Serpent Gate

by Michael McGarrity

  He released the thumb snap to his holster as he followed Morris Wadley up the stairs of the loading dock. From inside, Piatt could hear the harsh whine of a table saw.

  Wadley went in first, carrying a clipboard. As soon as Skip and Kiko saw Piatt, they shut down the saw.

  Interior walls in the back of the house had been removed to create an open workspace. Floor-to-ceiling racks along one wall held lumber, and there were various drills and machine tools on stands near the saw. A small office and an adjacent walk-in storage locker ran along another wall.

  Piatt noticed a lot of hand tools on tables and workbenches. Each could be used as a weapon.

  “What’s up, Officer?” Skip asked as he pulled off his ear protectors.

  Clyde smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing to worry about.”

  He closed in slowly, visually scanning the men for hidden weapons. Both wore blue jeans and T-shirts with no obvious bulges. Exactly as he’d been told to do, Wadley stepped off to one side and waited. Piatt stopped walking when he reached the angle he wanted between the two men. He glanced at the hammer on a table within Kiko’s reach and stayed well out of striking range.

  “We just need a few minutes of your time,” Clyde said.

  “What for?” Skip demanded.

  Kiko looked ready to bolt for the front door. Piatt put his hand on his holster and Kiko froze. It was time to move Kiko and Skip outside.

  “Let’s go outside,” Piatt suggested. “I’m allergic to sawdust.”

  “What in the fuck is this all about?” Skip asked.

  “Building inspection,” Piatt answered. “Do you have a problem with that, Skippy?”

  Piatt’s use of his diminutive nickname, which he hated, made Skip’s face turn red. “You know me?”

  “I sure do. I know your friend Kiko, too. Now, let’s go outside.” Clyde smiled broadly at Kiko. “Don’t even think of reaching for that hammer.”

  Outside, Piatt stood them with their backs against the loading dock. Skip wanted to smoke a cigarette and Clyde suggested he could do without. Kiko kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Every time he moved, Clyde clamped a hand on his pistol grip and Kiko froze.

  Finally, Wadley appeared on the dock with a flushed, excited look on his face and looked down at Piatt.

  “This place is a building code disaster,” he said. “The first floor has been ruined.”

  “That’s a shame,” Piatt replied, staying focused on the two men in front of him.

  “There’s something I think you should see, Officer,” he said. “I’m no expert, but it looks like drugs to me. A lot of drugs in a hidden basement.”

  “Don’t touch anything.” Clyde took his handheld radio out of the belt case and called for assistance. “Turn around, boys,” he ordered, after he ended the transmission.

  He cuffed and frisked them while he read them their rights, and sat them both on the ground.

  “Are there really drugs inside, Skippy?” Clyde asked as he stepped back.

  “I don’t know nothing about that shit,” Skip replied, his face turning red.

  “How about you, Kiko? Do you know anything about drugs?”

  “I just build shipping crates. That’s all.”

  “Well, you’re both going to have to answer a lot of questions.”

  “I want a lawyer,” Skip said.

  “Me too,” echoed Kiko.

  “Fair enough,” Clyde said. “But first you get a ride in a shiny new police car.”

  Piatt turned the men over to an arriving patrol officer and waited for the agents to appear. As the arresting officer, Clyde needed to confirm the presence of narcotics in the building. He went in with the agents, and Wadley led them to the storage locker and a built-in shelf that swung open to reveal steps to the secret basement. Bundles of crack cocaine and heroin were stacked on pallets. It was a hell of a lot of dope, enough to fill the trunk of a full-size car.

  The agents did a quick test of the drugs and pegged the street value at a million plus.

  “What charges do you want on Kiko and Skip?” Piatt asked.

  “Start with trafficking,” an agent said, “and then be creative.”

  11

  Like most of the shops along Canyon Road, Bucky Watson’s gallery had once been a private residence. The interior of the building had neoclassical features accentuated by antique furniture and expensive art in ornate frames. Watson’s office continued the theme. Behind the Shaker table that served as a desk, logs burned in a fireplace bordered by a gilt-edge Georgian surround. An old Mexican grain chest sat on sturdy legs under a window that looked out on the narrow street. On a high shelf over the window was an impressive array of Apache Indian baskets. Paintings by early twentieth-century Santa Fe artists and a bookshelf of art reference publications completed the decor.

  Kerney sat across the table from Bucky. Watson’s eyebrows had started twitching the moment he arrived. He smirked at Kerney’s questions, toyed with a ring, and answered impatiently.

  “Is all this rehashing necessary?” Watson said.

  “Sometimes it can jog a recollection or two,” Kerney replied genially.

  “Go ahead and finish asking your questions.”

  “You said Amanda attended the benefit alone. Did you see her arrive unescorted?”

  “No. That’s just the impression I had. She didn’t act like she was with anybody.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she was milling around, mixing, chatting people up.”

  “Did any of the men at the benefit seem interested in Amanda?”

  “Every straight man who meets Amanda is interested in her.”

  “What about Vicente Fuentes? Was he interested?”

  Bucky flinched slightly. “I don’t know if he was or not.”

