Slow Kill kk-9

by Michael McGarrity

  One evening they left their hotel room with Patrick snug and happy in his carriage and took a walk through a nearby residential neighborhood.

  “I don’t know why you’re so dead-set against an apartment,” Sara said as they walked the quiet, hilly streets of older homes with green grass lawns and big trees that towered over them. “Besides, you won’t be spending much time there.”

  “Marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, plush carpeting, cedar closets, and city views aside,” Kerney said, “I just wouldn’t be happy back in Santa Fe thinking of you and Patrick living in some high-rise box.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said teasingly, “this is all about you. Unfortunately, my basic housing allowance won’t cover anything but a rental.”

  “How many real houses have you lived in since you graduated from West Point?” Kerney asked.

  “Except for the brief times I’m in Santa Fe, not one,” Sara said as she bent down to give Patrick a quick look, who gurgled in response at the sight of her.

  They sauntered around a corner and climbed a small rise where the homes and lots were larger, except for one vacant house at the bottom of the far side of the hill. It was a small brick house with a shingled pitched roof containing a row of second-story gabled windows. The front door, accented with pilasters, was reached by three steps. First-floor casement windows were lined up neatly on either side of the entrance. A FOR SALE sign in the front yard advertised “Immediate Possession.”

  “That looks nice,” Kerney said.

  Sara gave it a wistful glance. “It’s probably way out of the range of what I can afford.”

  “If it’s sound, not overpriced, and meets with your approval, I think we should buy it.”

  Sara looked at the house with heightened interest and then back at Kerney.

  “We can afford it, you know,” Kerney said over his shoulder as he went to inspect the backyard. It had a thick carpet of grass, several large shade trees, and one long, raised flowerbed. “It’s fenced. Perfect for Patrick.”

  “I’ll only be assigned to the Pentagon for three years at the most,” Sara said, not yet willing to get enthusiastic. “What if the house needs repair or renovation? That could be expensive.”

  “Think of it as an investment,” Kerney said when he returned. “We’ll put a chunk of money down, pay the mortgage out of my inheritance income, and you can use your military housing allowance to gussie up the place if need be.”

  Sara’s eyes danced. “Are you serious?”

  “It would make me happy. Patrick would have a backyard to play in, you’d have a place with some peace and quiet, and I wouldn’t feel trapped inside a glass and steel high-rise when I come to visit.”

  Sara laughed.

  “What?”

  “So it is really all about you,” she said.

  Kerney grinned. “Only partially.”

  The next day, they toured the house with the Realtor, who told them it had just come on the market and would sell quickly. They found it charming, in good condition, and because of its small size reasonably priced for the neighborhood. A similar property in the south capital district of Santa Fe would cost about the same.

  Kerney made an offer to the owners through the Realtor, who saw no reason for it to be refused. He gave the man an earnest money check, and together with Sara signed a binder requiring the owners to accept their offer by 5 P.M.

  Outside of the house, Sara stood with Patrick on her hip, cradled at her side in a protective arm. She smiled up at Kerney. “Amazing.”

  Her time in New Mexico had deepened the small line of freckles across her nose, lightened her strawberry blond hair, and given her a bit of a high-desert tan. Her green eyes never looked more lovely.

  “What’s amazing?” Kerney asked.

  Sara laughed. “You are. I’m a very lucky woman.”

  Kerney pulled her close and kissed her. “No, I’m the lucky one,” he said seriously.

  Nothing pleased Jefferson Warren more than representing clients who were tough-minded, clear-headed, and readily understood that the application of law was institutionalized warfare between citizens and the state, bound by legal rules, court opinions, precedent, and statutes.

  Warren liked fighters, and Claudia Spalding was scrappy, focused, and unruffled. He’d had such clients before upon occasion, but never one like Claudia, who seemed to possess an icy inner core coated by a refined but readily apparent sexuality. She aroused him in a strange, exciting way.

