“Did it hurt?”
“Damn right it hurt.”
Robert swaggered around the front of the car, looked at Kerney over the roof, and cocked his head. “I told you I could fight, man.”
“You’re one hell of a tough dude,” Kerney agreed. “Now, get in the car.”
5
Kerney tape-recorded Robert’s statement, put him in protective custody at the county jail, and headed back to Santa Fe. He called in his ETA to headquarters and was asked to report to Governor Springer at his ranch. Harper Springer rarely stayed at the governor’s mansion in Santa Fe, instead favoring his ranch thirty miles outside of the city near the small village of Pecos. Nestled behind the mesas and foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the ranch headquarters was several miles down a dirt road from the interstate highway.
Kerney parked in front of a hundred-year-old double adobe hacienda surrounded by a stand of mature cottonwood trees. At the edge of a wide acreage of fenced pasture were a cluster of buildings consisting of equipment sheds, barns, corrals, and staff living quarters, all painted white. Thick stands of evergreens along the base of the hills confined and sheltered the ranch, giving it a sedate feeling of isolation. The east slope of the mountains, snowcapped and charcoal gray, towered above a mesa shaped like the prow of a sailing ship.
An unmarked state police unit was parked next to the governor’s Cadillac. A thin, middle-aged woman answered Kerney’s knock and ushered him into a vast living room that could easily accommodate a dance band and a hundred party guests. Large hand-carved beams spanned the high ceiling, and long windows ran down two lateral walls. On the walls were oil paintings of ranching scenes and Western panoramas. None of them paintings Fletcher would approve of, Kerney decided.
On the back wall above a fireplace was a portrait of the governor’s father, the man who had bought scrub rangeland in southeastern New Mexico that eventually yielded a fortune in gas and oil royalties. In the center of the room, oversize leather chairs and couches were grouped around a massive coffee table. Governor Harper Springer sat on a couch with his jacket off and his cowboy boots propped up on the coffee table. Vance Howell slouched in a nearby chair, looking relaxed and perfectly at home.
Kerney sized up the governor as he moved across the room. In his late sixties, Springer was a stocky man of average height with a large head and a full mane of gray hair. He had round cheeks that sagged a bit, and close-set eyes beneath a high forehead.
While Springer fancied himself a rancher, he was mostly a politician who had worked hard over the years to gain the governor’s office. He had a down-home style that put just about everybody at ease, and a shrewd mind for cutting political deals.
“Chief Kerney,” Governor Springer said as he rose and extended his hand across the coffee table with an amiable smile.
Howell grudgingly got to his feet.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Springer said.
“Governor,” Kerney replied. Springer’s grip was firm.
“Take a seat. You know Captain Howell.”
“I do.” Kerney settled on the couch opposite the governor and smiled at Howell, who nodded stiffly and quickly sat.
Springer continued to smile, resumed his seat, and plopped his boots back on the coffee table. Handmade, they probably cost no less than a thousand dollars.
“I knew your parents,” Springer said. “Served with your daddy on the state cattle growers board. They were fine people.”
“I’m glad you feel that way about them, Governor,” Kerney replied.
“I do,” Springer said somberly. “The fact is, I talked to your father just before you came back from Vietnam. He was proud of you, and damn happy you were coming home alive and in one piece. It about broke my heart when they got killed in that traffic accident on their way to meet you at the airport. It was a terrible thing.” Springer shook his head and smiled sadly.
“Yes, sir, it was,” Kerney replied, waiting for more.
“And a terrible loss for you.”
Kerney nodded in agreement, but he doubted that Springer knew the depth of his loss. His parents had been his best friends.
“My foreman tells me you helped out on a couple of our roundups when you were caretaking a spread down in Galisteo. You should have stopped by and introduced yourself.”
“I didn’t have the opportunity, Governor.”
“Roundup is a busy time,” Springer agreed. “Well, no matter. Here you are now, and I’m glad to have you on my team. Andy Baca said he had to strong-arm you into taking the job as his deputy.”
