Serpent Gate

by Michael McGarrity

  Kerney held the truck door open as she tried to pull it shut, and played his last card. “Robert did tell me one thing that may interest you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He saw you leaving the police station the night Gillespie was shot.”

  Nita sagged. “Oh, poor Robert.” The words came out in a whisper. “Our friendship has cost him so much. Is he okay?”

  “You saw him there, didn’t you?”

  Nita bit her lip and nodded.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Paul Gillespie.”

  “Paul was my classmate in high school.”

  “Was he a friend?”

  “Hardly that.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “I couldn’t stand him.”

  “You wanted to confront him about Addie. I can understand that. He raped your daughter.”

  Nita laughed harshly. “Addie was Paul’s daughter, too, Mr. Kerney. I left town when I found out I was pregnant. He never knew about Addie and Addie doesn’t know about him.”

  “You’re leaving something out, Nita. Finish the story.”

  Nita’s shoulders sagged further. “Paul raped me during my senior year in high school. Robert saw it happen.”

  “When did you decide to kill him?”

  “When Addie told me what Paul had done.”

  Kerney sidestepped around the door so he could have a clear view of Nita. “Tell me how it happened.”

  “He was cleaning his pistol when I went to see him. I had a gun in my handbag. I was just going to kill him and leave. But I got scared. He grabbed me before I could walk out and gave me this hug—grinding himself against me. I felt like I was being raped all over again. I pushed him away, picked up his pistol from the desk, and pulled the trigger.”

  “Get out of the truck,” Kerney said softly.

  “Lurline called me right after you went to see her. I knew you would find me.”

  “Step out of the truck.”

  Nita shook her head. She turned her back to Kerney and her left hand disappeared into the center console between the bucket seats.

  “Put your hands in plain view and get out of the truck.” Kerney unholstered his weapon and leveled the nine-millimeter at Nita.

  “I’m not a very good murderer,” Nita said. As she turned to face Kerney, her hand came up holding a pistol. She pressed the muzzle against her temple. “Too much of a conscience, I guess.”

  “Drop the gun,” Kerney said.

  Nita shook her head and began to squeeze the trigger.

  Too far away to make a grab, Kerney fired once. The bullet caught Nita below the shoulder and jarred her arm a fraction of a second before she squeezed the trigger. The round went through the roof of the truck.

  He was on her before she could recover. He yanked the gun away, pulled her out of the truck, stretched her on the ground, opened her shirt, and examined the wound. It was bleeding freely but was not life-threatening. He had never shot a woman before and it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

  “Why didn’t you just kill me?” she asked.

  “Too much of a conscience, I guess,” he replied.

  3

  West of Santa Fe, in a subdivision exclusively for the very rich, Enrique DeLeon waited in his expansive living room. Piñon logs crackling in a stone fireplace at the far end of the room provided the only light. DeLeon watched the reflection of the flames flickering in the large glass windows, which by day afforded a stunning view of the Sangre de Cristo foothills and mountains.

  DeLeon checked his wristwatch; it was twenty minutes to first light, and according to the timetable he had established, Carlos Ruiz should already have returned. He was about to become annoyed when headlights came into view at the bottom of the private road and paused briefly at the security gate. He watched the vehicle travel up the hill and turn into the driveway. When he heard the quiet whir of the garage door opener from the lower level of the house, he smiled and closed his eyes.

  • • •

  Carlos Ruiz hurried up the stairs. The job had gone well, but he was late. And the jefe expected his instructions to be followed exactly, no matter what got in the way. He walked through the kitchen and slowed his steps down the long gallery hall to the living room. The hand-carved doors stood open, and at the far end of the room a fireplace glow cast just enough illumination for Carlos to see DeLeon’s shape in the chair.

  “Shall I turn on a light, patrón?” Carlos asked. He spoke in English as DeLeon required during any visits to the United States.

  “That would not be wise,” DeLeon replied.

