Kerney waited a beat until they were out of sight, then approached the registration clerk and asked how long Clayton and his family had been waiting.
"Way over an hour," the woman said, glancing at the wall clock.
In the morning, Kerney lathered his face in the bathroom mirror at the motel and forced himself to stop grinning. But the image of Penelope Gibben stalking into the corporate offices late yesterday afternoon, forced by a court order to release the Hobeck contracts, brought the smile back. She'd said nothing during the time it took to find the records and left giving Kerney a spiteful look. Making Penelope Gibben angry and uncomfortable served no purpose, but it felt good nonetheless.
The Hobeck contracts spanned a period of almost fifty years, and the money Danny had received in total exceeded four million dollars. On an annualized basis it was a healthy chunk of cash.
After reading through the contracts last night, Kerney had called a local petroleum geologist to get a reading on the compensation Hobeck had received for services rendered. According to the geologist, Hobeck had been more than fairly reimbursed for the scope of his work.
He toweled off the remaining lather and at the small writing desk wrote out some questions before dialing up Hobeck's company in Albuquerque. When a woman answered, Kerney gave her a fictitious name, sounding as officious as possible.
"I'm with Rubin and Thayer," he continued. "We're conducting the annual corporate audit for Ranchers' Exploration and Development.
"How can I help you?" the woman said.
"I need to speak with your chief finance officer."
"That would be me, I suppose," the woman said with a laugh. "I handle all of Mr. Hobeck's office work. Now that he's semiretired, there's just the two of us, and he's out of town."
"I see," Kerney said. "Part of our audit process includes reviewing a sampling of the consultant contracts issued by Ranchers'. We show that Mr. Hobeck is contracted to provide professional services, and that year-to-date payments in the amount of ninety thousand dollars have been made to him through the month of September. Is that correct?"
"Yes, it is. I make the deposits. The checks come after the first of each month."
"Would you please access your billing statements to Ranchers' for this year?"
The woman paused. "I can't do that."
"We really need to verify the services that have been provided to the corporation," Kerney said.
Worry crept into the woman's voice. "Mr. Hobeck doesn't bill Ranchers'. He says it isn't necessary. As far as I know, he's never billed them."
"I wouldn't be concerned about it. I'm sure the information I need is available through Ranchers'. You say he's never billed the company?"
"Not in all the years I've been with him."
"That's not a problem," Kerney said smoothly. "But I will need to speak with Mr. Hobeck for verification purposes. Is there a way I can reach him?"
"He called yesterday from Roswell saying he was taking a four or five-day holiday before returning home."
"He's not in Albuquerque?"
"No. He always calls first thing in the morning if he's in town."
"Is he traveling alone?"
"I believe so. He's a widower."
"Will he be checking in with you?"
"I wouldn't think so. He has no pending projects."
"Is Ranchers' his only contract?"
"Yes, it has been for the last few years."
"I'd really like to close out this part of the audit as soon as possible. Does Mr. Hobeck have another residence where he might be staying?"
"He has a cabin outside of Ruidoso. But he always tells me when he's planning to go there."
"Do you have a phone number for it?"
"Yes, of course."
Kerney got the number, thanked the woman, and hung up. Why would Danny Hobeck tell Margie's neighbor he was taking his sister back to Albuquerque and tell his office manager a completely different story?
It didn't make any sense unless Hobeck had something or someone-like Margie-to hide.
He tried the Ruidoso phone number, hung up after a dozen unanswered rings, got on the horn to Lee Sedillo, and gave him a summary on Hobeck's connection to Vernon Langsford.
"I'll nail down the location of the cabin," Lee said.
"Put full-time surveillance on it as soon as you do," Kerney said.
"And I want the same coverage at his Albuquerque house and office."
"That means pulling in some additional help from the districts," Lee said. "Do you want him picked up?"
"Don't pick him up."
"Roger that."
"Any news from your end?" Kerney asked.
