“I understand, ma’am,” Jim replied.
The front room of the small house had pictures everywhere: in frames on the bookcases, in carefully placed arrangements on the walls, and lined up on the top of an upright piano. Many of the photographs were old, dating back to anywhere from the turn of the century through World War II. Emily Wheeler kept her memories right where she could see them.
“What can you tell us about Louise Cox?” Molly asked.
Mrs. Wheeler, perched at the edge of a Victorian chair, placed her hands firmly in her lap. A slight woman, she sat as erect as a young girl. She wore a housecoat and slippers. Her round face, widely spaced eyes, button chin, and full lips gave her an appearance of perpetual cheeriness.
“She was just a sweetheart,” Emily said. “The schoolchildren absolutely adored her. She was an excellent teacher.”
“I’m sure she was,” Jim said. “When was the last time you had any contact with her?”
“I’m not sure Louise would want me to tell you anything more. Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“No, ma’am. We just need to talk to her.”
Emily eyed the young man cautiously.
“Can you tell us how to contact her?” Jim prodded.
“I really don’t feel comfortable betraying a confidence,” Emily replied.
On the end table next to the sofa was a copy of Emily Wheeler’s book. Molly picked it up. “What fun it must have been to write this book,” she said.
“Have you seen it before?” Emily asked.
“Oh, yes. We have the copy you donated to the library at Western New Mexico University. I keep it in the reference section.”
Emily smiled at the young woman. “I’m pleased to hear that. Do you work at the library?”
“Yes. You did an amazing amount of research. You must have spent a lot of time tracking people down.”
“It was a lot of work. I spent a great deal of time trying to locate people who had moved away. I had some luck, too.” Emily hesitated.
“What sort of luck?” Molly asked.
“Oh, it was very serendipitous. Once or twice I heard about the whereabouts of somebody from one of the folks I had contacted.”
“Did that happen with Louise?” Molly asked.
“Yes. Some old Pie Town residents ran into her shortly after they moved from New Mexico to a retirement community in Arizona. They sent me Louise’s address.”
“Did you write to Louise?”
“I did. She sent me a short note back saying it would be better if she left the past alone. She asked me not to tell anybody where she was living.”
“I wonder why she felt the need to do that,” Molly said.
“I have no idea. I never saw her again after she moved away and married. Nobody did. That was a very long time ago.”
“If we can find her, it would be a great help,” Molly urged. “We need to speak to her about her ex-husband. It is really nothing more than a family matter. Do you have her address?”
“I believe it would be best if you found her on your own.”
“There is some urgency,” Molly countered. “And if we can find Louise, she may be able to help her family.”
Emily Wheeler considered the young woman for a long moment before reaching for her address book from the side table. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
“I think you’re a dear to trust us,” Molly replied.
“She lives in Green Valley, south of Tucson. It’s a retirement community.” Emily Wheeler put on her glasses and slowly read Louise Cox’s address so the young man could write it down accurately.
“Thank you for your help,” Molly said.
MOLLY BACKED HER CAR, a year-old Mustang hardtop, out of the driveway and headed for Reserve.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Jim said.
She braked and pulled to the shoulder of the road. “I have to be at work in the morning. I have a job, Jim. Remember?”
“Call in sick and go to Green Valley with me,” he proposed.
“I don’t have a change of clothes or anything I need.”
“I’ll use my credit cards. We can drive straight through, get a room, catch a few hours’ sleep, and buy some fresh duds in Tucson.”
“Are you serious?”
“You bet I am. Besides, I may need you to sweet-talk Louise Cox the way you did Emily Wheeler.”
“I was pretty good, wasn’t I?”
“More than good. You were great.”
“Green Valley it is,” Molly replied, after a momentary pause. “But it’s going to cost you.”
“I certainly hope so.”
A PREDAWN RAINSTORM, usually a delight to Karen, only served to reinforce her bitchy mood. She hated saddling her father with Elizabeth and Cody and breaking her promise to visit Mom at the hospital, but three phone calls—one from Omar Gatewood, one from a police lieutenant in Silver City, and one from Charlie Perry, asking her to stop by his office—made it necessary. She started with Gatewood. In the sheriff’s office, she stood in front of his desk and read Amador Ortiz’s sworn statement accusing Kerney of an unprovoked attack. Omar watched her from his chair with a look of satisfaction on his face, then pushed an arrest warrant across the desk.
“I’m not signing it,” Karen said, looking down at the document.
“What’s the problem?”
“You went over my head on the murder warrant. I don’t appreciate your little bullshit game.”
“I had sufficient probable cause,” he argued, stung by Karen’s bluntness.
“Maybe so, but you still went around me.”
Gatewood waved the paperwork at her. “This is a solid criminal complaint.”
“That’s my decision to make. I want to talk to Kerney before I decide. I want to make absolutely sure the complaint is reliable.”
“Amador has no reason to lie,” Gatewood rebutted.
“It’s one man’s word against another’s,” Karen replied, “and it’s my call to make.”
“Whatever you say,” Omar replied, forcing a compliant smile.
“Don’t even think about blindsiding me this time, Omar,” Karen said, her eyes locked on his.