  As always, Warren’s first questions had been the most important ones. Had she made any statements to the police? Confessed to the crime? Talked about her case to inmates, jail staff, prosecutors-anybody?

  “Of course not,” Spalding answered, as though the questions were absurd. “I’ve only spoken to the attorney who represented me at the arraignment.”

  Warren waited for more; in fact, he expected it. Some clients rushed to proclaim their innocence, while others, stung by the reality of jail, feverishly questioned him about what could be done to gain their freedom. Some clients even wanted to confess to him, and were shocked when he stopped them quickly and told them he was a lawyer, not a priest.

  Claudia Spalding fit none of those profiles. She sat with her back straight, clear-eyed and poised, her slender, elegant hands folded on the table, and looked at him comfortably during the long silence.

  “You have no questions for me?” Warren finally asked, amazed at her composure.

  “Do you have a plan?” she asked, without a hint of dismay.

  “I believe so,” Warren said, pushing aside the thought of what she might be like in bed. “Let me tell you what we can do in the short term.”

  It took only a few minutes for Warren to lay out his strategy and explain the rationale behind it. Claudia asked several questions about the points of law he’d raised, then she stood and offered Warren her hand. Her palm was cool to the touch, her nails perfectly manicured, and her grip sure and firm.

  “I’ll expect to hear from you directly,” she said with a brief, fleeting smile.

  “Of course,” Warren replied, waiting for an out-pouring of relief. None came.

  He watched as the guard took her away. Something about the woman was dark, unfathomable, and fascinating, like the ancient maps that marked uncharted waters with the warning HERE BE MONSTERS.

  The image of Claudia Spalding, cool and aloof in her jail jumpsuit, stayed with Jefferson Warren as he climbed the courthouse steps in San Luis Obispo on a Friday afternoon and walked through the stylized pediment entrance into the dark hallway.

  Outside the judge’s chambers, the DA, a pompous man with a wide, horseshoe bald spot that covered most of his freckled skull, intercepted him at the door.

  “You’re wasting my time if you’re planning to ask the judge to reconsider granting bail,” he said smugly.

  Warren smiled down at the portly DA, smoothed his silk tie against his cream-colored shirt, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door. “I’m sure you know the judge’s mind far better than I ever will.”

  They found the presiding judge, Truett Frye, in his chambers watching the early evening news on a small portable color television. Frye clicked off the televison and stood, unwinding his lanky six-five frame as the two men approached his desk.

  “This better be worth my time, Mr. Warren,” he said. “I should have been home an hour ago.”

  “It’s really quite simple, your honor,” Warren said. “The alleged murder of Clifford Spalding did not occur within your jurisdiction.”

  “He died here,” the DA interjected.

  “Granted,” Warren replied. “But the legal definition of homicide requires a willful, deliberate, and premeditated act. According to the arrest affidavit and supporting documents, no such act occurred within San Luis Obispo County in the state of California.”

  The DA snorted in disbelief. “For a two-month period, Clifford Spalding took medication that was prepared and deliberately given to him by his wife and h
er lover expressly to cause his death. It doesn’t matter where it all started; they were killing him slowly, here, in New Mexico, and wherever else he might have been during that time.”

  Frye looked at Warren. “Your rebuttal, counselor?”

  “There is nothing in the statute that speaks to how long it takes a victim to die, or where he dies, Your Honor. Suppose a man is shot but survives long enough to drive himself to a hospital across the county line, or even into a neighboring state. In what jurisdiction should the killer be held accountable for the act?”

  “Where the act took place,” Frye said, swinging his attention to the DA.

  “Think of the altered medication Clifford Spalding was given as a poison, Judge,” the DA said. “He took it every day, as prescribed by his doctor, which means he was poisoned in California.”

  “Can you prove that?” Warren asked.

  “The autopsy blood work confirms it,” the DA said.