  Only two other houses had a line of sight to DeLeon’s property. Both were million-dollar vacation homes staffed by full-time caretakers, who, if awake, might find it unusual to see lights on at such an odd time.

  “All went well,” Carlos said, stepping into the room. His heels clacked on the polished flagstone floor.

  “What delayed you?”

  “The private elevator was small, patrón. Extra trips were required to move the items out of the offices to the garage. The access code to the underground garage had not been changed, so we had no trouble gaining entry to the building.”

  “Unseen?”

  “Yes, patrón.”

  “No one was in the building?”

  “Two janitors. Both were on the first floor, cleaning the rotunda. They did not see or hear us. I had Palazzi watch them throughout the operation, with orders to kill them should they become suspicious.”

  Carlos took a deep breath before continuing. If he left out details, DeLeon would become displeased. The patrón frequently complained about the slowness of his mind. “We wore gloves, hats, and masks as you ordered,” Carlos noted. “No lights were on, and we disabled the security cameras in the reception area without detection.”

  “Did you get everything?”

  “Yes, patrón,” Carlos replied. “The walls are bare.”

  “Store everything in the wine cellar,” DeLeon ordered as he stood up.

  “It is being done as we speak. The men will leave for Juárez as soon as they are finished.”

  “Have them wait.”

  “Yes, patrón. And the woman?”

  “In a few minutes,” DeLeon answered as he walked past Carlos.

  The curtains in the master bedroom were closed and the track lights dimmed low. DeLeon looked down at the beautiful, heavily drugged face of Amanda Talley. He would remember Amanda fondly for a very long time. Her hunger had matched his own, up to a point. He lifted a strand of blond hair away from her cheek and stroked her face. Amanda did not respond.

  DeLeon had promised Amanda a vacation in Belize. A pity she’d never know what she was missing. Her luggage and passport were in Belize right now, at the hotel where one of DeLeon’s most trusted currency couriers—a woman of theatrical temperament who enjoyed playing roles and living well—had registered in Amanda’s name. The woman would establish a fleeting presence in the midst of a great many witnesses, and then fake a drowning on a boating excursion, the body never to be found.

  It was Amanda who had told DeLeon how easy it would be to steal millions of dollars of American art. Not from a museum, but from the executive suite of the governor of New Mexico, who by tradition could select any pieces he desired from the state museums to decorate his offices. She had been bubbling over with the scheme, high on coke and champagne in this very bedroom, fantasizing about a great art theft. She’d miss all the headlines, too, unfortunately for her.

  Amanda had offered DeLeon good sex and a great opportunity to steal from the norteamericanos. Enrique took full advantage of both. He turned on the lamp next to the bed. Amanda wore only a pair of panties. In her late twenties, her body was exactly the type that appealed most to Enrique; slender legs with just a hint of roundness to the stomach, full breasts that were not out of proportion to her frame, a face with a somewhat haughty, aristocratic cast to it. And this lovely blond hair. There was no need for her to
suffer.

  “Thank you, my dear,” DeLeon whispered to the unconscious woman.

  He found Carlos waiting for him in the dark living room. “Kill her quickly and cleanly,” he ordered.

  “Yes, patrón. And the body?”

  “Have the men take it to Mexico. Dispose of it at the ranch. No trace of her is to be found.”

  “As you wish.”

  • • •

  DeLeon waited until the van left and Carlos was occupied with removing all traces of Amanda’s presence from the house before he went to the wine cellar. The room, which was next to the garage, contained a wet bar, built-in wine racks, recessed lighting, and a table and chairs for wine tasting. Stacked neatly against the walls were almost three dozen framed paintings and prints, but what attracted DeLeon’s immediate attention were the objects on the table.

  DeLeon knew what the glass display cases in the governor’s office contained, yet seeing the bounty firsthand was still impressive. Among the items were two large pottery storytellers by the renowned Pueblo Indian artist Helen Cordero, a small bronze by Allen Houser, the famous Apache sculptor, a Western Apache storage basket, a Tesuque Pueblo buffalo-head shield from the mid-eighteenth century, an old retablo of Saint Rita, and an exquisite hand-carved wooden bulto of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

  Immediately DeLeon knew which piece would remain in his possession; the Guadalupe bulto would go in the private chapel at his hacienda outside of Juárez.

