Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  Shit, he knew the Espinoza family, he thought to himself. He pulled out the composite drawing and studied it. It was Debbie Espinoza’s brother, Rudy.

  He called dispatch. “Go to Channel two,” Gabe said. Channel 2 was the secure broadcast frequency not picked up by police scanners.

  “Ten-four,” the dispatcher replied, switching over.

  “Run a check on Rudy Espinoza. Keep it local. I busted him about four years ago for driving under the influence.”

  After a long wait, the dispatcher came back on the air.

  “He’s done six months’ probation for a second DWI since then, and he was booked and released for lack of evidence on a breaking-and-entering charge.”

  “Where?”

  “San Geronimo, last summer.”

  “When was the DWI bust?”

  “June of last year.”

  “What was he driving?”

  “Hold on.”

  Gabe could hear the dispatcher’s keystrokes as she entered the search into the computer.

  “A nineteen-ninety-four Chevy three-quarter-ton pickup, blue in color. Tags are expired. Plate number Two-six-six CJR.”

  “Got an address?”

  “Anytime you’re ready.”

  Gabe took down the information, signed off, and made contact with Duran, Houge, and Morfin on Channel 2 as he pulled onto the highway and started rolling toward the interstate.

  “I’ve got a possible suspect in the Boaz murder,” he said as he hit the switch to the overhead lights and floored the unit.

  “Go,” Duran said.

  “Rudy Espinoza. He matches the information supplied to us by Boaz’s ex-girlfriend and son. So does his vehicle. I may have tipped my hand.”

  “Is he running?” Houge asked.

  “Could be. Look for a dark blue Chevy three-quarter-ton with side rails, front-end winch, and hydraulic lift in the bed. Plate number Two-six-six CJR, tags expired.”

  “Where?” Morfin asked.

  “Ojitos Frios. ID any other moving vehicle that looks suspicious.”

  “Armed and dangerous?” Duran asked.

  “Roger that,” Gabe said. “Run Code three, lights only, and stay on the air. Give me locations and ETAs.”

  “I’m at Boaz’s cabin,” Morfin said. “Five minutes to Ojitos Frios.”

  “Ten to fifteen minutes,” Houge said. “I’m on the interstate proceeding south past the cutoff to Villanueva State Park.”

  “I’ll play catch up,” Duran said. “I’ve got to get off this stinking mesa first.”

  “I’m on Highway Eighty-four, five minutes from the Romeroville interstate ramp,” Gabe said. “Give me sixty-second microphone checks—two clicks each.”

  The dispatcher came on. “This channel is cleared of all other traffic. Additional units are responding; SP 218, SP 376, and SP 101.”

  “SP 218 take state road 283.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “SP 376, ETA to Highway 84?”

  “Three minutes.”

  “Patrol Eighty-four south of Buena Vista Lumber.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “SP 101.”

  “Go,” said Captain Garduno.

  “Are you assuming command?” Gabe asked.

  “I’m along for the ride, Sergeant.”

  “ETA?” Gabe asked as he reached the overpass to the interstate.

  “I see you crossing the bridge now,” Garduno said. “One minute.”

  “Ten-four. Join up.”

  • • •

  “Give me your fucking car keys,” Rudy Espinoza said as he hung up the phone.

  “Use your own truck,” Angie said. “I’ve got to go to town later.”

  Rudy dumped the contents of Angie’s purse on the kitchen counter, found the keys, and pulled all the cash out of her wallet.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Angie asked, grabbing for her purse.

  “Nothing,” Rudy said as he pushed her away and walked into the bedroom. “If the cops come, you haven’t seen me.”

  “I don’t know why I ever took you back,” Angie yelled at him.

  “You’re no fucking prize yourself,” Rudy said, sticking the thirty-eight and a handful of folded bills in his jacket pocket. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  He got in the Mustang, fired it up, and peeled out of the driveway. Angie stood on the front step giving him the finger as he swung onto the county road.

  If the cops were looking for him like Joaquin said, it was time to go south.