  “Is Fuentes straight or gay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you put me in touch with Fuentes? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I don’t know how to do that. I’ve only met the man a couple of times.” Bucky ran his finger under the collar of his teal blue linen shirt.

  “Doesn’t he own a home in Rancho Caballo?”

  “He’s a member at the club, so I suppose he does.”

  “I had the impression you knew him fairly well.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “I understand Fuentes is wealthy. How did he make his money?”

  “I have no idea.” The phone rang and Bucky grabbed the receiver. He listened momentarily and handed the instrument to Kerney. “It’s for you.”

  Kerney took the call, and listened as the agent reported that over a million dollars in black tar heroin and crack cocaine had been found in the secret basement. Suppressing a smile, he expressed his thanks and handed the receiver to Bucky.

  “Are we finished?” Bucky asked as he dropped the phone in the cradle and stood up.

  “I’m afraid you have a problem, Mr. Watson.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “With the city. It appears a citation has been issued.”

  “What for?”

  “Building code violations.”

  “Which building?”

  “The Victorian house where you have your art-crating shop. Supposedly, you gutted the inside without a permit.”

  “Those jerks at the city are always trying to screw with me. I’ll have my lawyer handle it.”

  “There’s one more problem, Mr. Watson,” Kerney said, reaching for his handcuffs. “A large quantity of heroin and cocaine was found in the basement of the building.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Call it the luck of the draw,” Kerney said as he stepped to Bucky, spun him around, and cuffed him.

  • • •

  Bucky’s refusal to talk without his lawyer present came as no surprise to Kerney. After the lawyer arrived at headquarters, Kerney assigned four agents working in pairs to interrogate Watson. The team
s switched every hour to keep the pressure on, while search warrants were executed. Officers were at the art-crating shop, the gallery, the design studio, and Bucky’s residence, looking for anything that could be added to the list of charges against Watson.

  Kerney hoped to overwhelm Bucky with hard evidence and force him to cooperate. Watson’s two employees, Skip Cornell and Kiko Segura, were undergoing separate interrogations and being pressured to cut a deal and testify against Bucky. The chances looked good; fingerprints from both men had been lifted from the drug parcels, and the sheer volume of the stash guaranteed a felony-one fall, unless they rolled over on Watson.

  Joe Valdez, armed with a special search warrant, had seized Watson’s electronic mail and computer files. He had several technical specialists running programs to break Bucky’s privacy codes and locate any off-site network terminals. Valdez was digging into Watson’s hard copies, looking for the money trail and the drug distribution network.

  If all went well, Kerney planned to be Bucky’s final interrogator of the day. He wanted to have the pleasure of cracking Bucky open.

  Noontime passed before he could get away from the office. A contractor’s truck was parked in Fletcher’s driveway. He found the man inspecting the damaged front door, while the patrol officer assigned to watch over Fletcher’s house looked on. Kerney introduced himself and showed the contractor around.

  When the inspection concluded, the man consulted his clipboard notes, did some quick calculations, and stuck a pencil behind an ear. He had dark curly hair, a skinny neck, and a large Adam’s apple.

  “It must have been one hell of a gunfight,” the man said. “The newspaper said four people were killed. I thought shit like that only happened in the movies.”

  Kerney had no desire to chitchat about the shoot-out. “I want everything put back in its original condition.”

  The contractor caught the tone in Kerney’s voice and changed the subject. “Will insurance pay for it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is it a full-replacement policy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The front door alone is going to cost plenty to reproduce. It was hand-carved from old oak. I’ll have to subcontract it out.”

  “That’s fine,” Kerney said. “When can you start?”

  “In the morning.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “A week, but I can’t guarantee you’ll have the new front door by then. What’s the deductible on the insurance policy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Isn’t this your house?”

  “No, I’m acting on the owner’s behalf,” Kerney said as he wrote out a check that dug a hole in his savings and gave it to the man. “This should get you started. If it doesn’t, let me know.”

  The man looked at the amount, smiled, and nodded. “I’ve got some scrap plywood in my truck. I’ll board everything up and be back tomorrow with my crew.”

  “I’ll let the owner know you’ll be here,” Kerney said. He shook the man’s hand and left.

  He hoped that arranging to have the house restored would ease some of Fletcher’s pain. The way Kerney saw it, he’d been the houseguest from hell.

  • • •

  Gary Dalquist’s law office was in an old brick cottage across the street from the county judicial building. The front room served as a reception and waiting area. It had a tongue-and-groove oak floor, and a hand-stenciled fruit-and-floral motif that ran at the top of the walls next to the high plaster ceiling. Dalquist was leaning over a desk at the back of the room, talking to a secretary, when Kerney walked in.

  He looked up and stepped across the room. “I thought I might be hearing from you,” he said. “Nita told me you took a statement from Addie.”

  Kerney held out the transcript. “I did. Here’s your copy.”

  “It’s not often an arresting officer in a murder case is so helpful to the defense.”

  “You’re not the only lawyer who’s made that observation recently,” Kerney said. “But Wesley Marshall didn’t put it quite so nicely.”