  Warren shook his head. “It only confirms that Spalding ingested the substance, not where he took it. Therefore, arguably, the murder occurred in New Mexico, where my client allegedly acted with specific intent to cause the death of her husband, time and place notwithstanding.”

  “We have a confession from Spalding’s lover,” the DA said, “that fully implicates her.”

  “And proves my point,” Warren noted.

  Frye gave the DA a cold stare. “Who signed the warrant and affidavit?”

  The DA named the judge.

  He held out his hand. “Let me see them.”

  The DA passed the documents to Frye, who put on his glasses, paged through them, and then looked at Warren.

  “I see your point, Mr. Warren,” he said, “but I don’t see what good it will do your client. The DA can drop his charges and continue to hold Mrs. Spalding in custody on the New Mexico warrant.”

  “There is no New Mexico arrest warrant, Your Honor,” Warren said.

  “Is that so?” Frye asked the DA.

  “I’ll get one,” the DA answered nervously.

  Warren smiled. “Until such time, Your Honor, I respectfully request that Mrs. Spalding be released from jail.”

  Frye glared at him. “So ordered.”

  “Thank you. Would you call the jail now?”

  Frye slammed his hand down on the telephone. “You’d better make damn sure your client stays put, Mr. Warren.”

  “She gave me assurances to that effect, Your Honor. She’ll be at her home in Montecito. I’ll take her there myself.”

  While Frye made the call, the DA used his cell phone to rally the sheriff’s troops.

  With a signed release order in hand, Warren left the courthouse, called the jail, and told them he would be picking up Mrs. Spalding in a matter of minutes. Two deputies in unmarked police cars were waiting when he arrived. Warren figured a surveillance team was probably on the way to Montecito to make sure she stayed put while other detectives scrambled to get an arrest warrant from New Mexico.

  He went inside and got Claudia, who didn’t say a word until they were in his car.

  “Well done,” she said as she buckled her seat belt.

  “I don’t think you’ll be free for very long,” Warren said as he pulled onto the highway, the two unmarked police cars close behind. He explained the situation. “Perhaps no more than a matter of hours.”

  “I understand,” Claudia said softly.

  Warren glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The hem of her black dress rode up an inch above her knees, showing sleek, smooth calves. Her hips were nicely rounded, her neck long and flawless.

  She turned her head and smiled warmly at him. “Could you hurry a bit, please?”

  Claudia Spalding’s allure was subtle yet powerful, and Warren found himself obediently hurrying along.

  At the gate to the estate, the two unmarked police cars pulled to the curb as he turned into the driveway and entered the code Claudia provided on the keypad. He drove up the lane not knowing what to expect. But he’d represented many celebrity clients, was familiar with their extravagant lifestyles, and figured the estate had to be top of the line. When the mansion came into view it matched anything he’d seen in Beverly Hills.

  He parked and looked at Claudia Spalding. “There’s a slight chance the judge will reconsider granting bail if you’re here when the police show up with a new warrant. I’ll certainly make a strong argument for it.”

  “That’s something to look forward to,” Claudia said.

  “Would you like me to stay with you until they arrive?”

  Claudia shook her head, her hand on the door latch. “No, Mr. Warren, that won’t be necessary.”

  “It would be in your best interest to have me stick around,” he said, fully aware his motives were mixed.

  Claudia flashed him a knowing smile and stepped out of the car. “Yes, I’m sure it would. Good night, Mr. Warren.”

  He watched her walk to the house, her posture perfect, body moving in a lithesome rhythm, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Lieutenant Dante Macy found it no easy matter to have a warrant for Claudia Spalding’s arrest issued by a Santa Fe district court judge. Since it was after normal working hours on a Friday, he first had to go through a Santa Fe PD dispatcher, who put him in touch with the highest ranking officer on duty, a patrol captain, who in turn referred him to the lieutenant in charge of special investigations.