She left Gatewood, his frozen smile still plastered on his face, and headed down the road to find out what Charlie Perry wanted to see her about.
OMAR GATEWOOD sank against the cushion of his chair, stared at the ceiling, cracked his knuckles, and rubbed the back of his neck. Karen Cox was turning out to be nothing but trouble. He didn’t know if she was fucking with him or just acting like a gung-ho, know-it-all rookie who wanted to do everything herself. He did know that there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with the arrest affidavit.
He stood up, took his handgun from the desk drawer, and slipped it into the high-rise holster. Maybe he’d better talk to Amador one more time, just to make sure he really hadn’t told Kerney anything.
The phone rang, and he grabbed it. “What is it?”
“What happened?” a voice asked.
“She wants to talk to Kerney first before she signs the warrant. Don’t sweat it—Silver City will hold him on the murder-one charge. He’s not going anywhere.”
“See that he doesn’t. What does Kerney know?”
“Nothing,” Gatewood replied.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m going to talk to Amador again.”
“If Amador lied to you, get him out of town until this blows over.”
“This is turning into a real pile of shit,” Gatewood hissed into the telephone.
“Talk to Ortiz and call me when you’re finished. We’ll meet at Whitewater Creek.”
“What about Kerney?” Gatewood demanded.
“I’ll bring your orders with me.”
The line went dead.
CHARLIE PERRY, dressed in a three-piece suit, sat in his office sorting papers and putting stuff he wanted to take with him in a box. It felt damn good to be closing the assignment out, and he looked forward to retu
rning to the Beltway civilization of Washington and a headquarters job. Two years undercover in the boondocks of New Mexico had seemed like living in a nineteenth-century time warp. He was glad to be done with it.
He looked up to find Karen Cox standing in the doorway.
“You wanted to speak to me, Charlie?” she asked, eyeing his suit.
“I do.” He stood up and gestured at an empty chair. When Karen was settled, he showed her his FBI credentials.
“What’s this all about?” she demanded, giving Charlie another appraising look.
Charlie perched on the edge of his desk. “Kerney turned a smuggling bust into a murder-one case for me,” he explained, “and for that, I owe him. I have hard evidence that exonerates him in the Steve Lujan shooting, and he has information that your sheriff may be a dirty cop. He wants you fully briefed on the situation.”
“I’m listening,” Karen said.
AT THE SILVER CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT, Karen used a vacant interrogation room to meet with Kerney. Even though Charlie Perry had walked her through the facts of the Steven Lujan murder, she let Kerney tell his story. He finished up with Amador’s admission that Gatewood had ordered him to give the Padilla Canyon tip to Jim Stiles.
“Do you think Gatewood did the shooting?” Karen asked, making a final entry in her notebook.
“I doubt it. But I’ve been wondering if Jim was a target of choice or a target of opportunity.”
“Meaning?”
“Jim should have waited and turned the information over to me. Padilla Canyon is Forest Service land and on my patrol route. Amador knew that and probably told Gatewood.”
“So you think you were the target?”
“Maybe I have been all along.”
“That would make the trailer bombing a second attempt to kill you,” Karen noted.
“Which makes me very nervous.”
Karen closed her notebook and stood up. “Let’s go.”
Kerney stayed seated. “There’s the small matter of murder charges against me.”
“Not anymore. The charges have been dropped.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that up front?”
“We don’t have time to bicker. Let’s go.”
Outside the police station the drizzle continued, but the sky promised a heavier rain. Rolling thunder rumbled in overcast, thick clouds. Kerney stepped off in the direction of Jim’s truck.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Karen demanded, standing in the drizzle.
“I’ve got to find a way to get to Omar Gatewood and rattle his cage.”
“Not without me you don’t,” Karen said sharply.
“That’s not a good idea.”
“If you’re concerned for my safety, don’t be,” Karen said sarcastically.
“This could get ugly.”
“Either you work with me or I’ll put you back in the slammer under protective custody.”
“That’s illegal,” Kerney said.
“I’ll do it anyway,” Karen countered. “Your chances of getting to Omar are nil, if you try it by yourself. He’s probably pulled in every IOU he has to get to you before you can get to him. If you want to solve this case, get in my car.”
Kerney studied Karen’s icy expression and decided arguing with her would do no good. “What’s your plan?” he asked as he opened the passenger door to Karen’s station wagon.
“Our best bet is to isolate Omar. I’ll call Gatewood from home, tell him that I’m approving his warrant, and ask him to personally bring it by the house for me to sign. When he shows up, we’ll Q-and-A him.”
“That might work.”
As they drove away, the skies opened and hail began to fall, clattering loudly on the roof of the station wagon.
“Would you mind making a couple of stops along the way?” Kerney asked, raising his voice above the din to be heard.
“Where do you need to go?”
“Jim loaned me a shirt and a pair of jeans, but I’d like to buy some new clothes and some shaving gear.”
Karen’s eyes softened as Kerney’s predicament hit home. “You lost everything in the trailer, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t much,” Kerney admitted. “But it was everything I cared to keep.”