  Dalquist chuckled. “I’m sure he didn’t. I have a message for you. Robert is being discharged from the hospital today. He’ll be staying with Nita for a while. She wanted to make sure that you knew where he would be.”

  “Is he well enough to be discharged?”

  Dalquist shrugged. “He’s a welfare case. Hospitals push indigent people out the door as quickly as possible.”

  “I hope Ms. Lassiter knows what she’s doing. Robert isn’t easy to manage.”

  “I said about the same thing to her, but she wouldn’t be swayed. It may work out; Robert is back on his medications and seems fairly stable.”

  “He’s acting okay?”

  “He seems to be, according to Nita.”

  “When will you go to trial?” Kerney asked.

  “Not soon, that’s for sure,” Dalquist replied. “But when we do, I plan to mount a defense that won’t leave a dry eye in the courtroom.” Dalquist tapped the papers in his hand. “Thanks for dropping Addie’s statement by.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Outside, Kerney watched two deputies march shackled prisoners out the back door of the courthouse and into a waiting sheriff’s van. The new officer uniforms, off-blue and gray in color, had been selected by the county sheriff in an attempt to professionalize the appearance of his deputies. To Kerney’s eye, it made the cops look like valet parking attendants with sidearms.

  He called Andy from his unit and said he was on his way back to the office.

  “I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Andy replied.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’re going to take a tour of DeLeon’s Rancho Caballo house.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite: How did you arrange it?”

  “By using the prestige of my high office.”

  “Will DeLeon be there to give us a tour?”

  “Unfortunately, no. He left last night.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He informed Rancho Caballo security that he was leaving.”

  • • •

  Andy had the key to DeLeon’s house and the access code to the security gate that barred the road.

  “Amazing,” Kerney said in mock wonderment as Andy punched in the numbers on the keypad and the gate swung open. “How did you get the code?”

  “Rancho Caballo keeps all the access codes on file, so they can shut off systems when there’s a false alarm and the owners are away.”

  “Park off the road so we can approach the house on foot,” Kerney suggested.

  “I don’t need a lesson in tactics,” Andy said as he coasted to a stop.

  They scrambled up the hill, Kerney taking the front while Andy looped around the back. He finished his sweep just as Andy joined him on the veranda.

  “Looks quiet,” Kerney said.

  “Same in the back,” Andy said, positioning himself at the side of the front door with his .357 in his hand. “Some place,” he added.

  “Do you like it?” Kerney asked as he took his station on the side of the door, the nine-millimeter in the ready position.

  Andy put the key in the lock. “Not really.” He turned the key slowly. “Don’t get me shot. Connie wouldn’t like it.”

  “Should I call for backup?”

  “You are my backup,” Andy said as he pushed the door open.

  The burglar alarm went off and they waited a few beats before entering. They cleared the house room by room with the alarm bleating in their ears. They finished up in the garage and went back to a locked door in the lower hallway. It was protected by a keypad system.

  “Well,” Kerney said, “aren’t you going to open it?”

  Andy hit some numbers on the keypad and the alarm shut off. He punched in more numbers and smiled at Kerney. “Try it.”

  The doorknob turned freely. Kerney swung the door open and turned on the lights. The stolen paintings were stacked neatly along the
walls away from the wine racks, and the antique and pottery pieces were on a tasting table in the center of the room.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Andy said, his face cracking into a grin.

  “I didn’t know you were a religious man.”

  “I am now,” Andy replied as he patted Kerney’s shoulder and stepped into the room. “Let’s get some techs and people from the museum over here pronto.”

  • • •

  Bucky Watson broke off his conversation with his lawyer when the door to the interrogation room opened and Kerney walked in. He leaned back in his chair and sneered at the cop.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen,” Kerney said.

  “Are you the arresting officer?” Earl Buffett asked.

  “I am.” Kerney smiled in Watson’s direction and dragged a chair across the floor to the table. Bucky’s sneer remained intact.

  “I want this interrogation ended,” Buffett said. “It has gone on much too long.”

  “Mr. Watson is under arrest,” Kerney noted. “We can keep him here for quite a while.” He sat down and carefully stretched out his right leg. “How are you holding up, Bucky?”

  “Better than you,” Bucky answered sarcastically, studying Kerney’s drawn, exhausted face.

  Kerney switched his gaze to Buffett. The man had very little space between the tip of his nose and his upper lip, and a pinched jaw that pulled his lower lip down at the edges.

  “Aside from the drugs found in the basement, what other evidence do you have against Mr. Watson?” Buffett asked.

  “Have patience, Mr. Buffett,” Kerney counseled. “Gathering evidence takes time.”

  “You’ve had most of the day to search the shop,” Buffett replied. “Surely it doesn’t take that long.”

  “Bucky’s shop is only one of the places we’ve searched today.”

  “I assume you had search warrants?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Where else have you been?”

  “So far? His house, gallery, and the design studio,” Kerney answered. “Are you ready to do some hard time, Bucky?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Bucky said.

  Buffett shot Bucky a glance to shut him up. “You have presented us with no proof that my client had knowledge of the drugs stored in the basement.”