It had happened eighteen months ago, but Carlos would never forget it.
Kerney had come thundering back into his mind as soon as he saw the newspaper article announcing the gringo's appointment as deputy chief of the state police. Carlos wanted the patron to wake up, read the paper^ and order him to kill the motherfucker.
De Leon came into the room just as the telephone rang. Carlos started to rise but vSa amp;jefe waved him back down, picked up the receiver, and sat in the high-backed antique Spanish Colonial chair behind the desk.
"What is it?" De Leon asked in Spanish, not waiting for the caller to identify himself. Anyone with access to the phone number was an employee.
Carlos watched De Leon eyes harden as he listened to the caller. When he finally spoke his voice was cordial but his jaw tightened.
"You did what was necessary considering the circumstances," De Leon said, switching to English.
De Leon listened some more.
"Is the body well hidden?" he asked.
Carlos immediately became more attentive.
"No, stay where you are," De Leon ordered.
"I'll get back to you."
He replaced the receiver and glared at Carlos.
"Patron?" Carlos asked.
"It seems that Nick Palazzi decided it was necessary to kill a state policeman on his way to Mexico. He was reluctant to tell me about it until today. He also felt it necessary to bury Amanda Talley's body and steal a car before he crossed the border."
"What do you wish done?" Carlos said, remembering to respond in English.
"Visit with Nick, Carlos. Have him tell you exactly how to locate Amanda's remains, and when he's told you everything, kill him. Make all traces of Amanda vanish, and get the vehicle safely across the border.
Take the Range Rover. You may need it in the mountains."
"Emilio and Facundo?" Carlos inquired as he stood.
"They are blameless in the matter." Enrique waited for Carlos to depart. Instead the man stood rooted to me floor.
"Are my instructions unclear?"
"No, patron." Carlos stepped to the desk and placed the newspaper on it.
"There is news which might interest you."
"What is it?"
"An article on the inside page announcing an appointment to the state police."
"Why would that hold any interest for me!" De Leon inquired, opening the paper to find the article.
Carlos held back a smile. When De Leon finished reading, his eyes flashed at Carlos.
"Go now," De Leon said.
"We will deal with Senor Kerney when you return."
De Leon reread the article after Carlos departed.
Kevin Kerney, the man who had thwarted the sale of the military artifacts smuggled from White Sands Missile Range, was in Santa Fe.
Enrique pushed the paper aside and looked at the sweeping view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
Northern New Mexico was one of the few places in the United States where he felt completely at home. With a rich Hispanic heritage, flourishing Spanish arts, and a culture tied closely to his own, the area deeply appealed to him.
He switched his thoughts back to Kerney and smiled as he contemplated the police officer's death.
"this is a preliminary hearing to determine if there is probable cause to believe that the crime of murder may have been committed by Anita Lassiter," Judge Ross-Gorden announced.
She had delayed the hearing ten minutes waiting for Kerney to arrive.
He was still a no-show. She looked out over the top of her reading glasses at the nearly empty courtroom. In her late fifties, Ross-Gorden had a high forehead, narrow cheeks, and a slightly pointed chin.
She wore her gray hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. The occupants in the courtroom included the defendant, her attorney, the ADA, Wesley Marshall, a court stenographer, and the deputy sheriff guarding Lassiter.
Anita Lassiter was an attractive, well-dressed woman with an intelligent face who looked frightened. Judge Ross-Gorden wondered if the defense counsel had taken the time to prepare her for the hearing.
"Does your client understand the purpose of these proceedings?"
Ross-Gorden asked Lassiter's attorney, a pudgy man the judge knew only in passing. He was not a criminal trial attorney, and Ross-Gorden wanted to make sure Lassiter had been adequately advised by counsel.
Bradley Pullings stood next to Nita Lassiter at the defendant's table.
"She does. Your Honor."
"Very well," Ross-Gorden said, deciding to be a bit more explicit for Lassiter's sake.
"I have reviewed the arresting officer's written report, and the transcript of Ms. Lassiter's tape-recorded confession. I find that there is sufficient evidence to proceed to trial on the charges of first-degree murder. How does your client plead?"
"Not guilty, Your Honor," Pullings said.
"Do you plan to engage a co-counsel with criminal defense experience?"
Ross-Gorden asked Pullings.
Bradley blushed.
"Yes, Judge."
"That would be wise." Ross-Gorden inclined her head at ADA Marshall, who took the cue and stood.
"We ask the court that Ms. Lassiter be held without bail, Your Honor.
She has confessed to the premeditated murder of a police officer, which is a crime punishable by death if the defendant is found guilty. We believe, based on the serious consequences to the crime, she might be a flight risk."
"Mr. Pullings?" Judge Ross-Gorden asked.
"Ms. Lassiter is a doctor of veterinary medicine, a professional woman of excellent reputation, a businesswoman, and a property owner,"
Pullings replied.
"Moreover, this is the first time Dr. Lassiter has ever appeared before a court of law as a defendant in either a criminal or civil matter. She is not a flight risk, nor is she a danger to society. I ask the court to release Dr. Lassiter on her own recognizance."
The door at the rear of the courtroom opened and Kerney slipped inside.