She looked at his waist. He wasn’t wearing the rodeo championship belt buckle. He wasn’t wearing a belt at all.
Kerney followed her glance. “Melted,” he announced.
“That stinks. We’ll stop at a couple of stores and get you squared away.”
When Kerney had finished buying what he needed, the backseat was filled with shopping bags and a large canvas carryall to put everything in. Halfway back to Glenwood, with the skies clearing, Karen took her eyes off the road and glanced at Kerney.
“You’re staying with me,” she said, “until we get things sorted out.”
“I’m staying with you?”
“There’s no other option. You haven’t got a place to live, and bunking with Jim Stiles is too risky.”
“I guess house arrest is better than jail,” Kerney noted.
“You’ll have to sleep on the floor.” She glanced at Kerney again. “Where is Jim?”
“I wish I knew,” Kerney answered.
IN SPITE OF Jim’s attempts to hurry Molly along, she took her own sweet time shopping for a new outfit in a Tucson clothing store that opened early. His stomach was grumbling for breakfast by the time she finished and came out of the dressing room wearing a dark green blouse with an embroidered yoke, a pair of white jeans, and new Tony Lama cowboy boots.
“Now you have to feed me,” she announced, as she spun around to give him a full view of the outfit.
He grinned, nodded in agreement, and paid the bill without complaint.
They arrived in Green Valley in the middle of the morning, with the temperature already in the three digits. Halfway between Tucson and the border town of Nogales, Green Valley paralleled the interstate that ran through the high Sonoran Desert. Except for a few businesses at the northern end of the town and one large strip mall on the main drag, there was very little commercial development, but there were a hell of a lot of churches. Cars along the wide boulevard moved slowly in spite of the absence of heavy traffic, and most were late-model American-made land yachts driven by gray-headed motorists. There wasn’t a baby boomer, adolescent, or thirty-something person in sight.
Molly turned off the main street and passed row after row of single-story apartment condominiums that looked like cheap budget motel units. The native landscaping of saguaro cactus, paloverde trees, desert ironwood, brittle bush, and yucca didn’t completely hide the cut-rate construction of the cement-block buildings.
After the condominiums petered out, the neighborhood changed into modest single-family ranch-style tract homes on small lots. Recreational vehicles, pickup trucks with camper shells, and travel trailers filled about every other driveway. Finally they entered an upscale area of multilevel homes with brick exteriors and tile roofs that surrounded a golf course. Molly parked in front of a house that backed up to a fairway. It was expensively landscaped with crushed rock, native plants, flagstone walks, and a border of blackfoot daisies that covered a low stone wall.
With Molly at his side, Jim rang the doorbell. A tall woman, about seventy years old, answered. She had an angular face, a high forehead, and a long nose that gave her a birdlike appearance.
“Yes?” the woman said, glancing from the man to the woman. The young man’s face looked as if it had been peppered with birdshot, his eye was covered with a patch, and his left arm was in a sling. The young woman was wholesomely attractive with lively blue eyes that sparkled with vitality.
“Louise Blanton Cox?” Jim asked.
“Yes.”
He introduced himself and showed his deputy sheriff’s commission to the woman. “I’m with the Catron County Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to talk to you about your husband and brother-in-law.”
Louise Cox began to close the door as he sp
oke. Stiles blocked it with his foot.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Louise Cox said.
“We can talk informally, or I can get a subpoena,” Stiles bluffed.
Louise Cox hesitated and opened the door, her mouth drawn in a thin, anxious line. “Come in.”
She ushered them into a vaulted-ceiling living room and sat them in a conversation area in front of a freestanding natural-gas fireplace with fake logs. She looked warily at them across a low glass coffee table centered on an off-white area rug. Next to the front picture window stood a grand piano. An accent table which held a vase of fresh-cut flowers was close at hand.
“What is this all about?” Mrs. Cox asked.
“Don Luis Padilla’s son and great-grandson were murdered at Elderman Meadows,” Jim explained. “They had returned to New Mexico to investigate the death of Don Luis.”
“Luis Padilla died long before I arrived in Catron County.”
Jim smiled. “But you do know about his death. What can you tell us about it?”
“Talk to Eugene,” Louise said flatly.
Molly leaned forward. “Mrs. Cox, please help us. We came a long way to see you.”
Louise’s hand fluttered to her cheek. “I can’t.”
“You have a beautiful house,” Molly said. “How long have you lived here?”
“Ten years. I had it built when I moved from Sedona. My doctor said I needed to move to a lower altitude. My heart isn’t very good.”
“Were you teaching in Sedona?”
Louise shook her head and relaxed a bit. “No. I haven’t taught since I married Eugene and left Pie Town.”
“You’re still married to Eugene, aren’t you?” Molly asked, looking at the wedding ring on Louise’s left hand.
“Technically.”
“After so long?” Molly probed.
“I have no desire to talk about my personal life,” Louise said, caution creeping back into her voice.
“Sorry,” Molly said quickly with a disarming smile. “We’re not here to pry.”
“We came to ask you about Eugene,” Jim said. “Did he ever talk about what happened when he was shot on Elderman Meadows?”
“Not really.”
“What did he say?”
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