"Are you going to arrest Joel?"
"That will depend on how truthful you've been with me."
Kay protectively tucked her purse under an arm, her eyes narrow and hostile. "You really enjoy shattering people's lives, don't you?"
"That usually happens long before I ever get involved," Kerney said.
"I don't like you at all, Mr. Kerney, and I doubt there are many people who do." Her cutting condemnation said, she hurried out the door, avoiding Kerney's hard-eyed scrutiny of her purse. She'd revealed her use of marijuana too easily, Kerney thought, and he wondered what still undisclosed secret went with her.
Unnoticed, Andy Baca stood in the open office doorway watching Kerney as he scribbled notes on a pad. Kerney looked up, and the troubled expression on his face smoothed out.
"What are you doing here?" Kerney asked, forcing a smile as he dropped the pen on the desk.
"I see you haven't lost your touch with women, Kerney," Andy replied.
"That was one pissed-off lady who flew by me in the hall. Who was she?"
"I'm not sure. A suspect, a witness, a victim of some sort. Maybe all of the above. Her name is Kay Murray."
Andy eased himself into a chair. "I haven't heard much from you in the last couple of days."
"There hasn't been much to tell. You could have called from Santa Fe if you wanted a progress report."
"I'm not here to check up on you. I came down to put Captain Catanach and Lieutenant Vanhorn back on the job."
"You're not going to terminate them?"
Andy shook his head. "It wouldn't be fair. Nate's Internal Affairs people tell me Catanach and Vanhorn aren't the only district supervisors who were lax about evidence protection. Seems my predecessor didn't pay it much attention, so things got sloppy. That's changing fast."
"I bet it is. How is Nate doing on the job?"
Andy grinned. "I should have made him my deputy chief a long time ago. He doesn't give me half the grief you do."
"How about I turn in my shield now so you can make Nate's appointment permanent?"
Andy cocked his head and studied his old friend. "Feeling a bit grumpy?"
"Stymied is more like it."
"Bring me up to speed."
Kerney took Andy through the high points of the investigation, the subsequent dead ends, and the circumstantial evidence that implicated Eric Langsford.
"Motive and opportunity sound like sufficient probable cause to me," Andy said, when Kerney finished up. "Find Eric Langsford and arrest him. Let the district attorney decide if he's got enough to file murder-one charges."
"Are we trying to make ourselves look good here?" Kerney asked.
"Making an arrest in a multiple-murder case always looks good," Andy replied.
"You sound like a careerist protecting the department's reputation, Andy."
Andy absorbed Kerney's words like a slap. "This has nothing to do with maintaining the self-interest of the department. You've got a viable suspect and enough cause to arrest him, so do it."
"Is that an order?"
"If you want it to be," Andy replied evenly.
Kerney's deep-set eyes became almost invisible, and anger darkened his face. "Fine," he said without emotion.
"What in the hell is the matter with you?"
Kerney swallowed his anger. "I want this case wrapped up right."
"That's not what's eating at you," Andy said. "Maybe not."
"Want to talk about it?"
Killing Shockley and discovering Clayton to be his son had unsettled Kerney in ways he'd never imagined possible. For the past two days he'd been questioning everything. He could talk to Andy about any one of his worries, but not all of them at once. It would sound like babble.
"No," he said, breaking into a rueful smile as he stood. "Let me get out of here and do my job. I guess I do give you grief, Andy.
Sorry."
Andy got to his feet and smiled back. "No sweat."
As Kerney came out from behind the desk, Andy gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Kerney squeezed Andy's arm in response and continued out the door.
Kerney's shot-up gut didn't handle coffee very well, and he rarely drank it. He sipped water while Lee Sedillo waved his empty coffee cup at the waitress. She stepped over to the table, poured a refill, and moved on, looking for more customers wanting top-offs.
The restaurant catered to the German military personnel and families stationed at Holloman Air Force Base a few miles outside of Alamogordo. Most of the menu items Kerney had never encountered before, nor did he want to. Every plate the waitress carried past the table was loaded with dumplings and overcooked meat covered with a sludge like gravy.
He wondered if stomach pumps were offered as a courtesy after the final course.
"I'll get everybody looking for Eric Langsford," Lee said.
"Let's hope he hasn't left the state," Kerney said. "Put out an additional APB, just in case. What have we missed, Lee?"
"I don't know, Chief. We haven't found any handgun sales made to the suspects, or any record of firearms training. Our interviews with people who knew the Langsfords turned up squat. On the surface, they look like the all-American family."
"We know better," Kerney said. "Go over every agent's field notes, investigation reports, and activity log. Look for undeveloped leads, incomplete witness statements, or possible hard evidence that might have been missed."
Lee nodded. "The owners of the bed and breakfast in Creede confirmed that Linda Langsford was a guest the night her father was killed. That leaves only Eric as a primary suspect."
Kerney put a few dollar bills on the table to cover the coffee and the tip. "I'm going to Roswell for a couple of days. You run things here."
"What's up with that, Chief?"
Kerney shrugged. "A fishing expedition." You're not convinced Eric is our boy, are you?"
