dressed in a crisp white server’s jacket and black slacks stood nearby.

  Kerney wore a raw silk oatmeal-colored sport coat, a charcoal linen shirt buttoned at the collar, dark gray wool dress slacks, and a pair of black alligator cowboy boots. He looked distinguished and handsome.

  Two women dining at a nearby table gave Kerney the once over. Sara smiled sweetly at them until they turned away.

  “Did you catch any bad guys today?” Sara asked, as the busboy poured water and the waiter stood by with the wine list.

  “Not a one.”

  “When do I get to see your ranch?”

  “It’s hardly a ranch, at this point,” Kerney said. “And I can’t see how I’m going to keep it.”

  “Taxes?”

  Kerney nodded. The waiter discreetly interrupted with the wine list and asked for a drink order.

  After the waiter left with the order, Kerney filled Sara in on the money he’d have to pay in taxes, and how Erma’s instructions to give him the land free and clear hadn’t been executed before her death.

  “How sad,” Sara said. “But I’m sure Erma had no intention of dying.”

  “No, she was enjoying life too m
uch. I guess I just have to accept the fact that it’s the thought that counts.”

  “Does it?” Sara asked.

  “Somewhat.”

  “My parents have been selling sections of the ranch to my brother and me so we can avoid the heavy inheritance tax, plus giving us the maximum tax-free gift each year in land. We’ll be half owners within the next five years.”

  Kerney had visited the Montana sheep ranch with Sara. It covered a hundred thousand acres that encompassed three lush valleys and some beautiful high country.

  “Do you plan to return to the ranch after you retire from the army?”

  “To visit, not to live. I’ll let my brother and his wife buy me out as they can. They’re the ones putting the blood, sweat, and tears into it.”

  “When will you retire?”

  “I’m thinking in about ten more years. I like my career, but it’s hell on any kind of personal life. I’ll be forty-two if I retire with twenty years of service. If I stayed in any longer I’d just hit the glass ceiling. There’s only a handful of women in the army who wear stars.”

  “You could be one of them.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “You’re only two ranks away from brigadier general.”

  “Those are two very long steps. After lieutenant colonel, very few officers make the cut.”

  Their waiter brought the wine and menus, explained the house specials in great detail, and motioned for the busboy to bring a basket of fresh breads and rolls.

  After they moved away from the table, Kerney lifted his wineglass to Sara. “Perhaps you’ll be the first woman to command a combat division.”

  Sara raised her glass in reply. “Now, that might be worth staying in for.”

  “Seriously?”

  “What a coup that would be. It would be hard to pass it up.”

  The waiter returned, took their orders, complimented them on their selections, and departed.

  “This is turning into a lovely evening, Kerney. I think I’m going to have to put a star after your name in my stud book.”

  “Along with appropriate remarks on my performance?”

  Sara smiled coyly. “Of course. Do you know what I’d like to do after dinner?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Show you my new lingerie.”

  “More research for the stud book?”

  “Exactly.”

  • • •

  In the late evening darkness, Gabe Gonzales stood at the open gate watching the district narcotics agent, Ben Morfin, load the last of the marijuana plants into a truck. The crime scene techs had left, the medical examiner had come and gone, Boaz’s body had been removed, and Russell Thorpe was on his way to the district office with all the evidence that had been collected during the search.

  It had been a bitch of a day. The discovery of the marijuana necessitated expanding the crime scene investigation to encompass the entire meadow and all the buildings. Gabe and the team had gone over, under, and through everything. They had even moved the firewood stacked in a room of the cabin, stick by stick, to make sure nothing had been missed.

  At the greenhouse, the truck headlights flashed on and the engine kicked over.

  Morfin drove to the gate, stopped, and spoke through the open window. “That’s it.”

  “You’ve got it all?”

  “Exactly two thousand six hundred and seventy-eight plants,” Morfin said. “Boaz just missed a big score. He was four weeks shy of a seven-figure harvest.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Gabe said.

  As Morfin drove off, Gabe closed and locked the gate and walked down the hill. The moon rose above Hermit’s Peak, spreading a pale velvet light over the mountain and the valley. It made everything look deceptively peaceful.

  A patrol unit at the bottom of the dirt track blocked access to the cabin. The officer inside the cruiser would spend a mind-numbing night on-site, guarding the crime scene.

  He stopped, told the officer he would be at home if needed, got in the Ram Charger, called in his destination and ETA, and drove away.

  It was too late to think about fixing dinner. He would get a pizza on the way home, spend a few minutes with Orlando, and then start in on the paperwork.

  • • •

  “Mom called,” Orlando said, licking his fingers and reaching for another slice of pizza. “She wants me to spend spring break with her in Albuquerque.”

  “I thought you’d be working over spring break,” Gabe said.

  “Yeah, most of the time. I told her I’d come down for a couple of days.”