Ross-Gorden nodded slightly in his direction and spoke directly to Pullings.
"You are new to my court, Mr. Pullings. I have made it a practice since assuming the bench to allow investigating and arresting officers to make a statement at preliminary hearings, if they so choose."
"May I ask for what purpose. Your Honor?"
"Frequently their impression of the defendant is helpful to me."
"I have no objection, Your Honor."
"It is not a decision you can object to, Mr. Pullings," Ross-Gorden replied gently.
Pullings blushed again.
"Sorry, Your Honor."
Ross-Gorden turned her attention to the back of the room.
"Mr. Kerney, you are the investigating officer in this case. Do you have something to say for the record?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Come forward."
Nita Lassiter swung her head around as Kerney moved to the railing. She bit her Up and dropped her gaze when he looked at her.
"What is it you would like to say to the court?" RossGorden asked.
"I don't think Ms. Lassiter will flee your jurisdiction, Your Honor," he said.
"I believe she is a woman with a strong sense of right and wrong who feels a great deal of guilt about what she did. If I may. Your Honor, I suggest that reasonable bail be set."
"That recommendation will not make you very popular with your fellow officers," Ross-Gorden noted as she watched Wesley Marshall glare at Kerney.
"Or with the prosecutor, for that matter," she added.
"I realize that. Judge."
Before Marshall had a chance to react, Ross-Gorden swung her attention back to Pullings.
"Your client's attempted suidde troubles me, Counselor. Therefore, I order that she be held in custody pending the results of a psychiatric evaluation. Should the evaluation show that Ms. Lassiter is not a danger to herself, bail is set in the amount of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, cash or p
roperty. This hearing is closed."
Kerney turned to leave.
"Mr. Kerney," Judge Ross-Gorden called out.
"Ma'am?"
Willene Ross-Gorden smiled.
"The morning newspaper noted your promotion. Congratulations, Chief."
"Thank you. Judge." He watched Nita, Pullings, and the deputy sheriff move to a side door. Before Lassiter stepped through the doorway, she stopped and looked back at him. Kerney couldn't read her expression. the district courtroom ate up the center core of the courthouse. Prom the main lobby, two hallways ran along both sides of the courtroom, leading to various county offices. In the lobby, a large plate-glass window separated two entrances at the front of the building.
Through the window, Kerney could see Wesley Marshall surrounded by a group of reporters and camera crews, eager for the prosecutor's latest pronouncement.
Three television station vans equipped with satellite antennas were parked in the lot, sending live feeds back to the studios in Albuquerque.
Without being noticed, Kerney walked to his car parked on the side of the building. Robert Cordova leaned against the driver's door, wearing clean jeans, running shoes without laces, and a worn but serviceable navy pea coat.
Kerney was surprised to see him. Marda Yearwood had supposedly arranged for Robert to stay at a halfway house in Albuquerque. Before he could ask Robert what he was doing back in Torrance County, Cordova stood on his tiptoes and punched Kerney in the jaw.
Kerney picked Robert up by both arms and held him against the side of the car. Robert's feet flailed at Kerney's shins.
"What are you doing here, Robert?" Cordova's punch had a sting to it, and Kerney held him tight to avoid another blow.
"Why aren't you at the halfway house?"
"I ran away. I came back to kick the shit out of you."
"Why?"
"Because the television said you shot Nita," Robert answered, trying to butt his head against Kerney's face.
Kerney kept him pinned against the car at arm's length.
"Calm down."
"Tuck you, calm down. Put me down, dammit."
"Will you behave if I do?"
"Did you shoot Nita?"
"I had to," Kerney explained.
"She was trying to kill herself."
"Nita would never do that."
"I swear it," Kerney said solemnly.
"She's going to need your help, Robert."
Cordova squinted at Kerney with one eye and stopped thrashing his feet.
"What do you mean?"
"You know why she killed Paul Gillespie. You need to tell me what happened."
"I saw the asshole rape her, man."
"Will you tell me exactly what you saw?"
"What good would that do?"
"You're a witness, Robert. What you say can help Nita."
"You're just trying to fuck her over some more."
"No, I'm not. But you'll fuck her over if you don't help," Kerney shot back.
"Nobody's gonna believe a crazy fucking mental patient."
"I thought you were a stand-up guy, Robert.
Somebody who would take the heat for his friends.
Maybe I was wrong." Kerney dropped Robert on his feet and pushed him away from the car.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm leaving."
"Wait a minute," Robert said anxiously.
"Will you help Nita? Yes or no?"
Robert struggled with the decision, shifting his weight back and forth on each foot.
"I'll tell you," he finally said.
"But just you."
"Get in the car and we'll tape-record it," Kerney replied, opening the car door.
Robert balked.
"I want to see Nita first."
"You can't see her now. She's going back to jail."
Robert stuck his chin out defiantly.
"That's where I want to go."
"It's a deal," Kerney said.
"I'll put you in protective custody as soon as you tell me what you saw Gillespie do to Nita. Just don't try to hit me again. Okay?"
"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." ^ Kerney tape-recorded Robert's statement, put him in protective custody at the county jail, and headed back to Santa Pc. 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 duster 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 Hetcher 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, m 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.
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"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?"
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