“I didn’t put up that much of a fight,” Kerney said.
Springer chuckled. “That’s good to hear. Where do we stand with the investigation?”
“It’s just getting under way,” Kerney answered. “We’ve made contact with organizations that track stolen art on the international markets, and have conducted a series of interviews with your staff and others who work at the Roundhouse. So far we have no suspects.”
“Andy Baca said it had the look of an inside job.”
“I’m inclined to agree. But if we don’t develop a suspect fairly soon, we’ll have to rethink that hypothesis.”
“It doesn’t sound promising,” Governor Springer said.
“It’s going to take a lot of legwork. We might get a break if we can find the man who killed Officer Rogoff.”
Springer stroked his chin. “You think the two crimes are related?”
“I do. Based on an analysis of the videotape from the camera in Officer Rogoff’s unit, there’s a good chance the vehicle contained a corpse wrapped in a blanket.”
“That doesn’t tie the crimes together,” Springer said, still smiling warmly.
“I’m hoping that the vehicle and the corpse will provide that link, once we find them. According to our analysis, the van could have been used in the heist. It fits the profile exactly.”
“Aren’t you dismissing the possibility that Officer Rogoff’s murder occurred because he stumbled upon a completely separate crime?”
“You’re right, Governor, except for one additional fact. Rogoff’s killer is a man named Nick Palazzi. He’s got a long rap sheet that includes arrests for contract killings, armed robbery, and drug smuggling. Palazzi is a hired hand and a career criminal. He’s not stupid, but on the other hand, he’s not a master crook either. Our thinking is that Palazzi, along with the two men who were with him, were operating under orders.”
“That sounds like pure speculation.”
“Our profile analysis of Palazzi should be fairly accurate. We have a good deal of background information on him.”
“We need an arrest here, Chief, not an analysis.”
“Every available officer is working the case, Governor. We’ll chase down any leads that surface.”
“That’s what I want to hear. I understand you’ve asked Captain Howell to find out who left female pubic hairs on my office carpet.” Springer’s friendly smile turned icy.
“Captain Howell may have misunderstood my request.”
Howell shook his head in disagreement. “I don’t think I did, Chief. When the governor asked me what you wanted me to do, I told him exactly what the assignment was.”
“That’s good to know,” Kerney replied, turning back to Springer. “But just to keep the issue clearly understood, I asked Captain Howell to identify any blond females who had access to your office last week while you were out of town.”
Springer shook his head in disagreement. “I don’t see the sense to it.”
“We have physical evidence that may or may not lead us to a suspect or a witness, Governor.”
“I don’t want anybody playing up some nonsense of sexual indiscretion among my staff.”
“I’m confident Captain Howell has been discreet in his interviews,” Kerney replied.
“I asked Vance to hold up until I had a chance to talk with you,” Springer said, studying Kerney’s face. Kerney didn’t react. “I don’t wan
t this investigation sidetracked into an imbroglio that could damage my administration.”
“That is not the intent.”
“That’s what I want to make sure of. I expect the matter to be handled sensitively.”
“May Captain Howell proceed?” Kerney asked.
Springer nodded. “But if Vance does find that somebody on my staff has been getting their meat where they get their potatoes, I don’t want to read about it in the newspapers.”
“I’m sure Captain Howell will share that information strictly on a need-to-know basis, so that you can deal with the matter confidentially, as you see fit,” Kerney answered.
Harper Springer eyed Kerney for any hint of sarcasm, but all he got was a strong feeling that the man didn’t intimidate easily. He didn’t like too much of that trait in the people who worked for him.
“I want daily progress reports sent to my chief of staff. Tell Andy Baca if he needs money to pay for any overtime to let me know.”
“I’ll pass your message along.” Kerney stood.
Harper Springer got to his feet. His friendly smile came back as he looked up at Kerney. “Keep up the good work, Chief.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Governor. When can I expect your report, Captain Howell?”
