He would love to put his cowboy boots on the coffee table at Harper Springer’s ranch and call the place his own, but that was a pipe dream. If he stayed in Santa Fe, reality would be a furnished box apartment with all the charm of a minimum-security federal prison. That just wouldn’t do.
He was approaching the off-ramp to St. Francis Drive when the realization hit him that he wasn’t thinking clearly. He switched his attention to the rearview mirror. The headlights of three cars behind him flickered in the mirror. He slowed to let them close, clicked on the turn signal, and continued past the exit. Two of the cars turned off while the third stayed behind him.
He didn’t know if he was being followed or not, but it was time to start playing it safe. He moved into the left lane, swung the car off the pavement onto a dirt crossover that connected the divided highway, and merged with the southbound traffic. The northbound car continued on without slowing.
From now on, he would take alternate routes to and from work and vary his routine. With an eye on the rearview mirror, he got off the interstate, and took side streets to Fletcher’s house.
At the house, he scanned the grounds for anything out of the ordinary before going inside. Everything looked perfectly peaceful.
9
Kerney turned on the table lamp in Fletcher’s bedroom and found him curled up in a ball under an old hand-stitched, floral-wreath quilt. The bed, a massive nineteenth-century four-poster, was angled to provide a view of a walled garden at the rear of the house. Nichos carved in the adobe walls displayed an assortment of folk art animal figures that included Acoma Pueblo owls, Cochiti storyteller bears, and mythical Mexican beasts. On the floor in the four corners of the room stood carefully grouped menageries of hand-carved, painted animals. Pigs, skunks, donkeys, lions, and chickens of various sizes were arranged facing the bed.
“Wake up, Fletcher,” Kerney said.
Fletcher pulled a pillow over his head. “It’s much too early to wake up,” he muttered.
“It’s time for our run.”
Kerney removed the pillow and Fletcher opened his eyes. Dressed to go running, Kerney wore a fanny pack around his waist.
“Why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?” Fletcher asked as he sat up.
The pouch, designed with a special sleeve for a quick draw, held Kerney’s loaded semiautomatic and a spare clip, but Fletcher didn’t need to know that.
“Dress,” Kerney said, ignoring the question and tossing Fletcher’s sweats on the foot of the bed. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
When Fletcher joined him, Kerney took a different route for their morning run, half-expecting Fletcher to complain. But as Kerney led the way out of the neighborhood and up a narrow street that gave them a view of the mountains, Fletcher said nothing.
The first full light of morning streaked speckled carmine on the flat underbelly of some stratus clouds, brushed the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and flickered against the peak of Sun Mountain. Sunlight tipped the mountaintops as though it were a hazy rivulet of gold spreading across the high summits.
“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” Kerney asked as they jogged past an open field that gave them a better view of the mountains.
“No particular reason,” Fletcher replied. “Unless you might have some small interest in learning the identity of the mysterious man who was with Bucky Watson at the O’Keeffe benefit.”
Kerney slowed to a trot. “What have you been up to, Fletcher?”
“I happened to run into Bucky and his friend at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. The man’s name is Vicente Fuentes. He’s Hispanic, with classic Castilian features—quite good looking. A Mexican from his accent, I would say. Gilbert has a picture of him.”
“What were you doing at Rancho Caballo?”
“Having dinner. The food was excellent.”
“Did you learn anything more about Fuentes?”
“Only that he’s an occasional visitor to Santa Fe. He looks to be quite wealthy.”
“I want you to be careful, Fletcher.”
“Careful about what?”
“The men we’re looking for can be very dangerous.”
“Have you identified the crooks?”
“We’ve got a line on them. Don’t let any strangers into the house, and if you see anyone suspicious in the neighborhood, I want you to call me right away.”
“Have you been sending patrol officers to check on my house?”
Kerney nodded. “Andy has. It’s just a precaution. Do you have to go anywhere during the next few days?”
“A trip to the grocery store. I need to fill my larder. That’s all.”
“Do that, but otherwise stay home, and keep the doors and windows locked.”
“You’re scaring me a bit, Kerney. Whatever is the matter?”
“Just do as you’re told,” Kerney said. “And no more playing Hercule Poirot. This isn’t one of those cozy mystery novels you love to read.”
The hurt look on Fletcher’s face made Kerney stop. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Fletcher smiled wanly. “I’ll do as you’ve asked. But I must say you have a rather fierce way of showing your concern.”
• • •
Bucky Watson’s art-crating business was housed in a two-story Victorian, on a side street in the Guadalupe District of Santa Fe. A redbrick structure with a wide front porch and a gabled roof, it had a loading dock at the back of the building that led to an alley. Two other Victorians were on either side, one used as a dance studio, and the other rented by a high-end furniture maker.
Across the street stood an upscale nightclub and restaurant. It was one of the few buildings on the street Bucky’s company, Matador Properties, didn’t own.
The Guadalupe District, within walking distance of the plaza, had once been a blend of homes and family-owned businesses. As the tourist industry expanded, and all the buildings on the plaza were fully leased to serve the growing market, the new galleries, boutiques, and specialty shops began spreading into the Guadalupe area. Using DeLeon’s money, Bucky had started buying before other investors jumped on the bandwagon.
