“And if it’s a dead end, as Clayton intimated it might be?”
Sara reached up a hand and smoothed down Kerney’s hair. “We move on.”
“What would I do without you?”
“You’d be in big trouble.”
The wastebasket next to the desk was stuffed with leftover trash from dinner, exuding a strong smell of pizza. Their room, in probably what amounted to the best motel in Deming, approached depressing. Bland prints on the walls, mass-produced furniture, and the awful floral curtains covering the one big window above a noisy combination air conditioner/heater, almost made Sara shudder. The previous night, they’d been kept awake by an hour-long argument between a couple next door.
She reached down and picked up the wastebasket. “Mind making a trip to the nearest trash bin? Eau de Pepperoni is not my favorite fragrance. While you’re gone, I’ll put on some fresh lipstick, and then we’ll go out for a drink. We both could use one.”
Kerney smiled. “Good idea.” Wastebasket in hand, he gave her a quick kiss and went out.
There were two kinds of customers in Trino’s Lounge, a bar that catered to real and faux-cowboys, serious drunks and casual drinkers. But the place was clean and quiet, and there seemed to be no brewing disagreements between the pool players at the back of the room.
In a booth away from the dozen customers gathered at the bar, they sipped shots of tequila and didn’t speak until the final chords of Marty Robbins’s classic “El Paso” faded away on the jukebox.
“We promised Patrick he could spend the summer with my brother and his family at the Montana ranch,” Sara said.
Kerney put down his shot glass. “We can’t go back on that.”
“Even if—”
He raised his hand to stop her. “Yes, even if. It would be too much of a letdown to take that away from him. He’s been looking forward to it all year. Besides, with what I’m putting him through, he’ll need a big dose of family sanity. I’ll talk to Dalquist when we get home and find out when he thinks the prosecution plans to go to trial. Which we won’t let happen, because we’re going to blow their case apart.”
Sara lifted her shot glass. “Here’s to you.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me that you’re a man who never gives up.”
Kerney winced. “I have been less than optimistic lately, haven’t I?”
“You’ve hidden it well.”
They clinked glasses, finished their shots, and left Trino’s as Johnny Cash’s “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town” started playing.
There were no sounds of domestic squabbles or raucous partying from the adjoining rooms, and soon Kerney was asleep. Sara curled up next to him, listening to his steady breathing. Fortunately, the firestorm of publicity about him had died down, but to have his whole career called into question by one false accusation had hurt him deeply. She drifted off wondering what else she could do to ease his anxiety.
In the morning, she woke to an empty bed, the sound of the shower in the bathroom, and the smell of coffee. She poured a cup from the in-room carafe and called retired Command Sergeant Major Otis Roderick at his new job with the Department of Homeland Security, counting on his thirty-five-year-old habit of always being first to report for duty. He answered on the first ring.
“Command Sergeant Major Roderick, this is Sara Brannon,” she said. “Hello, how are you, how’s the family, and I need a favor.”
Roderick laughed. “Good morning, ma’am, I’m fine, the family is fine, and what can I do for you?”
She asked for a full background check on Earl Matson, gave him what little information she had, including some history about Louis and Jack Page, and told him the reason why.
“I’ve heard about your husband’s difficulties,” Roderick said diplomatically. “I’ll get on it ASAP, General.”
“Thank you, Otis.”
“You were the best boss I ever had. Would it be inopportune of me to congratulate you on your recent retirement? It’s been the talk of the town, so to speak.”
“Not at all,” Sara answered lightheartedly. “Thank you. We’ll come out on the right side of this shitstorm.”
“I wouldn’t bet against you, ma’am,” Roderick said.
Sara disconnected just as Kerney emerged from the bathroom in a T-shirt and skivvies, rubbing a towel through his hair.
“We’ve been going about this all wrong,” he said.
“How so?”
He sat on the corner of the bed. “By treating everything as if it were an isolated thread. What if it’s all connected? Kim’s murder, her friend Loretta going missing, the disappearance of Kim’s mother and Todd Marks.”
