“He and Norvell go way back,” Kerney said. “They were boyhood friends.”
“I haven’t heard Adam’s name in years,” Hewitt said. “His father, Hiram, owns the fruit stand where we found Montoya’s body.”
“What do you know about Adam?” Kerney asked, his interest rising.
“He was the baby of the family—unexpected and spoiled rotten by Hiram. His mother died giving birth.
She was in her forties at the time. His two sisters are a good twenty years older. Something happened when Adam was a teenager. The family doesn’t talk about it, but Hiram kicked him out of the house, sent him to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell, then up to Albuquerque to the university. I don’t think he’s ever been back here since.”
“What did folks think happened between Tully and his father?” Kerney asked.
“Oh, there were rumors that Adam had gotten some girl in trouble, stolen money from his father, was using drugs—stuff like that. But they were just rumors and there was no evidence anyone could point to. The family stayed tight-lipped, of course.”
“Was Tyler Norvell mentioned in those rumors?” Kerney asked.
“Not as I recall,” Hewitt replied. “But Deputy Istee saw Senator Norvell’s car leave Rojas’s house two nights ago.”
Kerney turned to Clayton.
“And I know where the ranch is,” Clayton said.
“Excellent. Have you had any contact with the Tully family?”
“Yeah. I interviewed Hiram, one of his daughters, and her husband, and a granddaughter.” He passed his field notes to Kerney.
Kerney scanned through the papers. “I’d like to talk to these people.”
“I’ll take you around to see them,” Clayton said. With a resigned look he retrieved his notes from Kerney’s hand and held out his casebook. “I guess this is your investigation, now.”
Kerney shook his head. With few resources, and virtually no help, Clayton had done an amazingly good job. “You don’t get to bow out, Deputy,” Kerney said. “The state police officers assigned to investigate Senator Norvell have been advised that the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office is in charge of this piece of the task force. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the lead investigator, unless your boss says otherwise.”
Clayton’s look of resignation lightened into a smile that he couldn’t completely contain.
“I’m fine with that,” Hewitt said. “How many agents and what’s their ETA?”
“Four. They’ll be briefed at noon. They should be here soon after that.”
“I’d better get cracking,” Hewitt said, rising from his chair. “Leave the casebook with me, Deputy. I’ll free up some space in the building we can use as a command center, take care of the details, and have everything we’ve got ready to go.”
Kerney stood. “You’ll have the task-force packet in hand before the agents arrive. Thanks, Paul.”
Hewitt hitched up his blue jeans and smiled. “No thanks are necessary, Kerney. Hell, this is one party I wouldn’t want to miss.”
Fidel, who had followed the cop from the highway turnoff to his house back to the county courthouse, waited for something to happen. It seemed like the Indian deputy and the cowboy sheriff went to work early so they could spend more time doing nothing. Ten minutes after parking, Fidel watched another cowboy—this one with a limp—park and go inside. Soon after that a few civilians and uniformed deputies arrived.
Fidel had hoped that the day would prove more interesting, but it wasn’t turning out that way. It was, he decided, way beyond boring to be a cop in Lincoln County.
From his hallway desk Clayton put in calls to the people Kerney wanted to talk to while Kerney used his cell phone to ask to have Greer fingerprinted and provide some hair samples to be sent down for comparison to the evidence collected at the Ulibarri crime scene.
Page Seton, Hiram Tully’s granddaughter, and her parents, Morris and Lily, were traveling out of state to attend a wedding in West Texas. Hiram Tully had been moved from the hospital to a state-run rehabilitation center in Roswell.
While Clayton called the rehab center to confirm that Tully could see them, Kerney stood with his back against the hallway wall thinking that the working conditions at the sheriff’s department were abysmal. Clayton had no privacy, and the staffers from other county offices passing by had to step sideways behind Clayton’s chair in order to get around him.
He didn’t fault Paul Hewitt; sheriffs in rural counties pretty much always got the short end of the stick when it came to divvying up tax dollars.
The trip to Roswell with Clayton started out in silence. They passed the city park on the outskirts of town, a rather bleak-looking place bordering the highway that consisted of a poorly landscaped nine-hole golf course, some ball fields, picnic tables, and a scattering of trees. Soon after, Clayton slowed and pointed at the burned-out fruit stand up ahead.
“Want to take a look at the crime scene?” he asked.
“I would,” Kerney replied.
Clayton pulled off the highway and together they walked to the building.
“At least the mud has dried up,” Clayton said as he turned on his flashlight to show Kerney where Montoya’s body had been found.
“It must have been a bitch to excavate the remains,” Kerney said, peering into the cold-storage space from the doorway.
“Yeah,” Clayton replied. “Why would Norvell, if he is the killer, put her body here?”
“I’ve thought a lot about that,” Kerney said, stepping back from the doorway. “Let’s say Montoya meets him at the shopping mall in Santa Fe and agrees to go someplace private where they can talk. Norvell takes her to some secluded spot and when he realizes she won’t be dissuaded from unmasking him, he decides to kill her, except he doesn’t have a gun, a knife, or the balls to strangle her. So he punches her, knocks her out, and uses a tire iron to kill her, hitting her not once, but twice. I asked for a forensic analysis of Montoya’s skull. It showed that she suffered a hairline crack to the jaw along with two blows to the head consistent with a tire iron or similar object.”