Lee sighed heavily. "I wish there was, Chief."
Assigned to look for Eric Langsford in Cloudcroft, Mary Margaret Lovato had been to every bar, business, and government office in the village trying to get a lead on him.
Eric was known throughout the community as a screw up who couldn't hold a job, who moved around a lot, and who would disappear for months at a time. He didn't date, had no close male friends, and the people he hung with were hard-core barflies and dopers.
No one she talked to admitted knowing where he might be. She did learn that when Eric was in town, he liked to drink with Willie Natter, an ex-felon and drug user who had done time for forgery.
Natter had moved from the address supplied by his parole officer, and Mary Margaret was deep into the morning, still trying to find him.
High on the western slopes of the Sacramento Mountains, twenty miles away from Alamogordo, Cloudcroft was a resort community surrounded by National Forest. It wasn't at all like the isolated, pastoral northern New Mexico high-country village where Mary Margaret had been raised.
Here, it seemed as if every bit of privately held land had been turned into subdivisions for vacation cabins, year-round homes, golf courses, hunting lodges, sportsmen's ranches, campgrounds, and mountain retreats on five-and ten-acre parcels.
Mixed in with the vacation chalets, condominiums, and high-end homes on heavily timbered lots were scuzzy rental cabins, old camping trailers on permanent foundations tucked into hillsides, and economy tourist parks that looked right out of the 1950s.
With the information supplied by people who knew Natter, Mary Margaret tracked him from job to job, slowed down by traffic pouring into the area for a bluegrass music jamboree, a chamber of commerce-sponsored art gallery extravaganza, and a mountain-bike rally that had drawn over two hundred enthusiasts grinding their way up and down narrow mountain roads.
In a small settlement east of Cloudcroft marked with a plaque commemorating a site where paches had seriously kicked some U.S. Army butt during the Indian Wars, she found Natter washing dishes in a restaurant. She cuffed and marched him out the back door, where last night's raccoon raid on the garbage cans had not yet been cleaned up. A hair net covered Natter's greasy ringlets, and old needle tracks ran up his arms.
"What are you busting me for?" Natter whined through a mouth full of chipped and stained teeth.
"Parole violation," Mary Margaret said. "You moved without reporting it to your PO. But maybe we can work something out."
"Like what?"
"Where is Eric Langsford?"
"I haven't seen him."
"That's not good enough," Mary Margaret said, yanking Natter along by the cuffs in the direction of her unit. "Wait a minute," Natter said.
"Give me something."
"He's got a place in Cloudcroft. An old trailer he turned into a recording studio. He doesn't like people to know about it. Sometimes he stays there when he wants to hide out or when he's working on his music."
"Where is it?"
Natter gave Mary Margaret directions. She took off the cuffs, marched him back inside the diner, and had him call and report to his parole officer.
Natter hung up the phone, relief showing on his face. "He won't violate me if I go see him after work today."
"Be a good boy," Mary Margaret said, "and do as
you're told."
The road to Langsford's secret recording studio wound past a nineteenth-century resort hotel with a lush nine-hole golf course into a wooded area away from the center of the town. The trailer was stepped down on the hillside so that only the roofline and stairs leading to a wooden deck showed from the road.
Mary Margaret approached cautiously, hand on her holstered 9 mm. From the stairs to the deck, electric lanterns strung on over head wire glowed dimly in the bright afternoon light. She heard music coming from inside as she moved quietly across the deck, ducking under the trailer's windows. It was combination of flamenco and jazz chords played flawlessly on an acoustic guitar.
She eased up to the side of the door and saw a note taped on it that read COME IN. She took out her weapon, turned the knob with her free hand, and pushed the door open. The music grew louder. Crouching low, she called out Eric's name and got no answer. But the guitar playing continued. Raising her voice, she identified herself and ordered Langsford to step outside. Nothing happened.