“Tied in with Jack Page and Earl Matson?”
“Why not? With the epicenter for all of it right here in Deming.”
“How do we connect the dots?” Sara asked, delighted to hear reignited enthusiasm in his voice.
“We start with Flavio Sapian. This is his hometown. After he retired from the state police, he joined the Deming PD and worked his way up to chief before retiring a second time. If anyone can tell us where to look for buried secrets, it’s Flavio.”
“How do we find him?”
“If I recall, everyone knows Flavio. All we have to do is ask.”
Years ago, while pursuing a smuggler and murderer, Kerney had met with Flavio at his home on some acreage outside of the Deming city limits with a fine view of the Florida Mountains. Like so many New Mexicans rooted to the land by ancestry and choice, Sapian still lived there, expanding what had once been a small, mid-century ranch-style house into a two-story home and an attached two-car garage. A late-model motor home was parked nearby on a concrete pad. At the rear of the house, a covered deck shaded a hot tub, an expensive barbecue grill, and a wrought-iron dining table with enough chairs to accommodate a dozen people. It was a fine example of the New Mexico tradition of moving up the socioeconomic ladder without moving out of the family home.
Except for a few more pounds and a slightly sagging jawline, Flavio hadn’t changed much. Burly and thick through the chest, with stout legs and strong arms, he could be an intimidating presence, which had given him a great advantage during his law enforcement career. But just as readily, his calm nature and friendly smile could quickly put people at ease.
Under the welcoming shade of the rear deck with a cool breeze moderating the growing heat of the morning, Flavio served iced tea and explained that his wife, Rosemary, was in Albuquerque visiting one of their children, a daughter attending UNM.
“As soon as she gets back on Monday, we’re heading out in the RV to Yellowstone,” he added. “We want to see it before it gets overcrowded with summer tourists.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Sara said.
Flavio nodded in agreement. “It will be great.” He swung his attention to Kerney. “Knowing the trouble you’re in, I bet this isn’t a social call.”
“It’s not.” Kerney laid out his theory of connecting all the dots to the people they were searching for in Deming and asked Flavio for his help.
Flavio rubbed a hand across his chin and gave it some thought. “It might be a stretch that Kim Ward’s murder was connected to something in her past, and not because of a drug-fueled marriage gone bad. Granted, all those people except Todd Marks are from Deming, but Kim Ward and Louis Page died in totally unrelated circumstances, and Jack Page, Earl Matson, Loretta Page, and Kim’s mother haven’t lived here for years. Plus, if Jack is alive and living off the grid somewhere with Earl, what’s the glue that holds everything together?”
“I don’t know,” Kerney answered. “But it seems odd that an entire family has either gone missing or deliberately into hiding.”
Flavio sipped his iced tea. “That’s true.”
Kerney waited a beat for more, but Flavio remained silent. “You’ve put a pretty big dent in my theory, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved.”
Sara reached for her sunglasses on the tab
le. “Thank you for your time.”
“No, it’s not that,” Flavio said with a wave of his hand. “I was just wondering what I could do to be helpful. I’ve got the weekend here by myself before Rosemary gets back and nothing but small chores to do. Let me turn over some rocks with a few of the old-timers I know.”
“That would be great.”
Flavio stood up. “No promises. Will you still be staying in town?”
“No, we’re heading out to Mescalero for a family weekend,” Sara replied.
“Good. If there are any secrets to be found, it’s best that I work this on my own. Deming may call itself a city, but it’s really still a small town.”
“And strangers are strangers,” Kerney said.
“Exactly.”
Flavio walked them to the front of the house. “I’ll call after I’ve turned over those rocks.”
Kerney extended his hand and Flavio shook it. “Thanks.”
“You didn’t kill that girl,” Flavio said in parting. “I know it.”