  • • •

  Ben Morfin topped the hill into Ojitos Frios and saw a car throwing up a dust cloud on the county road at the far end of the valley.

  “Someone is coming your way, Sergeant,” he said into the microphone. “I’m too far back to ID it, but he’s moving fast.”

  “Location?” Gabe snapped.

  “About a mile outside Ojitos Frios.”

  “Shut down your Code Three and close up.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Gabe keyed his hand microphone again, slowed his unit, and killed the overhead lights. “SP 101.”

  “I’m on your tail,” Garduno said.

  “Block the road behind me.”

  “Roger.”

  “I’ll join with SP 101,” Houge said. “ETA five minutes.”

  “Ten-four. All other units, stay on station,” Gabe said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  “We’ve got a tan Mustang,” Ben Morfin said. “Can’t read the plate. He’s spewing up so much dust he can’t see me. I’ve got him clocked at seventy-five.”

  “Lights and siren, Ben. See if he stomps it.”

  “He just goosed it.”

  “Fall back and give him some slack,” Gabe said. He swung his vehicle into the center of the road where the shoulders fell off sharply, unracked the shotgun, and called dispatch.

  “Go ahead, SP 126.”

  “SP 126 will be attempting a traffic stop of an unknown vehicle speeding on County Road A-twenty.”

  “Traffic stop. CR A-twenty. Ten-four. Fourteen-twenty-three hours.”

  He put one round in the chamber, got out of the unit, and walked to a tree twenty feet off the shoulder of the road. He could see the dust spreading into the canopy of the trees, and could hear the harsh sound of Morfin’s siren closing in.

  The Mustang tore into view, suspension bucking over the washboard road. Gabe watched as the driver stood on the brakes, overcorrected his steering, went into a skid that spun the vehicle like a top, and put it nose first into the deep shoulder.

  He could hear the hiss of radiator steam and the squeal of metal as the driver opened the car door. Through the dissipating dust, two hands emerged and grasped the roof of the car. Legs followed, feet found the ground, and Rudy Espinoza pulled himself out of the Mustang.

  The lights from Ben Morfin’s unit cut through the haze twenty feet down the road. Ben was crouched behind the open door of his unit with his weapon at the ready.

  “Rudy,” Gabe called, raising the shotgun to his shoulder. “Walk toward me with your hands over your head. Do it now!”

  Hands raised, Espinoza moved sluggishly up the embankment and started walking across the road.

  “Stop,” Gabe called when Rudy reached the middle of the road. “Lock your hands at the back of your head and drop slowly to your knees. Do it now.”

  Espinoza sank to his knees and started to lower his hands.

  “Hands up,” Gabe yelled. “Now.”

  “I can’t,” Rudy said. “Something is wrong with my head.” He raised his left hand and fell facedown on the ground with his right arm concealed under his body.

  “Bring your right hand out where I can see it,” Gabe ordered.

  Rudy didn’t move.

  “Do it!”

  “Kiss my ass,” Rudy said as he rose to his knees and pulled out a pistol.

  “Gun!” Morfin hollered as Gabe pulled the trigger.

  Gabe heard the crack
of Ben’s nine millimeter as the blast of his shotgun echoed in his ears. Rudy jerked under the impact, rocked back on his heels, and fell forward on his face.

  Gabe racked another shell into the chamber while Morfin circled behind Rudy, kicked the pistol away, and checked the body.

  “He’s dead,” Ben said as he holstered his weapon.

  “The stupid son of a bitch,” Gabe said, lowering the shotgun. He held it tight to keep his hands from shaking.

  6

  After hanging up on Kerney, Sara tried without success to reach Susie Hayes at home. Susie, her best friend at West Point, was now a civilian living in Tucson. She thought about calling Susie at work, but took Shoe on a long walk instead, wandering for several hours through quiet neighborhood streets. Overhanging trees thick with buds about to blossom into leaves lined row after row of a charming mixture of older homes. Some were Victorian, some were flat-roof adobe casitas, and others were California mission style. Sprinkled throughout the neighborhood were red-brick cottages that had been turned into apartments, and midwestern farmhouses with pitched roofs that looked as though they had been magically transported to Santa Fe from Kansas wheat fields.