“But that still doesn’t answer my question,” Clayton said.
“I’m getting to it,” Kerney said as he walked to the back of the building with Clayton following along. “So now he’s got a dead body in his car, a long road trip ahead of him, and a big problem: what to do with the body. On top of that, he’s probably not thinking very straight and is paranoid as hell about getting stopped by the police. He can’t just dump Montoya out at the side of the road, or bury her on his own property. That would be too risky. So he thinks of places he knows where it might be safe to hide the body before he gets home.”
“Even if you can prove Norvell knew about the abandoned fruit stand, have you got probable cause?” Clayton asked.
“That’s the missing piece I need, according to the district attorney,” Kerney replied, stepping back to look at the shell of the fruit stand. A parked car behind the structure wouldn’t be seen from the highway.
He swung around and looked at the mountains. There were no houses or trailers in sight. “Norvell probably passed this place often during the years it sat unused. Maybe he even knew that Tully had no plans to reopen it. Or maybe he thought he’d come back later and move the body, but decided not to when time passed and the case turned cold.”
“Have you seen enough?” Clayton asked.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Clayton locked his gaze on Kerney’s face. “One question: why did you back me as lead investigator with the sheriff?”
“Because you’re the most knowledgeable about the case and you’ve done one hell of a job,” Kerney replied.
The stern look on Clayton’s face smoothed out slightly. “That’s it? Nothing personal?”
“Part of it’s personal, I guess,” Kerney said. “You might think it’s silly of me to say this, but I’m proud of what you’ve done.”
The comment caught Clayton off guard. He swallowed
hard and looked away.
“Let’s go,” Kerney said, taking the pressure off Clayton to respond.
All the phone taps, including land lines and cell phones, were up and running just before Cassie Bedlow arrived at her talent and modeling agency. In his APD uniform and driving a patrol car, Jeff Vialpando waited a few minutes before pulling up outside the building. Entering, he called out a hello and Bedlow appeared in her office doorway.
“Yes, Officer,” she said, looking somewhat startled.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Jeff said, taking off his hat. “But I need your help.”
“Regarding?”
“A woman named Stacy Fowler died in an automobile accident last night, and the state police asked if we’d help locate next of kin. They found your business card in her wallet. Did you know her?”
“Yes, but only slightly. I interviewed her a month or so ago for a modeling job, but it didn’t pan out. How did it happen?”
“I’m not completely sure, ma’am,” Jeff replied. “But I do know it was a rollover accident outside the city limits, and Ms. Fowler was alone in the vehicle at the time.”
“Oh my goodness,” Cassie said, shaking her head sadly. “I heard something about it on the radio as I was coming to work.”
“Do you know anything about her family?” Jeff asked.
“No, I think she’d just moved here from the Midwest.”
“Her car was registered in Arizona,” Jeff said. “Did she mention any family members there?”
“We only talked once and it was purely about business.”
“Thank you for your time,” Jeff said.
“I’m so sorry I can’t be of more help,” Bedlow said. “I hope it won’t take you long to notify her family.”
“It probably will,” Vialpando said with a shrug. “We don’t have much to go on.”
Once he was back in the unit, Ramona’s voice came over his police radio. “She’s talking to Tully right now.”
“Saying?” Vialpando asked as he drove away.
“That Fowler is dead and Greer didn’t keep her date last night.”
“And?”
“She tried calling Greer from home and got no answer. She’s going to her apartment to look for her, then to Fowler’s town house to make sure there’s nothing incriminating for the police to find.”
“Beautiful,” Vialpando said. “That’s even better than we expected. What else?”
“Tully’s telling her to be careful. Bedlow’s saying not to worry, the police are just investigating an accident, nothing more, and they don’t know anything about Fowler. Tully just told her to act fast and call him back as soon as she’s finished.”
“I’m going home to change,” Vialpando said.
“I’d like to send one of your detectives down to Fowler’s town house to videotape Bedlow’s comings and goings.”
“Good idea. Use Alvarado. He’s great with a camera and good at surveillance. Is Ault in place?”
“Ten-four.”
Frustrated at not finding Sally Greer at home, Cassie Bedlow went to the resident manager’s apartment, where Detective Allen Ault, unshaven and dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, opened the door.
“If you’re looking for the leasing office,” he said, “it’s in Building One. Just take a left at the corner. You can’t miss it.”
“I’m looking for Sally Greer,” Bedlow said.
“She moved out yesterday,” Ault said. “Didn’t even leave a forwarding address for her cleaning deposit.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yeah, she dropped off her key.” Ault waved his finger at Bedlow. “Wait a minute. Are you Carrie?”
“Cassie,” Bedlow said.
“Yeah, that’s it. She left a letter for you.”
Ault rummaged around on the coffee table and gave Bedlow an envelope.
“Thank you,” Bedlow said.
In her car Bedlow read the letter.