  He turned to the paintings. As the museum curator assigned to select the art for the governor’s office, Amanda had chosen well: three Georgia O’Keeffe oils, a Joseph Henry Sharp Indian portrait, a Maynard Dixon cowboy scene, a Henriette Wyeth still life, a Peter Hurd landscape, a Gerald Cassidy portrait of a cowgirl sitting on a fence post, and twenty-five Gustave Baumann color woodcut prints, taken from the gallery space behind the reception area to the governor’s offices.

  The O’Keeffes were seven-figure treasures, and the rest would fetch in the six-figure range, with the exception of the woodcuts, which were significantly less valuable but expensive nonetheless.

  DeLeon did some quick mental calculations; it was an eight-million-dollar haul at the very least, and since it would eventually be sold to foreign buyers on the black market, DeLeon would add a 30 percent commission. Everything but the bulto of the Virgin of Guadalupe would remain in the wine cellar for six months. When the investigation into the theft cooled, DeLeon would move the collection to Mexico.

  He studied the O’Keeffe paintings carefully, thinking that he might keep one, perhaps to replace the U.S. Army cavalry saber and scabbard that hung over the fireplace in the billiard room of his hacienda.

  He wanted to move the sword to his library. It was the only item DeLeon possessed from a trove of priceless American military and historic artifacts he had arranged to buy and resell on the Asian market. The cache, taken by Apaches during the Indian Wars, had been discovered in a secret cave on White Sands Missile Range and smuggled off the base. But the shipment had been intercepted by a gringo cop named Kevin Kerney before it could be delivered to DeLeon.

  DeLeon had bartered with the U.S. Army for the sword, two hundred thousand dollars in diamonds, and the release of Carlos from custody in exchange for a quantity of letters written by members of the 9th U.S. Cavalry during the Indian Wars. The smugglers had given the letters to DeLeon as proof that the cache was authentic before he agreed to broker the deal.

  Putting the sword in the library, where he spent the majority of his time at the hacienda, would serve as a reminder that not every venture succeeded as planned.

  He adjusted the climate and humidity controls, turned out the light, and entered the security code to the door. Carlos and the team had done well.

  • • •

  Andy Baca, chief of the state police for two months and counting, stood in the governor’s private office on the fourth floor of the Roundhouse, the colloquial name for the state capitol. A circular structure modeled on Pueblo Indian kivas, the building had been nicknamed by political pundits while it was still under construction, and the label had stuck.

  The governor’s cherrywood desk, matching sideboard, and executive chair sat in front of the only windows in the office, which were flanked by two empty, expensive brass-and-glass display cases. On the side walls were two private entrances: one connected to the chief of staff’s office and the other to a large conference room.

  In one corner was a leather couch, coffee table, and several oversize leather chairs. The rest of the space was taken over by two straight-backed chairs in front of the governor’s desk, a small conference table with chairs, and a credenza that stood against the wall to the private bathroom.

  Unhappily, Andy stared at the empty walls, fully aware the theft would draw intense public scrutiny and criticism. Failure to solve the case could damage the department and probably cost Andy his job.

  Andy wasn’t about to let that happen. He had retired from the state police some time ago when he realized his chances of becoming chief were nil, and moved to Las Cruces with his wife. Bored with retirement, he ran for county sheriff, won the election, served one term in office, and was asked to return to the state police as chief. It was a dream come true, the capstone to his career that he had always wanted. But not for the prestige the appointment brought. Under his calm demeanor, Andy was a reformer, and he wanted to modernize and improve the department.

  In uniform, Andy wore a light gray shirt with his rank on the collars and badge over the left pocket, a black tie, black pants with a gray stripe, and highly polished black shoes. On his belt was a high-rise holster containing a .357 revolver with a four-inch barrel. It was the one personal touch he had allowed himself since taking over the job. Every other officer under his command carried the required standard-issue nine-millimeter semiautomatic.