  Very little else on the walk registered with Sara. She spent the time chiding herself for acting like such a brainless schoolgirl with Kerney. Where did all her silliness come from? She’d never intended to come to Santa Fe and talk about babies and keeping a stud book. Kerney seemed to take it all in jest, which was almost as troubling. He was the only man she’d ever mentioned the possibility of making babies with, and she wondered if he’d caught her serious undertone. But did she really want a baby? Did she really want Kerney to be the man in her life?

  She returned to Kerney’s house and let Shoe off the leash. He went directly to the kitchen, drank his water bowl dry, and curled up on the vinyl floor with his chin resting on the sneaker.

  She refilled the water bowl, sat at the kitchen table, kicked off her shoes, and looked at Shoe. He was such a sweet dog. He eyed her shoes with interest. She decided to ease up on herself. She needed to decompress and get the last two years behind her. Her virtual isolation in South Korea, immersed in a male-dominated, combat-ready unit had taken its toll. The rewards had been satisfying. But sublimating almost every feminine feeling had been more emotionally expensive than she’d realized. Maybe being with a sexy man after so long without any healthy lovemaking had opened up her hormonal floodgates, and her confusion was nothing other than a readjustment to a more normal life.

  Feeling less unsettled, she got to her feet, snagged her shoes before the dog could pounce on them, and walked into the living room, glad that her first attempt to reach Susie had been unsuccessful. All she would have done was blabber. Now, at least she had her head screwed on somewhat straight.

  She found her address book, looked up Susie’s work number, and dialed it. When Susie answered, she told her a fraction of what was going on inside her head, and asked if she could come for a visit.

  “Get your butt down here, girl,” Susie said. “We’ve got some serious talking to do.”

  “I’ll be there sometime tomorrow.”

  “Call me when you get into town.”

  Sara hung up. She would wait for Kerney to return before leaving. He deserved some sort of explanation, but she wasn’t sure exactly what it would be.

  • • •

  Word of the Espinoza shooting cut short Kerney’s meeting with the U.S. Attorney in Albuquerque. He made the 120-mile drive to Las Vegas in good time, using his radio to stay updated on the situation. Three hours after the shooting, no evidence had been developed linking Espinoza to the Boaz murder—no Chevy truck, no murder weapon, and no matching fingerprints.

  A large number of police vehicles were parked in front of the district office, including a crime scene van and the unmarked unit assigned to the headquarters shooting team supervisor, who was responsible for investigating all deadly force incidents.

  Kerney killed the engine and gave himself a minute to push down his worry about Sara. She had been snappish on the telephone, and while he’d toyed with the idea that she was merely disappointed about the postponed camping trip, he didn’t really believe it. Sara wasn’t one to pout or get testy about trivial matters, and she knew firsthand that the demands of police work often screwed up a personal life.

  He shrugged off his anxiety and walked into the building where a dozen or so officers, agents, and technicians filled the reception area. Some were busy writing reports while others waited to give statements to the shooting team. In a corner of the room, Officer Thorpe sat with a petite, attractive Hispanic woman dressed in jeans, a sweater, and hiking boots. There was a backpack at her feet and she was writing notes in a journal balanced on her knees. Kerney had no idea who the woman was. Captain Garduno, Sergeant Gonzales, and Agent Morfin were nowhere in sight.

  As he crossed to the reception desk, Thorpe approached him.

  “Chief, Professor Pino would like to speak with you.” Thorpe nodded his head in the direction of the woman.

  “Who?”

  “Professor Pino. She’s a plant specialist—a botanist—who teaches at the university.”

  “What does she want?”

  “She found a rare plant on your property. It’s called Knowlton’s cactus. It has her really pumped.”

  “Can she wait?”

  Thorpe nodded. “I told her you might be busy for a while.”