"Won't be until we get either a voluntary confession or hard evidence that confirms his guilt."
Sedillo bit his lip.
"What's on your mind, Lee?" Kerney asked.
"Remember that rape case we worked together in Santa Fe when you were with the PD? Those three punks who got the victim loaded and raped her in a hot tub? The DA wouldn't prosecute because the, girl voluntarily got into the tub wearing her bra and panties."
"I remember. He didn't want to risk losing the case in court; it would make his yearly conviction rate look bad. What's your point, Lee?"
"Maybe you're expecting too much."
"Meaning?"
"I know you'd like to nail down an ironclad conviction. But cases don't always break the way you want them to, especially after prosecutors and judges get their hands on them."
"You think my ego is too wrapped up in this?"
"Mine would be, if I was in your shoes."
"Did Andy Baca ask you to have a little chat with me?" Kerney asked.
A pained look crossed Lee's face. "You know me better than that."
Kerney got up from the table. "I take it back, Lee. Forget I said anything. You're right; we can only take it as far as it goes. But I'm still heading out to Roswell."
"I wasn't trying to change your mind, Chief."
A knock at the motel room door came just as Kerney finished packing.
He opened it to find Isabel Istee looking up at him with sober eyes, her hands clasped together primly at her waist. A dark skirt, demure white blouse, and sensible shoes accented the reserved look on her face.
"Do you have some time to talk?" she asked.
"Come in," Kerney replied.
Isabel hesitated before cautiously stepping into the room. "Please leave the door open," she asked.
Kerney grabbed a travel bag from the bed and used it as a doorstop. He turned to find Isabel standing stiffly in the center of the room.
"What would you like to talk about?" he asked.
"Although he appreciates the fact that you are his father, Clayton sees no purpose in establishing a relationship with you,"
Isabel said.
Her words sounded rehearsed. Kerney took a crack at breaking through the formality. "In other words, he thinks I'm a racist."
"That isn't the issue."
"That's the impression I get from him," Kerney countered.
Isabel shrugged a shoulder slightly in concession. "I know he tested you. He's cautious when it comes to prejudicial attitudes. All of us are."
"I've tried not to be intrusive. Has that been misunderstood as a lack of interest on my part?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
Isabel measured Kerney with unsmiling eyes that seemed to be asking an unspoken question.
He waited for a long minute and said, "Tell me why you're here, Isabel."
"Clayton will become a tribal leader someday, Kevin. He will be our next chief of police, and when his career in law enforcement ends he'll serve on the tribal council. He has much to offer, and he is highly regarded by the elders."
"I can see that potential in him," Kerney said. "But it still doesn't answer my question."
"We have a strong tradition of tolerance when it comes to relationships outside the tribe," Isabel said, coloring slightly. "Having you as a father is not a barrier to him."
"So, it's politics," Kerney said, thinking that Clayton's tribal ambitions would be a good reason to keep his distance from a gringo parent.
"You could say that."
"Whose politics are we talking about?" Kerney asked.
"Partially mine, partially his, partially the tribal elders."
"I see."
Kerney said. "Was Clayton's assistance in my murder investigation politically motivated?"
"The tribal administrator and police chief asked him to informally give you the information. Otherwise, you never would have been allowed to question any tribal members. We wanted you to understand that no Mescalero had a part in either the murder of Judge Langsford or his wife."
"We?"
"I played a role in that decision. I serve on the tribal council."
"Have I been given all the facts, Isabel?"
"Nothing was withheld from you."
"So why all the game playing?"
"Allowing the state police to conduct an official investigation was unacceptable. Your department has no authority on our land, and we have no desire to set a dangerous precedent. Another way had to be found to give you the information you wanted. That's where I played a role. I've always believed you to be fair-minded, and I argued that you would not act in a way that would be detrimental to the tribe."
"That's nice to hear." Kerney flashed back on the laughing, spontaneous, lusty, spirited Isabel of his youth. "The world has certainly changed us since we were in college together."
"Not really, Kevin. I never had a desire to make you a part of my world, or be part of yours."
"Obviously."
"Do we have an understanding?"
"It was good of you to come and see me. I know this wasn't an easy thing to do. I won't be a bother."
"Thank you." Isabel smiled, her eyes searching Kerney's face with a hint of warmth. "I never meant to hurt you."
"I know that," Kerney said with a smile.
"When Clayton was a child, I often wondered what you would do if you'd learned of his existence."
"I would have exercised my rights as a parent."
"I thought so," Isabel said. "Even against my wishes?"
"Probably."
"It would have meant that much to you?"
"And now?" Isabel asked.
"I have an empty feeling that I've missed out on something important."
"Yes, I can see that. It speaks well of you. Are you angry with me?"
"No, just disappointed by the circumstances. What would you have done if I'd showed up, way back when?"
"I'm not sure. I never was sure. It was always a question." For a split second Isabel's dark eyes turned playful. "Maybe I would have changed my mind about letting you into my life."
"We'll never know," Kerney said.
"But if that were the case, I would have had a hard time walking away from such an opportunity."
She flushed, her eyes brightened, and a small smile crossed her lips. She extended her hand and Kerney shook it, said good-bye, and walked her to the door.