She took a quick look and pulled her head back. Inside against the far wall was a built-in soundboard on a long table, with green dials glowing on the control panel. She looked once more and saw two monitor speakers mounted on a side wall. White light coming from an interior window made the silver-colored soundproofing on the walls and ceiling glisten. She called out again, and the music continued uninterrupted without response.
She sank down on her knees and considered her options-go in alone or call for backup. As she reached for her handheld the music stopped and a hushed hissing sound began, followed by a repeat of the same melody playing again.
Staying low, she ducked inside, plastered herself against a wall, and scanned for movement. After visually clearing the room she looked through the interior glass window of the sound studio. What might have been Eric Langsford was sitting in a straight-back chair.
It was impossible to tell for sure. There was a shotgun on the floor, and the lower half of the man's face had been blown off. Above the closed door glowed a red warning light. She opened the door and almost stepped in a pool of sticky blood. On the ceiling were wads of flesh, clumps of hair, and what looked like fragments of bone and teeth.
Mary Margaret took a deep breath, finished a sweep of the trailer, keyed her handheld, and reported the death of an unknown subject-possibly Eric Langsford-to Lieutenant Sedillo.
"Is it Langsford?" Kerney asked, as he signed the crime scene log.
"Positively," Mary Margaret replied. "Major Hutchinson is flying in from Santa Fe. Lieutenant Sedillo is picking him up at the airport. ETA fifteen minutes."
Kerney figured Nate was probably coming down to pull the plug on the investigation. An onsite briefing was unnecessary, and no other reason for his visit made sense. He'd have to convince Hutch to give him more time.
"Was it a suicide?" he asked, as he entered the trailer.
"Without a doubt," Mary Margaret said, following along. "He's been dead for less than six hours. Langsford videotaped it, Chief, and left the time and date stamp running on the camcorder."
Crime scene technicians were photographing, vacuuming, and sketching inside the recording room. Kerney watched through the plate glass window. "Did he confess before he killed himself?"
"Just the opposite, Chief. He denied murdering anybody. That doesn't mean he wasn't lying."
"You did a good job finding him, Agent Lovato."
"Too little, too late, Chief."
"Take the compliment, Agent," Kerney said.
"Thank you, sir," Mary Margaret said, slightly jarred by Kerney's uncharacteristic gruff tone. "He recorded his statement for you, Chief. I have the tape ready to view in the small bedroom."
"Thanks. Let me know when Major Hutchinson arrives."
In the bedroom behind the closed door, Kerney played the videotape. It began with handheld shots of the soundboard and the recording room, then Eric Langsford's slurred speech broke the silence.
"I lied to you about why I ripped off my father, Kerney. This is what I spent the money on. Pretty neat, isn't it? After I bought the trailer, I soundproofed it, ordered the components from catalogs, and put everything together myself. Wait a minute."
The scene jiggled a bit and then froze. Eric came into view, sat at the soundboard, and swiveled to face the camera. He looked drugged, drunk, and exhausted. His two-day beard, the dark circles under his eyes, and the strands of hair plastered against his forehead gave him a demented appearance.
"I'm gonna play you some of my music and leave it on so you can listen to it when you get here. It's kinda like a funeral dirge, except it isn't very mournful. Wait a minute. I need to get something."
He rose on unsteady legs, came back with a whiskey bottle, took a long swallow, and plopped back down.
"Good stuff. Daddy's favorite single mash. I used to steal bottles of it from his liquor cabinet when I was a kid."
He giggled and put the bottle on the soundboard.
"I don't know when you'll get here, Kerney, so I'm gonna leave the music on for you. Hope you like it; it's from my Latin Suite. I call it "The Day of the Dead." The Mexicans make a big deal about death-they celebrate it every year with a special day. Isn't that nice?"
He turned to the soundboard and with a shaky hand punched a few buttons and fiddled with the controls. The bass tones swelled. Eric nodded his head in time with the music and took another long pull from the bottle.