  “She’ll like that.” The pizza tasted bland. Gabe pushed the box in Orlando’s direction. “I’m probably not going to be home much for a while anyway.”

  Gabe watched as Orlando nodded and chewed at the same time. He was a good-looking boy, two inches taller than Gabe, who’d inherited his mother’s dark eyes and even features.

  “What’s up?” Orlando finally asked.

  “I’m working two murder cases in San Geronimo. A drug grower and an unidentified female.”

  “No shit? Were they killed at the same time?”

  “No. All we’ve got on the woman are some bones that were scattered on a mesa.”

  “No identification?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Where did you find the bones?”

  “Near Nestor Barela’s old ranch.”

  Orlando wiped his hands on a paper towel. “Think you’ll be able to find the killers?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  Orlando stood up. “How come you keep doing this kind of work? Don’t you get sick of it? Murder and all.”

  “You sound like your mother,” Gabe said.

  “Retire, Dad. You’ve earned it.”

  “Too many bills.”

  “Sell the house,” Orlando said, picking up his daypack. “I’m not going to stay in Las Vegas after I graduate from college anyway.”

  “You’ve been saying that for the last year. Why is living in your hometown so bad? You never used to feel this way before.”

  “I just want to get out and see the world, okay?”

  “Okay, but the house stays in the family. You can have it when you get sick of seeing the world and move back home.”

  “I’m not coming back.”

  “That’s what you say now,” Gabe said. “You may feel differently later on.”

  “I don’t think so.” Orlando dropped his crumbled paper towel in the empty pizza box. “I’ve got to go study.”

  “You feeling all right, champ?”

  “Just tired.”

  Gabe nodded toward the kitchen door. “Go hit the books. I’ve got my own homework to do.”

  Orlando left and Gabe worked until his eyes gave out and his mind was fuzzy. He left his paperwork on the kitchen table and climbed the stairs with the ornate carved banister. At the end of the long hallway he could see light shining under the door to Orlando’s room.

  Except for Orlando’s possessions, Theresa had taken most of the furniture when she’d moved out. Gabe had been replacing it a piece at a time, as he could afford to. He had a television and a couch in the downstairs front room. But the dining room was empty, as was the library, except for the collection of his grandfather’s old books. His bedroom contained one double bed, a reading lamp clipped to the headboard, and a dresser he’d picked up at a garage sale. He needed to buy a rug or a picture to hang on the wall.

  In the bathroom he brushed his teeth, stripped down to his underwear, and dumped his clothes in the laundry hamper. The alarm clock was on the floor near his bed, next to the telephone. He set it, got under the covers, and was asleep within minutes.

  • • •

  After dinner, Kerney and Sara went back to his apartment. Kerney got the fireplace going, exiled Shoe to the patio, lit some candles, put a Brahms piano concerto on the stereo, and poured some brandy.

  They never made it to the bedroom.

  “Chilly?” Ker
ney asked later.

  “Just a bit.”

  He padded into the bedroom. Lean with a small butt, a slim waist, square shoulders, and a nice chest, Kerney looked very sexy naked.

  Their clothes were scattered on the furniture and the floor. They’d certainly been in a hurry; the brandy hadn’t been touched.

  He came out of the bedroom holding a robe and a heavy flannel shirt. “Your choice.”

  Sara took the shirt, slipped it on, picked up her brandy glass, and stretched out on the carpet in front of the fireplace. She felt delightfully ravished and a little weak in the knees.

  Kerney joined her on the carpet.

  “Take me camping, Kerney,” she said, reaching for Kerney’s hand. He had perfectly proportioned fingers.

  “Are you burned out on Santa Fe already?”

  “I need to wake up to the smell of pine needles and the sight of a New Mexico sunrise.”

  “Did you bring your gear?”

  “It’s in the Cherokee.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Take a guess.”

  Kerney nodded. “Give me the morning to get a few things done.”

  “That’s fine with me. Plan on being late for work.”

  “Again?” Kerney asked with a grin.

  “Oh, yes.”

  5

  Kerney arrived at his office to find a phone message from a detective at the Arcadia PD waiting for him. He called back and spoke to Det. Sgt. George Broom.

  “I wish all my assignments were this easy,” Broom said. “The address you gave us for Wanda Knox turned out to be a residential treatment center for addicted mothers. They call it a therapeutic community. It specializes in working with women and their children. It’s one of those places that’s run sort of like a commune. Kids, pets, and toys everywhere; everybody does chores and goes to group therapy. That sort of stuff.”

  “What kind of drugs does Wanda Knox use?” Kerney asked.

  “Cocaine. She says Boaz got her started. She’s twenty-eight and still a looker, Chief. She used to be a cheerleader in high school. She worked as a secretary in the philosophy department at the university where Boaz was a teaching assistant. That’s where she met him. She and the kid started living with Boaz about a year before they pulled up stakes and moved to New Mexico. She didn’t act upset when I told her Boaz had been murdered. I guess the romance soured.”