I figure that what you did to me and let others do to me more than pays you back the money you “lent” me. You’ve made me sick to my stomach about myself. But I’ll never be as sick and twisted as you are. Don’t worry, I won’t cause you any trouble. I couldn’t stand to have anyone find out what I did.
Bedlow dropped the letter on the car seat and called Adam on her cell phone. He and Luis could decide what do about Sally Greer.
The rehabilitation center was located on a former air force base just south of Roswell. The original building, a blocky, monotonous structure, had served as the base hospital. According to old-timers and locals, it had been built on the site where secret autopsies had allegedly been performed by military doctors on the bodies of aliens from outer space who’d crash-landed in a UFO outside of the city after World War II.
A single-story, modern addition that had been appended to the hospital created a jarring, somewhat schizoid blend of architectural styles. A wide expanse of lawn with trees planted here and there failed to soften the impression.
In a physical therapy suite housed in the new addition, Kerney and Clayton watched through a glass partition as Hiram Tully finished up his treatment. The stroke had affected the left side of his body, and Tully was doing a leg weight exercise to strengthen his calf muscles. The old man was working hard, and Kerney knew from his own experience that the task wasn’t easy. Soon he’d get to go through the experience all over again for his new knee.
After he completed his regimen the therapist walked Tully slowly out of the rehab room. His gaunt face glistened with perspiration, and his partially paralyzed arm dangled a bit at his side. They met with him in an empty nearby office, where Kerney introduced himself.
“I don’t know why you’re back here,” Tully said haltingly to Clayton, as he lowered himself slowly onto a chair. “Couldn’t tell you anything before, can’t tell you anything now.”
“We’d like to ask you about a friend of your son,” Clayton said.
Tully stiffened and turned his head away as though he’d seen something despicable. “My son is dead to me.”
“We’re only interested in his friend,” Clayton said.
“I don’t know any of his friends,” Tully said, working his mouth slowly to pronounce the words.
“A friend from a long time ago,” Clayton said.
Tully gave him a sidelong glance. “Who?”
“Tyler Norvell,” Kerney said.
Tully wiped a bit of drool from his lips. “I have nothing to say about him.”
“Our questions aren’t personal,” Kerney said. “Did Norvell ever work for you?”
Tully nodded. “When he was in high school. I hired him as an apple picker. He worked after school and weekends in the fall.”
“Did he ever work at the fruit stand near Carrizozo?”
“No.”
“He had nothing to do with the fruit stand?” Kerney asked.
“Deliveries, that’s all. He’d go with Julio, my foreman, to restock apples and cider, and dispose of any spoilage.”
“From the cold-storage cellar?” Kerney asked.
“Yes.”
“How long did he work for you?” Kerney asked.
“Three harvest seasons.”
A thought about the abandoned fruit stand clicked in Clayton’s head. “Has Norvell ever offered to buy the property from you?”
Tully nodded. “He had a realtor make an offer through his company. I turned it down. Don’t ask me why.”
“When was that?”
“Ten years ago, maybe longer.”
They thanked Tully and turned him over to a waiting aide, who walked him down the hall toward the old hospital.
“So when are you going to arrest Norvell for murder?” Clayton asked.
“All in due course,” Kerney replied as they left the lobby.
Clayton shook his head. “I wonder what the deal is between Tully and his son.”
“I’m glad we didn’t have to find out,” Kerney said.
Clayton unlocked
his unit. “Why?”
Kerney thought about Vernon Langsford, the retired judge from Roswell who had been murdered by a deeply disturbed daughter because of a secret incestuous relationship he’d had with her decades earlier. “Because that kind of family stuff is usually pretty ugly, sometimes disgusting, and I’ve heard enough of it to last a lifetime.”
“But saying a son is dead to you is really harsh.”
“No harsher than a son saying it to a father,” Kerney said deliberately as he strapped on his seat belt.
Clayton sat behind the steering wheel without reacting, letting Kerney’s words sink in. When they’d learned about each other’s existence, Clayton had come close to telling Kerney to completely butt out of his life. Was there that much difference between Tully’s denial of a son and his own rejection of a father? Tully had raised his son, but he had never known Kerney as his father until recently. Still . . .
Clayton ran his forefinger over the edge of the wheel and said, “I guess that’s true, in a way, isn’t it?”
Fidel waited on a side street down from the rehab center, parked in front of a row of single-family dwellings which he figured once housed military personnel. Some of them were occupied and some had for-sale signs plunked down in dead grass under dead trees. The whole area on three sides of the center was filled with identical ugly concrete block houses. Some of them looked pretty trashed out.
He called Rojas and told him the Indian cop had done nothing, except go to work early, walk around a burned building, and take some crippled cowboy with a limp to a rehabilitation center in Roswell.
“I guess the Indian cop runs a taxi service when he’s not busy drinking coffee and eating donuts,” he said.
“What did the cop do at the fruit stand?” Rojas asked.
“Tour the guy with the limp around. They weren’t there long.”
“Did you recognize the other man?” Rojas asked.
“Never saw him before.”
“Then nothing’s happening,” Rojas said. “That’s good.”
The Big Gamble Page 25