  Macy called the lieutenant at home, who contacted an off-duty detective named Matt Chacon. Detective Chacon got on the stick in a hurry and talked to the ADA on duty. He reported back promptly to Macy that the original arrest affidavit prepared by Sergeant Pino had been turned down by the DA and would have to be reworked and re-submitted.

  Macy knew Pino was on her way to California, bringing with her all the case materials. “Do you have the information you need to do it?”

  “We have copies of everything,” Chacon replied.

  “How long will it take you?”

  “I’ll use what the sergeant wrote, add in the Dean confession, and that should do it.”

  “How long?” Macy repeated.

  “An hour to do the paperwork,” Chacon replied. “I’ll hand-carry it to the ADA, who has the judge who signed the warrant for Dean standing by.”

  “My sheriff, who’s not a happy camper, is hovering over my shoulder on this, Detective. When will I get a faxed copy?”

  “Give it two or three hours, Lieutenant,” Chacon said, “barring any unforeseen delays.”

  “Like what?” Macy asked.

  “The district attorney wants to sign off on it. I think he’s talking to your DA as we speak.”

  “Are there any political issues regarding Claudia Spalding I should know about?” Macy asked.

  Chacon chuckled. “I don’t think Claudia Spalding has any political clout at all in Santa Fe. From what I know about her, she didn’t come here to engage in civic affairs, if you get my meaning.”

  In spite of himself, Macy laughed. “Okay. Thanks for pushing it along, Detective.”

  “No problem. I’ll have it to you as fast as I can.”

  Macy called Bill Price, who had a team of officers on stakeout at the Spalding mansion. “Is everything quiet?”

  “No problem, LT. She hasn’t moved, and no one’s been to visit since the lawyer dropped her off.”

  “We should have a warrant from New Mexico in two or three hours. I’ll let you know as soon as it comes through.”

  “Ten-four,” Price said.

  Because Ramona’s tickets had been booked a day before her departure, she wasn’t able to fly directly to San Luis Obispo and had to lay over at the Phoenix airport and catch the last flight to Santa Barbara.

  For a time, she sat in the busy concourse oblivious to the people around her and read through the chief’s case notes on George Spalding.

  Kerney had put everything in chronological sequence, and his narrative style was crisp, clear, thoroughly detailed, and filled with
solid observations. The notes read like a compelling mystery, and by the time Ramona finished she was caught up in the case, eager to know where George Spalding was and why he’d faked his own death.

  Ramona wasn’t surprised by Kerney’s investigative skills. She’d watched him work several major crimes, and knew he’d spent most of his career in the major felony crime unit as he rose through the ranks.

  Because of his background in investigations, Kerney paid a bit more attention to the unit than most chiefs normally would. But he didn’t shirk his larger responsibilities, and Ramona hadn’t heard any complaints of favoritism from members of the other divisions.

  She put the case notes away and did some people watching. Businessmen and -women in rumpled suits traveling home for the weekend wandered back and forth pulling their wheeled carry-on bags and talking on cell phones. Weary parents chased after hyperactive children. Electric carts with flashing red warning lights passed by carrying senior citizens, frail and disabled people, and young mothers holding infants. Teenage girls in tight jeans showing bare midriffs clattered along. There were middle-aged men in baggy shorts and T-shirts, and an abundance of overweight people.

  Her flight left on time and the small turbojet flew west into the sun, with Phoenix and its suburbs below spreading out for miles across the desert floor. Not yet immune to the fun of flying, Ramona passed the time looking out the window. When the plane banked and turned on its final approach to Santa Barbara the ocean came into view, shimmering like an enormous undulating sheet, each wave tufted in white as it broke against the shore.

  The Santa Barbara airport was much like the one in Santa Fe, which also served only commuter jets and private aircraft. Portable stairs were rolled up to the plane to unload the passengers, and the terminal, a quaint, tidy California mission-style building, was just a few steps away. Inside, the passenger area was empty, and a small cluster of people waited behind the security barrier, manned by a bored-looking guard sitting on a stool next to the baggage screening machine.