  “Good enough.”

  Kerney smiled at the woman as he passed by, wondering what was going on. He filed the thought as a question for Captain Garduno and found him in his office.

  “Chief,” Garduno said, gesturing at the empty chair in front of his desk.

  “How far along is the shooting team?” Kerney asked as he sat. Both Gonzales and Morfin would be treated as murder suspects until cleared of the charges by the DA and a grand jury. Only a finding of justified homicide in the death of Rudy Espinoza would allow the officers to remain with the department. If the shooting wasn’t legal, both faced the possibility of felony convictions and prison time.

  “They’re finished with Gonzales and are interviewing Morfin now,” Garduno said. “It looks good. Both Gabe and Ben used voice-activated recorders to tape the traffic stop. They fired in self-defense; there was no other way to stop the action.”

  “When will the report go to the grand jury?”

  “Three days. I’ve put both men on paid administrative leave, effective immediately.”

  “Has Espinoza been positively made as Boaz’s killer?”

  Garduno wrinkled his nose. “Not yet. But Wanda Knox identified Espinoza from the mug shot we faxed to the Arcadia PD. The call just came in.”

  “So, for now, we’ve got a dead suspect whose only known crimes were trespassing on private property, illegal woodcutting, and speeding.”

  “It was a righteous use of deadly force, Chief. Espinoza pulled a gun on Gonzales.”

  “I’m not questioning that, Captain. But the press could decide to hound us until we have clear proof that Espinoza was a murderer and not some petty crook who got gunned down by an overly aggressive state police officer during a routine traffic stop.”

  “Agents Duran and Houge will start the legwork on Espinoza tomorrow,” Garduno said. “We’ll find the evidence.”

  “Houge and Duran will be in southern New Mexico, working a rape-murder case of an elderly woman.”

  “That scuttles the investigation for the next three days.”

  “I’ll find a way to keep it going. Officer Thorpe has a botanist waiting to see me. What’s that about?”

  “Ben Morfin took the cactus plants found in Boaz’s greenhouse to Professor Pino for an identification. She got real excited and asked to conduct a field survey to determine where the plants had been collected. I sent Officer Thorpe along with her. According to the professor, you’ve got only the second known distribution of Knowlton’s cactus growing on your property.”

  “In the state?”
/>
  “In the world, Chief. Ruth Pino can tell you all about it.”

  “Where is Gabe Gonzales?” Kerney asked, getting to his feet.

  “Sequestered in the conference room.”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  “Go on in.”

  Kerney found Gabe Gonzales tapping his fingers on the conference table. “How are you holding up, Sergeant?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of dead people over the years, but this is the first time I ever had to put somebody down.”

  “It’s not the same, is it?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Are you all right with it?”

  “I will be. I know it was a clean shooting.”

  “How far did you get before the shooting team pulled you in for a statement?”

  “Not very. Angie Romero, Espinoza’s girlfriend, swears the only vehicle Rudy normally drove was the Toyota pickup parked in her driveway.”

  “Is she playing it straight?”

  Gabe shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? She drinks her breakfast straight out of a whiskey bottle. She’s half-blasted most of the time. Ben Morfin searched the truck and found nothing. I’m pretty sure Espinoza’s brother-in-law, Joaquin Santistevan, tipped him that he was about to get busted. Otherwise, Espinoza had no reason to run. But the phone company has no record of a call made from the wood yard to Espinoza, or from Angie’s house to Santistevan. Frank Houge is checking with cellular providers now.”

  “We need to find that Chevy truck,” Kerney said.

  “And the murder weapon. Maybe Houge and Duran will score while I’m cooling my heels for the next three days.”

  “That’s not going to happen. They’re both reassigned to another case effective tomorrow.”

  “That sucks, Chief.”

  “I know it does. Can I make a suggestion?”

  “Sure.”

  “You need a couple of days out in the fresh air. Meet some new people, take scenic drives, poke around and explore, visit new places. It’s a pretty time of year.”

  “Am I hearing you right, Chief?”