He waited a few minutes before grabbing his bags and heading to the parking lot. Isabel's life was far different from his own, and he respected her decisions, her traditions, and her heritage. He had unwittingly become a father, and feeling bad about the situation wouldn't change anything. Maybe it was time to get out of his Clayton funk.
Kerney smiled as he thought about Isabel, Sara, Erma Fergurson, his mother, and one or two other women who'd been important to him throughout the years. Each was fiercely independent, smart as a whip, and an extraordinarily interesting person in her own unique way.
The smile vanished when he reached his unit. Someone had scrawled COP KILLER, in paint on the windshield, in broad daylight.
The lot was almost empty of cars, and there were no people around.
Careful not to touch anything outside the vehicle except the door latch, he unlocked it and made radio contact with Agent Duran.
"Come take a look at my unit," he said. "I'm at the motel."
"I'll be there in a few, Chief. Is the damage bad?"
"No damage, just the words "Cop Killer' painted on the windshield."
It took the better part of an hour for Duran to dust for prints, lift some paint samples, and take photographs. As he worked, Kerney questioned him about his investigation and learned there were no suspects and no leads.
"But I'm thinking now that maybe it's somebody close by," Duran said.
"Or a motel employee. This happened in broad daylight, which means that whoever did it saw you drive up."
"Nobody followed me," Kerney said.
"I'm gonna canvas the neighborhood as soon as I finish here," Robert said.
After scraping off the paint and cleaning the windshield, Kerney fired up the unit and rolled onto the street, thinking that whoever was sending him a message needed to be taken very seriously.
Traffic along the highway from Ruidoso to Roswell was light. Kerney parked near the mile-marker post where Arthur Langsford had been killed by a hit-and-run driver and studied the accident investigation report.
The incident had occurred just inside the Chaves County line in low foothills that once defined the edge of a shallow inland sea. The long flowing mountains beyond looked serene and inviting. But in the high country away from the villages, towns, and settlements there were narrow zigzag canyons, deep unbroken cliff walls, and sharp elbow passages that could disorient the unsuspecting and the unprepared.
Kerney walked on the shoulder of the road thinking he needed to find out from the highway department if any changes or alterations to the right of way had occurred since the accident. He checked the photographs in the accident report and eyed the bend in the road where Arthur Langsford had been hit head-on. It wasn't a blind curve by any means. Supposedly a road hazard had caused the driver to swerve into Langsford's lane, and a setting sun had impaired the driver's vision.
He wondered how, without any witnesses, the now-retired sheriff's deputy had ascertained his facts.
Motor vehicle collision analysis wasn't one of Kerney's special interests or skills, and it had been years since he'd handled a traffic accident. He consulted the deputy's field sketch and located the approximate spot in the road where skid marks showed the driver had braked and swerved into the opposite lane. Why had the driver veered across the center line in a no-passing zone when the most typical reaction would've been to steer away from any oncoming traffic?
The report noted that three empty cardboard boxes, each twenty by eighteen inches, had been found on the shoulder of the road approximately twenty feet beyond the point where the skid marks began.
The deputy had assumed the boxes had been in the road prior to impact, but there was no substantiation of that fi
nding. Further, he'd concluded that inattention had caused the driver to swerve quickly to avoid the apparent hazard.
Looking down the highway from the impact point, Kerney wondered how inattentive the driver had been. Even with a low, setting sun, the obstacles should have been visible in time for the driver to slow and approach with caution.
The report of conditions on the day of the accident indicated that the road was dry, traffic was light, and the weather was clear. No debris or paint particles from the vehicle had been found at the scene, either on the road or-according to the forensic analysis-embedded in Arthur Langsford's flesh, bicycle, or clothing.
Kerney decided he needed to find and talk to the retired deputy who handled the call, and locate an expert to reconstruct the accident.
In a traditional sense, Midway couldn't be called a village or a settlement. Just south of Roswell, close to a newly expanded four-lane highway built to carry radioactive shipments to the Underground Waste Isolation Pilot Project eighty miles down the road, Midway consisted of a sprinkling of aging mobile homes and houses on flat, dirt-packed acre-size lots. The absence of lawns and trees, the presence of half-finished or abandoned attempts by residents to build sheds, decks, and carports, and the rundown condition of the neighborhood generally gave it a feeling of depleted energy.
Delvin Waxman, the retired deputy, lived in a trailer that looked no better or worse than any others. He was bent over the engine compartment of an old black-and-white state police cruiser that had been stripped of all decals and equipment and sold at auction. He raised his head when Kerney drove up, wiped his hands on a rag, and approached the unit. He had a small head, an arrow face, and a slightly off-center nose. From the lines and wear on his face, he looked to be pushing sixty.
Kerney showed his shield and introduced himself. "What can I do for you?" Waxman asked.
"Tell me about Arthur Langsford's death."
"I remember that case. It would be hard to forget, seeing that the victim was a judge's son and all." Waxman stuffed the rag in a back pocket and glanced at the file in Kerney's hand. "You've read my report?"
"I have."
"Then there's not much to tell. It's all there."
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