Following behind Kerney’s truck on the way to Mescalero, Sara received a text message from Otis Roderick that read: “No joy in Mudville unless Earl Matson Page from Deming, New Mexico, is your boy.”
Jack Page had adopted Earl after all. Sara pulled over to the shoulder of the highway, called Kerney, gave him the news, and said she’d be along after talking to Roderick. Up ahead, Kerney coasted to the shoulder and waited for her.
“That’s our boy,” Sara said when Otis picked up.
“Can you positively ID him?”
“Why?” Sara asked.
“Because this Earl Matson Page was an undercover DEA Special Agent in Colombia who disappeared in the jungle over twenty-five years ago with five million dollars in confiscated drug money to be used to recruit a confidential informant close to one of the major drug kingpins. He’s been legally declared dead. Can you positively ID him?”
“No, but there may be someone who can.”
“I can only hold on to this information so long.”
“Understood,” Sara said. “How long?”
“Monday. I’ll send you his photograph as soon as we disconnect. I’ve got a sketch artist working on an updated rendering, complete with ponytail and beard. You’ll get it in about an hour.”
“Can you push your deadline past Monday?”
“If you can confirm his identity, I’ll hold off until Tuesday morning. But once I report to the inspector general, he’ll want to move quickly on this.”
“Thank you. Did NSA have any tracking information on him?”
“Negative. Not under Matson or Page. He’s completely off the radar, and that’s almost unheard-of these days.”
“We may have a general location.”
“Try to nail it down. If it is Earl Matson Page, he’s a dangerous, crooked cop and the DEA wants him. It’s against the rules, but I’ll send you his personnel jacket. Give me your most secure email address.”
Sara rattled off the information.
“Be careful, General,” Roderick warned.
“Affirmative, and thanks again.” She disconnected, flashed her headlights at Kerney, rolled to a stop behind him, and got in his truck.
She held up her cell phone with Earl Matson Page’s official DEA photograph on the screen. “He’s a former DEA agent who went missing twenty-five years ago in the Colombian jungle with five million dollars. Supposedly dead.”
Kerney whistled. “If he isn’t dead, that might explain using his brother’s name. What now?”
“We’ve got until Tuesday morning to wrap him up. I should have an artist’s sketch of how he might look today in about an hour, plus a copy of his personnel jacket.”
“Forward it to my laptop,” Kerney said. “You go on to Mescalero. I’m going to the Fort Bayard Veterans Center to have another talk with Bud Elkins.”
Sara shook her head in dismay.
“I know, this could ruin the family weekend. But only for me, not for you, Patrick, or your parents. Tell Clayton that I may need him for backup, but please stay put for Patrick’s sake.”
“This man is dangerous,” Sara said.
“I’ll be careful. If I get nowhere with Bud Elkins or the staff at the veterans center, I’ll be in Mescalero in time for dinner.”
“Promise?”
Kerney nodded and kissed her. “Promise. I’ll give Flavio a heads-up.”
She followed him until he got off the interstate at the next exit and turned back toward Deming, the silhouette of his pickup disappearing in the steady stream of westbound traffic.
Flavio Sapian kept two old horses and some weed-eating goats on his acreage, not just to reduce his state property tax assessment, but also for the pleasure of seeing critters on the land other than rabbits, roadrunners, and rattlesnakes. After Kerney and his wife left, he fed and watered the horses, let the goats out of the pen to roam in one of the small pastures infested with ragweed, and went to talk to Elias Lopez, his wife’s ninety-six-year-old great-uncle and the former sheriff of Luna County.
On the road, Kerney called with information about Matson that made Flavio’s willingness to help more interesting. He felt his old cop instincts begin to kick in.
Elias lived with his eighty-six-year-old sister, Carmella, in a neighborhood of small homes not far from downtown. In the tiny front room filled with Carmella’s prized Victorian furniture, sipping a cup of her terrible coffee, Flavio waited patiently for Elias’s favorite television game show to finish. When the last winner went running and screaming off the stage, Elias muted the TV.