"There. I did the rhythm, bass, and two lead guitars on this track back when I was trying to get straight. Took me a month to get the licks down the way I wanted them. It could've been my best work, but then I started getting stoned again and never finished it."
He took another swig from the bottle, threw it against a wall, and pulled himself out of the chair.
"Time to go, Grasshopper."
He stepped out of view and then the camera moved jerkily as it was carried into the recording room and positioned to face a straight back chair. Eric walked into camera range cradling an old shotgun.
"There are some really good riffs on this tape, but nobody listens to acoustic music anymore. It's all that techno and hip-hop crap."
He broke open the single-barrel shotgun, inserted a shell with a shaky hand, and snapped it shut.
"Like my new toy? I traded some pot for it. The guy threw in a box of shells for free. Who's that doctor that helps people die and films it?
Maybe I should have gotten him to assist me, 'cause I'm starting to get a little scared."
He composed himself, sat in the chair, and patted the stock of the weapon.
"Okay, time to get serious. I know you want my confession, so here it is: I didn't kill my father or any of those other people. I never killed anybody. Does that piss you off? I bet it does. But the Judas Judge's murder got me thinking. Now just Linda and me are left, and the world would be a better place if the whole family was dead. So I'm gonna make my contribution to the cause."
He placed the shotgun between his legs, locked it in place with his knees, and rested his chin on the barrel. His unblinking eyes stared into the camera.
"I saw this once on one of those dumb television movies about a bad cop. Why do they always show cops killing themselves with guns? Can't you guys do it any other way? Would you use a gun to kill yourself, Kerney?"
Eric smiled as his finger found the trigger.
"This is gonna be real messy."
He hesitated and took his chin off the barrel.
"Make sure my sister sees it-it should make her happy."
He nestled his chin on the barrel, and the smile exploded into a bloody ruin of shattered bone and mangled flesh that splattered against the camera lens.
Kerney played the videotape for Nate Hutchinson, who'd arrived looking serious and slightly uneasy. During the viewing, Hutch didn't speak.
Outside on the trailer's wooden deck, birds chirped and fluttered in the tall pines, and a breeze jingled some wind chimes that hung from a branch arching over the dec
k.
"I've never seen anything like that before," Nate finally said, his eyes fixed on a hummingbird darting by. "Do you believe him?"
"Yeah, I do," Kerney said.
Hutch leaned against the deck railing, furrowed his brow, and fell silent.
"You want to pull the plug on the investigation," Kerney said.
"I can't see any reason to keep it going. Not at the current level, anyway."
"I may have another target: a lifelong friend of Langsford's named Danny Hobeck, who's been feeding at Vernon's corporate trough big time for almost fifty years. He got his sister, Margie, out of town in a hurry after I talked to her. Aside from Eric, Margie was the only other person who seemed downright happy that Vernon was dead."
"Do you have anything substantial on Hobeck?" Hutch asked.
"Not really. Hobeck told Margie's neighbor he was taking her to Albuquerque to stay with him for a few days and gave his office manager a completely different story. I've put surveillance on his house, cabin, and office."
"Is there anything that points to Hobeck as the murderer?"
"I think he's hiding something," Kerney replied, "along with everybody else closely connected to the judge."
Nate bit his lip. "You can't keep running a full-scale investigation indefinitely based on hunches, Kevin."
"We've got three murders and a suicide in one family, Hutch. It isn't just a hunch."
"Okay, work the Hobeck angle. But from now on it's just you, Lee Sedillo, and the core team. Don't pull in any more district personnel for assistance. The field commanders are griping to Andy about it."
"How much time have I got?"
"Not much. If Hobeck doesn't pan out, or you can't get a handle on a motive, the case goes to open status, and I assign it to one agent."
"I'll work it solo, if I have to," Kerney said.
"Even if that means deferring your retirement?"
"I'll step down from my position and take a reduction in rank to do it."
The worry lines on Nate's forehead cleared. "You'd be the best man for the job, no doubt about it."
"Then it's a deal?"
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