“I’ll get right on it, Chief.”
• • •
For his role as a detective, Fletcher Hartley had dressed carefully. He wore a blue oxford shirt over a white turtleneck, a black wool sport coat, and gray slacks. As a concession to the unpredictable November weather, he carried an umbrella.
In the window of the two-hundred-year-old building on Canyon Road that housed the Frank Bailey Gallery, Fletcher inspected his reflection. All in all, it was an ensemble that would have made Noël Coward proud. To complete the picture he needed a cigarette to hold carelessly in his hand. For a moment, Fletcher regretted that he’d stopped smoking.
He made his entrance, breezed past the gallery manager and the nicely hung, perfectly lit art, and walked to the office at the rear of the building.
Bailey’s office had a wall of windows that looked out on a remnant of vacant land that two hundred years ago had been part of a sheep pasture.
Frank Bailey stood behind a tall antique clerk’s desk that had been salvaged from the basement of a nineteenth-century New England textile factory. Stacked against the walls were shipping crates, framed paintings, and piles of art books.
Bailey nodded at Fletcher and kept talking on the telephone as he scribbled notes to himself on the slanted desktop. Bailey sold high-end Western artists, specializing in Charles Russell, Frederic Remington, Joseph Henry Sharp, and Maynard Dixon. Most of his business came from wealthy out-of-state collectors. There simply wasn’t any other way to run a successful gallery in Santa Fe.
Content to wait for Bailey, Fletcher settled into one of the two overstuffed chairs positioned to give the most pleasing view of the pasture. He unbuttoned his jacket and adjusted his cuffs. So far, Fletcher’s efforts had yielded nothing, but gossiping with old friends had been entertaining nonetheless.
Bailey hung up the receiver and joined Fletcher. He had long, prematurely gray hair that he wore in a ponytail, green eyes, high cheekbones, and an angular face. In his early forties, he was considered very attractive by the ladies from Dallas and Houston who shopped in Santa Fe. His appeal had cost him two marriages.
“It’s been a wasted day, Fletcher,” he said. “The rich just don’t seem to be practicing trickle-down economics right now. What brings you out to see me?”
“I’m assisting the police with their inquiries,” Fletcher replied.
“Really?”
“Yes. The art rip-off at the governor’s suite.” Quite pleased with his use of the correct slang word, Fletcher decided he had to learn more cop jargon from Kerney.
“Wasn’t that something?” Frank said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Have you had any recent inquiries to buy or sell a Sharp or a Dixon?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Has anybody asked for a market appraisal of either artist’s work?”
“Not recently.”
“Have you had any walk-in browsers who seemed a little peculiar or out of place?”
“This is Santa Fe, Fletcher. Everybody’s peculiar.”
“Have you heard any gossip?”
“I’ve heard a rumor that you have a cop living with you. Have you snagged a hunk to comfort you in your old age?”
“If only that were true.” Fletcher sighed. “He’s a friend, not a lover, and he’s staying with me, not living with me. He’s very straight and not at all homophobic.
“Now,” Fletcher continued, “no matter how interesting I might be, I am not the subject of this conversation. Have you heard any chitchat about the robbery?”
“No.”
“It’s not the response I was hoping for,” Fletcher said as he started to rise from the chair.
“But I can’t wait to tell Amanda Talley that she was right,” Bailey added.
Fletcher settled back. “Isn’t she that leggy young woman who works at the fine arts museum?”
“That’s her. She predicted the robbery would happen,” Frank replied. “She went on and on about how easy it would be to walk off with the collection.”
“When was this?”
“During the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum fund-raiser last month at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. I fully expected to see you there.”
“I was hanging a show in Seattle. Mostly my smaller pieces. It did very well. What exactly did Amanda Talley say?”
“Just that she had misgivings about the lack of security. She didn’t think the works were properly protected.”
“Did she share her concerns with others besides you?” Fletcher asked.
“The subject came up while a small group of us were having a drink in the bar.”