  Captain Vance Howell, the officer in charge of security for the governor, stood silently next to Andy, waiting to get his butt chewed. He had come up through the ranks junior to Andy and served under him briefly just prior to Andy’s retirement as a captain. Now Baca was back as chief.

  Howell knew exactly why Baca had been tapped for the job—it was politics, pure and simple. The governor, a Republican, wanted more money from the legislature to build new prisons, and the Democrats, who controlled the legislature, wanted their man sitting in the chief’s chair.

  Howell had hoped to get the appointment himself, but now he would have to wait until Baca stepped down. He had the governor’s promise on it, which was good enough for him. And if Baca failed on this case, Vance might get a crack at the chief’s job sooner than he had anticipated.

  Andy scanned the paper in his hand and turned to Howell. “Is this the complete inventory of the stolen property?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Howell replied. “The cultural affairs office verified it.”

  Technically, Howell’s sole responsibility was the safety of the governor and his immediate family, but that didn’t mean Baca wouldn’t try to lay the blame for the theft at Vance’s feet, if the need arose. Vance decided to test Baca’s intentions. “I guess you could say it was my henhouse that got robbed.”

  Andy shook his head and looked up. At six foot four, Howell towered over Andy’s five-ten frame. “That’s not the way I see it, Captain. But I think we need to get you out of the henhouse for a while. I’m placing you and your staff on administrative leave.”

  Stunned, Howell reacted quickly. “Is that necessary, Chief?”

  “This job required inside knowledge. Until we get a handle on the case, everybody who works in this building is suspect.”

  “My people won’t like it.”

  “And I don’t like doing it,” Andy replied, checking his watch. He needed to get this investigation under way pronto. “I want you and your entire unit at headquarters in an hour to meet with Internal Affairs. A temporary plainclothes detail is on the way to relieve you until the IA investigation is concluded.”

  “I know my pe
ople, Chief. Nobody in my unit had anything to do with this.”

  “We’re going to cover all the bases anyway, Captain. You know the drill.”

  Howell nodded glumly. “Who’s running the investigation?”

  “Kevin Kerney.”

  Howell stifled a surprised expression. “Is that wise, Chief? Kerney’s new to the department and he has no command authority.”

  “He does now,” Andy replied. “When you meet with him, you’ll be talking to the new deputy chief.”

  “Is the posting temporary?”

  “No, it’s not, Captain.”

  “You’ve jumped him over a lot of senior commanders.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get an earful from all of them,” Andy replied. “When the bitching is over, Captain—and it better be kept to a minimum—I expect everyone to cooperate with Chief Kerney.”

  Howell swallowed hard. “I’ll be glad to.”

  “I know you will, Captain.”

  Vance Howell left Andy alone in the office and walked down the hall thinking that there were going to be a number of tightly puckered assholes, including his own, tiptoeing around Andy and his new deputy chief.

  • • •

  Dog-tired and not in a good mood to begin with, Kerney crawled through the early morning rush-hour traffic on St. Francis Drive, pissed off with the congestion and the yuppies in their leather-lined, air-conditioned, four-wheel-drive sport utility vehicles used for fetching children from school, shopping excursions to Albuquerque malls, and getting up to Taos for skiing. The changes in Santa Fe had turned the city into a seemingly endless array of strip malls, bedroom subdivisions, and gated communities for the rich.

  The folks in places like Mountainair referred to the state capital as Santa Fake, and it rang true enough to make Kerney realize that the chamber of commerce growth mentality had won the war over those who wanted to preserve the tradition of the ancient city. Nothing had stopped the greed.

  After dealing with the crime scene unit at the Von Hewett Ranch and undergoing an interrogation about the shooting, Kerney had driven to the Albuquerque hospital where Nita had been transported. Although he had a brief confession in hand, he wanted to get a complete statement from Lassiter before the lawyers showed up to circle their wagons.