“So, why do you come to see this old man?” Elias asked. With his full head of hair slicked down, his new dentures in place, and dressed in pressed, faded blue jeans, he looked ready to go to the grocery store, one of his favorite outings. Still able to get around without a cane or walker, and sound in mind, Elias was proof old age didn’t have to be all that bad, even though the thought of it made Flavio wince.
“I need your help, Tio. When you were sheriff, did you have any dealings with a couple named Jack and Jann Page and their children?”
“Is this about the cop they say killed Kim Ward?”
“Yes, Kevin Kerney,” Flavio acknowledged.
Elias studied Flavio with his cloudy eyes. “Are you helping him?”
“I am.”
Elias smiled. “Good.”
“Jack and Jann Page, Tio,” Flavio gently nudged. “Did you know them?”
Elias nodded. “Besides his ranch down here, Jack had a small place he’d inherited outside Mimbres where they used to run a few cows in the summer. I was with the Grant County Sheriff’s Office back then when a call came in about somebody killing his cattle. There were five dead cows and two dead calves, all shot in the head. We never did find out who did it. Jack used his tractor to bury them.”
“Can you remember where Jack’s property was?” Flavio asked.
“That was a long time ago, but it was up a canyon away from the village. There wasn’t much to the place except an old trailer, a couple of sheds, and a pasture. Ask in Mimbres how to get there. Somebody will know.”
“Gracias, Tio.”
“Por nada.” Elias’s second favorite game show was starting. He turned on the sound.
At the veterans center, Bud Elkins hobbled out of the physical therapy suite, his face flushed from exertion, breathing heavily. Kerney held up his cell phone with the forensic artist’s drawing of Earl Matson Page as he might look now.
“Is this the man who took Jack Page home?”
Elkins scowled and refused to look. “I know who you really are. Why should I tell you anything? Coming in here and lying to everybody like you did.”
“I apologize for misleading you, but I have a lot at stake.”
“Go to hell.”
Elkins shuffled away. The sound of heavy footsteps and the clicking of heels caught Kerney’s attention. He turned to face an older, uniformed security guard and a stern-looking, middle-aged woman dr
essed in a conservative gray pantsuit.
“You are to leave the premises immediately,” she snapped.
Kerney stepped back from the guard’s attempt to guide him by the arm. He had the bearing of a man who knew his job, probably a retired cop.
“This is a public building,” he replied genially.
“And you’re causing a disturbance,” the woman countered. “Leave now before I call the police.”
There was no sense in arguing. She led the way to the main entrance and remained in the lobby watching as the guard accompanied Kerney to his truck.
Kerney opened the driver-side door and paused. “Is Robert Ripple on duty?”
“Bobby? He works swing shift only.”
“Know how I can find him?”
The guard smiled. “Now, why would I tell you that?”
Kerney shrugged and got behind the wheel. “I can tell you’re retired law enforcement. Give me a hand here.”
The guard nodded. “Thirty-two years with the San Diego PD, Traffic Division. I don’t know if you’re guilty or not, but Bobby’s not hard to find. He works part-time in the lumberyard at Big Jim’s Home Improvement Store on Highway 180. Usually puts in his hours there before he starts his shift here.”
“Did you ever see or meet Jack Page’s son?”
“Can’t help you with that one, pal, but good luck.” He closed the truck door and retreated to the entrance, where he waited until Kerney drove away.
According to the lumberyard supervisor, Bobby Ripple wasn’t due to clock in for an hour. At a truck-stop diner, Kerney killed time over a cup of coffee and a stale cheese Danish. After the first bite, he realized the Danish had been a big mistake and pushed it aside. He was on a coffee refill when Patrick called.
“Where are you?” Kerney asked.
“On the road to Mescalero with Gramps and Grandma,” he answered. “Where are you?”
“Silver City,” Kerney said. “I’ll be along shortly, I hope. What’s up?”
Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 19