“Who was there?”
“Bucky Watson, Henry and Carol Jergerson, Roger Springer, and a couple of Rancho Caballo homeowners. I don’t recall their names. Bucky knew this one guy who hung out with us. A Spanish or Mexican fellow who seemed interested in Amanda.”
“Anyone else?” Fletcher asked.
“Not that I recall. We had one drink together and then everybody went their separate ways.”
“How well do you know Amanda?”
“We dated briefly when she first came to town. She’s a knockout. She has brains, a great body, and likes to party. I think she’s looking for a rich husband so she can quit her day job and be a trophy wife. She’ll do it with style, too.”
“Would you say she has a criminal mind?”
Frank laughed. “Amanda? I don’t think she weighs herself down with scruples, but I don’t think she’d go that far, either.”
“Is she your garden-variety gold digger?”
“Not at all. Amanda’s hard to pigeonhole. She’s tough-minded, very clear about who she is, and doesn’t play any dumb games. Whoever corrals her gets a prize.”
“You sound smitten.”
“I’m just one of many strewn in her path.”
“Would you mind writing down the people you just mentioned?” Fletcher asked, holding out pen and paper. “I’m terrible with names.”
“You’re such a damn princess, Fletcher,” Bailey said, taking the proffered items.
Fletcher smiled broadly. “Someone has to set the standards for the common folk to emulate.”
• • •
Carlos Ruiz was glad to be back in Mexico. Santa Fe’s wintry November weather didn’t suit him, and the late-afternoon Juárez sun warmed his bones. Little more than three hundred miles separated the two cities, but they were worlds apart in climate.
There was no answer when he knocked at the door of the Juárez apartment Nick Palazzi shared with his Mexican girlfriend. That suited Carlos just fine. Inside the apartment he could hear the two chattering monkeys Palazzi’s whore kept as pets. He hated those fucking monkeys; they were always c
limbing all over him and sitting in his lap whenever he had to stop by on business for DeLeon. Before he turned away, he thought about breaking in to shoot the ugly little fuckers just for the hell of it.
At the Little Turtle, DeLeon’s nightclub and gaming establishment, Carlos scanned the room looking for Palazzi. The crystal chandeliers above the gambling tables were dimmed low and a full house of players spilled over to the long antique bar and the nearby dining tables under the mezzanine. Carlos looked up at the mezzanine. Palazzi and his whore sat at a table near the railing, engrossed in conversation.
Before Carlos could move to the staircase, he was stopped by three of DeLeon’s friends, who wanted to know if Enrique was back in town. He answered politely, keeping an eye on Nick, who caught sight of him, waved, and came down the mezzanine stairs to meet him.
“What’s up, Carlos?” Palazzi asked, studying Ruiz carefully. Even with DeLeon’s reassurance on the phone that everything was all right, Ruiz’s unexpected appearance made him uneasy.
“The patrón wants the body moved to Mexico and the van recovered, if possible.”
“No problem,” Nick said. “I can take you to both.”
“Don Enrique wants you to stay put,” Carlos said. “It would be too much of a risk for you to go back right now. Tell me where they are and I will do it.”
“Is DeLeon pissed?”
“No,” Carlos answered. “He understands that you had no choice in the matter.”
“You’ll need a driver for the van,” Nick said hopefully.
“I can’t take you with me, Nick,” Carlos said with a smile as he led Palazzi through the back door to the old stone warehouse at the rear of the Little Turtle. “You killed a gringo cop. You have to stay in Mexico. Just tell me where I need to go, and enjoy yourself with your chicha.” He closed the soundproof door and walked Nick to the loading dock.
“The van is parked at a Walmart in Silver City, on the side of the building,” Nick said.
“And the body?”
“In the Black Range on State Road 152 there’s a big sign that says Emory Pass. You can’t miss it. Walk straight behind the sign about a hundred yards. I stashed the body there and covered it with rocks. Facundo helped me carry it. He knows exactly where it is.”
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