He stood on the loading dock and watched the trucks start off on the long haul to Chicago. His breath cut a ribbon through the frigid air of early morning. It had taken all night to put the shipment together. Moving nearly a half ton of cocaine and an equal amount of smack was no easy proposition. It had to be hidden in specially constructed crates and loaded precisely in the trucks to avoid raising suspicion.
Bucky turned off the overhead lights and walked to the back of the crating room to the large tool closet. The drivers had been the last employees to leave, and the building was empty. He flipped on the closet light and swung open a floor-to-ceiling shelf that led to a secret basement. Six wetbacks supplied by DeLeon had built the hidden passageway and fashioned a cellar under the crawl space. All the excavation work had been done at night; dirt had been hauled up in buckets by hand, loaded into trucks, and carted away before daybreak.
Bucky walked down the stairs and checked his inventory. He’d deliberately held back some product so he could fill two upcoming shipments, one for Colorado and one for Kansas. He saw no reason not to make the deliveries just because DeLeon wanted to bolster the Chicago market. The drugs would be gone within a couple of days, and because the well would be dry for a while, Bucky planned to bump up the price of a kilo and skim the difference, with no one the wiser.
He turned off the light, locked up, went to his office, and logged on at the computer. Except for Kansas and Colorado, it was time to let the network know that the pipeline would be shut down until further notice.
• • •
Gilbert Martinez got to work early and found a memorandum tacked to the office door. The memo, signed by the vehicle maintenance supervisor, directed Gilbert to produce his unit for servicing immediately. It cited departmental policy, and noted that failure to comply could result in disciplinary action.
It wa
s the second memo Gilbert had received in a week, and while he didn’t expect to be reprimanded, the car badly needed a tune-up. He unlocked the office, dumped his briefcase on the desk, and walked down the hall to a back suite that looked out on the maintenance building. The overhead doors were open and the lights were on. Maybe if he got the unit in immediately, he could have it back in a couple of hours.
He drove to the shop, parked by an open bay, found the vehicle supervisor in his office, dropped the car keys on the desk, and asked when he could pick up the unit.
“End of the day,” the man said gruffly. “I’m gonna have to fit you in where I can.”
“I need another car,” Gilbert said.
“Don’t have one,” the man replied. “You’ll have to borrow from somebody who isn’t using their vehicle, or catch rides with one of the uniforms.”
“That won’t work,” Gilbert said.
The man shrugged. “You caused the problem, Sergeant, not me. I had you scheduled for maintenance last week. Next time, get your car in when you’re supposed to and I’ll have a loaner for you.”
Back in his office, Gilbert discovered two manila envelopes on the seat of his desk chair containing information on Rancho Caballo sent over by the Environment Department and the Santa Fe county clerk.
He thumbed through the paperwork. One set was compliance documents for the effluent discharge and gray water system at the clubhouse. He set it aside.
The Santa Fe county clerk’s packet contained release of mortgage documents, warranty deeds, and copies of the mortgages held on Rancho Caballo. Gilbert read the material carefully. Twelve liens against Rancho Caballo had been released by a company called Matador Properties, based in Santa Fe. The total amount paid off to Matador exceeded a hundred million dollars. Matador held another hundred million in paper against the corporation.
Gilbert checked the due dates on the release documents. Each were ten-year notes that had been paid off way ahead of schedule.
Gilbert wasn’t a financial expert, but paying off so much debt so quickly seemed unusual to him, especially for a real estate project with land and houses still unsold. He went through the forms again, this time scanning the signature blocks. Sherman Cobb, Roger Springer, and Bucky Watson had signed off on each of them, Cobb for Rancho Caballo, Springer as corporate counsel, and Watson for Matador Properties.
It’s such a small world, Gilbert thought, as he heard footsteps in the hallway. He looked up, expecting to see Chief Kerney appear in the doorway, ready to ream him out for his late-night visit to Roger Springer. He relaxed when the footsteps receded.
Gilbert leafed through the papers again. Matador Properties was taking a hard hit on interest earnings because of the accelerated payback on the notes. And while everything appeared legal, he wondered why Watson would keep financing a project that yielded such low returns. He needed some expert advice.
The official workday had begun, which meant that Joe Valdez should be in his office. Valdez, a senior investigator and a certified public accountant, specialized in white-collar and corporate crime. Gilbert picked up the paperwork and went looking for Valdez. He found him anchored behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his wide nose, punching the keys of a desk calculator.
Valdez had a full chin and big ears with thick lobes. He wore his hair short with no part. He looked more like a prizefighter than a cop or a CPA.
“Hey, Sergeant,” Joe said as Gilbert walked in. “What’s up?”
“Doing the monthly family budget?” Gilbert asked.
“There is no family budget,” Joe grumbled, pushing the calculator aside. “A budget assumes that I can actually plan for expenditures. That’s impossible to do with two teenage daughters in high school.”
“Marry them off,” Gilbert suggested, sliding into a chair.
“Too young,” Valdez replied with a shake of his head. “Plus, they both want to go to college before they get married. As it is, I’m running a tax service out of the house in my spare time, trying to put some money aside for tuition. It costs a bundle to send kids to college. Now that the wife is working, we just might be able to swing it.”
“The rewards of police work come from the satisfaction of the job, not money.”
“Don’t give me that crap.”
“You’ll have both girls in college at the same time?”
“One right after the other, starting in two years.”
“I’m looking forward to the same experience with my girls later down the line.”
“You’ll love it,” Joe predicted sourly. “What have you got?”
“Take a look at these and tell me what you think.” Gilbert handed Valdez the documents and waited for a reaction.
“I don’t like what I’m seeing,” Valdez finally said, flipping back and forth from document to document. “These kind of real estate development projects usually attract more than one financing source, especially at this level. Two hundred million is a hell of a lot of money for one company to invest in this state, unless it’s a banking institution.”
“What about the accelerated loan payoffs?”
“That, too,” Joe replied. He rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head. “There’s a lot of cash moving back and forth here over a short period of time.”
“Between the same group of people.”
“Exactly. I’d be looking hard at Matador Properties, if I were you. Scope out the assets of the corporation.”
“That’s the place to start?”
Joe nodded. “You bet. Track down the source of that money. What kind of income is generating that level of investment capital? If it looks clean, then jump over to Rancho Caballo. The corporate earnings to debt ratio might prove interesting, once you know what amounts from the loan proceeds were actually plowed into the development.”
Valdez held out the paperwork for Gilbert to take back.
Gilbert didn’t move. “Would you do it? I don’t know the first thing about all this crap.”
Valdez dropped the papers on the desk. “Have I just been suckered into something here?”
Gilbert grinned. “Only if you think it’s worth your time.”
Joe scratched his chin. “It may be. I’ll make some calls. If I learn anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”
“Fair enough,” Gilbert said. “Are you using your unit today? If not, I’d like to borrow it. I’m stranded without a vehicle.”
“No way,” Joe answered with a snort. “I only do one favor a day for newly anointed sergeants.”
• • •
Carlos couldn’t remember a time in the past when he had been invited to join the patrón for a cup of coffee. He sat at the dining room table holding the delicate cup carefully in his hands while the maid cleared away the breakfast dishes. DeLeon gazed out the window at the snowcapped mountains and didn’t speak until the woman departed.
“So Kerney has no girlfriend? No private life outside of his job?” DeLeon asked, shifting his gaze to Carlos.
“No, patrón. He works and goes home. That is all.”
“What did he do in Albuquerque last night?”
“According to a nurse at the hospital, he visited a patient, a man who had been found beaten in a small village called Mountainair.”
“What prompted Kerney to visit this man?”
“I do not know, patrón. But he identified himself as a police officer to the nurse in charge of the unit.”
“Where is this village?”
“South of Albuquerque, east of the mountains.”
“Tell me about Kerney’s workplace.”
“The buildings are fenced, isolated from the highway, and on a small hill. There are many police around, including students and officers who stay at the police training academy. Those who work there must either pass through a reception area or use security cards to enter the exterior doors. Cards must also be used after hours to open the security gate.”
“Could Kerney be killed from a distance as he leaves?�
�
“Yes, but at some risk,” Carlos replied. “The highway is very busy and there are nearby businesses along the strip that attract customers.”
“What is the best vantage point?”
“There is a new car lot directly across the highway. From there I can see who comes and goes, but only if I use binoculars. I have been able to follow Kerney by identifying his vehicle. He parks in the same reserved space every day.”
“Using a sniper won’t work.”
Carlos nodded. “We would have better success where Kerney lives. He resides in the guest quarters of a house near the state capitol. It is on a private lane at the end of a street, shared by only one other residence. The house is situated in a hollow, almost hidden from sight. From the lane, you can see only the roofline and part of the driveway. There are many places that can be used for concealment.”
“Who is Kerney’s host?”
Carlos pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. “His name is Fletcher Hartley.”
DeLeon’s eyes closed. Fletcher Hartley was the man at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse who had forced Bucky to make an introduction. Had Hartley been acting on Kerney’s behalf?
“Can the house be entered easily?” Enrique asked.
“Yes, jefe. There is one door at the front, a patio door at a rear garden, and a separate entrance to the attached guest quarters. There are no alarm or security devices to contend with. Under cover of darkness, with three men to assist me, there should be no problem.”
Enrique nodded, pleased with Ruiz’s thoroughness. He now had a clear picture of what needed to be done.
“Is the information sufficient?” Carlos asked.
“You’ve done well,” DeLeon replied as he refilled his coffee cup. “Go to the house tonight. After Kerney arrives, send the men in. One through each entrance. Have them kill Kerney and his host. When it is done, rendezvous with me at the airport.”
“Are we returning home, patrón?”
“For a time.”
• • •
Gilbert dug through the sheaf of National Crime Information Center reports on the people who had been interviewed and questioned since the investigation began. There were no hits for arrests or convictions until he reached Bucky Watson. In the early seventies, Bucky had served eighteen months in a California state prison for drug dealing.
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