Kerney stood by quietly.
"Did you see Gilbert?" Pletcher finally said.
"Yes."
"His face is gone." Pletcher shuddered slightly at the thought.
"Yes."
"Who will tell his parents?"
"It will be taken care of."
"He has a wife. Do you know her?"
"No," Kerney answered.
"I don't."
"And children. Two girls."
"I know."
"I have his blood all over me. Why did this happen, Kevin?"
"Because of my stupidity."
A plainclothes officer holding a notebook knocked at the studio door and stepped inside.
"What is it?" Kerney asked.
"The police chaplain wants to know if Mr. Hartley would like to see him." He smiled sympathetically in Pletcher's direction.
Pletcher shook his head.
"Send him away," Kerney said.
"I need to take Mr. Hartley's statement," me officer added.
"Do it tomorrow," Kerney replied.
The officer nodded, turned on his heel, and retreated.
"I can't stay here tonight," Fletcher said.
"We'll find you a place."
"No need. I'll make arrangements with friends.
Someone will take me in. Why do you blame yourself for Gilbert's death?"
"Because the men who came here wanted to kill me, not Gilbert."
"I don't understand."
"I'll tell you about it later. Let's get you ready to go.
You need to clean up and change your clothes."
Pletcher nodded sluggishly, got to his feet, and tried to pull himself together. An expression of self-loathing crossed his face. He looked at Kerney and shook his head as color rose on his cheeks.
"What's wrong?"
"I started worrying about die mess that needed to be cleaned up. Isn't that crass of me?"
"Not at all."
"I think it is."
Kerney stayed with Fletcher until the body in the hallway had been removed, and Fletcher could get to his bedroom without distraction.
Fletcher made telephone arrangements to stay with a friend, picked out some fresh clothes from the closet, placed them under his arm, and walked toward the bathroom. He paused at the door.
"I may stay away for a while," he said.
"There will be officers posted here round-the-clock, while you are gone and after you return."
"Thank you." in the hallway, near a pool of blood on the floor under the shattered frames of the Peter Hurd lithographs hanging on the wall that had been damaged by Rasmussen's shotgun blast, Kerney corralled an officer.
He asked the uniform to keep Pletcher sequestered and get him quietly out of the house without fanfare.
"Wait until the reporters are gone," he added.
Crime scene tape blocked Kerney's passage into the dining room. A technician working near the bodies by the kitchen archway bagged and tagged spent shell casings and empty ammunition dips. Blood stained the carpet and walls near the bodies. A photographer took pictures of the corpses.
Kerney could see into the kitchen. Bullet holes riddled the pantry next to the passageway, and the garage door had taken sustained heavy fire. Outgunned and outnumbered, Gilbert had put up one hell of a fight.
Outside, the driveway had been cordoned off and the garage door was open. Portable gas-operated klieg lights washed away the night.
Officers and technicians swept the grounds, searching for additional evidence.
Inside the garage, Pletcher's car looked as though it had been attacked by a heavy-weapons squad. The windows were shattered and dozens of bullet holes pierced the vehicle. A storage shelf had been strafed, and paint and solvent from demolished cans dripped onto the bloodstain on the concrete pad- Gilbert's body had been moved to an ambulance.
Kerney looked inside the open doors. The body bag was zipped shut.
Without thinking, Kerney reached in and gently touched Gilbert's leg.
He pushed away the thought that he was the one who needed some consolation, not Gilbert.
At the entrance to the lane, television crews stood in a semicircle around Andy, their camera-mounted lights raw beacons in the night.
Kerney checked by radio with the hospital on Officer Rasmussen's condition while he waited for Andy to finish with the media. An ER nurse reported that Rasmussen required surgery, but a full recovery was expected. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise terrible night The camera lights went dark and Kerney spotted Andy coming down the lane toward the house. He met him halfway.
"Thank God, that's over," Andy said.
"Do you want me to notify Gilbert's wife?" Kerney asked.
Andy paused momentarily.
"I'll do it. Do you know what pisses me off, Kerney?"
"What's mat?"
"I don't even know her name. What does that tell you?"
"I don't know her name, either."
"That makes us both shitheads. Will you be able to tie the hit men to De Leon "I don't think De Leon is that sloppy. But I'll find a way to get to him."
"Squeeze Bucky Watson," Andy said.
"I plan to, just as soon as I get all my ducks lined up." agent Joe Valdez sat in the conference room and watched Kerney read through the file on Matador Properties. Kerney had called Joe at home and pulled him back to the office without explanation. He had heard about Gilbert's murder from the radio traffic on his drive to headquarters, and the news had stunned him into an angry silence.
His silence didn't matter; Chief Kerney wasn't asking any questions or talking. He had his elbows on the table, fingers at his temples, head lowered, and his eyes focused on Joe's paperwork- His mouth was a hard, thin line. He finished reading, closed the file, and looked up.
"What else have you got?" he asked tersely.
Valdez consulted his notebook.
"Matador Properties owns some thirty commercial buildings in the city.
Mostly high-end or historic buildings on the plaza, Canyon Road, and in the Guadalupe District. The company leases space to galleries, restaurants, retail shops, and various professionals. It owns two major apartment complexes on St. Prands Drive."
"What's Watson's ballpark net worth?"
"I'm still digging to get those numbers. But it appears Matador has had sufficient cash assets to lend big bucks to Rancho Caballo. If Matador controls any subsidiary companies, Watson's total net worth could jump considerably."
"Is Watson carrying a heavy debt on his businesses?"
"If he is, I haven't found it yet."
"Is that unusual?"
"I'd say so. I've talked to all the commercial lenders in the area who offer jumbo mortgages. None of them are doing business with Matador.
But he may be using out-of-state financing."
"What do you think?" Kerney asked.
"Money laundering would be a good guess."
"How can you get a handle on it?"
"If Matador is a holding company, it might have one master casualty-and-loss policy with an insurance underwriter for all its properties, including subsidiaries."
Joe reached for the file, tapped the papers into a neat pile, and stood up.
"Once I know exactly what the corporate structure is, I'll start looking at how the money gets moved around."
"Keep me informed."
"I'll start calling insurance agents right away."
"Do we have a list of local security companies?"
Kerney asked.
"I've got one in my office."
"Get it for me, would you?"
"Sure thing. Chief." Joe hesitated.
"I'd like to start a collection for Gilbert's family. They're going to have a lot of expenses."
Kerney dug for his wallet, extracted all the currency, and put the bills in Joe's hand. retired city police officer Toby Apodaca watched the unmarked police cruiser stop in front of his Cemllos Road office. He unlocked the door and held it open as Ke
rney got out of the car and approached.
"There aren't too many people who can get me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night," Toby said after Kerney stepped inside the Guardsafe Security office.
"How are you, Kerney?"
"Pine, Toby," Kerney answered.
"And yourself?" Tm doing okay," Toby said, brushing an errant eyebrow hair back into place. His bushy eyebrows flared wildly in every direction. He scratched the thick stubble on his chin and ushered Kerney around a counter, past a bullpen for security guards that was shielded by portable partitions, and into a back office.
"I heard you were back in harness," Toby said.
"Do you like it?"
"I can't seem to avoid it," Kerney answered as he studied Apodaca. Toby had spent his last ten years as a cop on the Santa Pc Plaza, chasing purse snatchers and giving directions to disoriented tourists. He'd retired a few years before Kerney's shoot-out with a drug dealer.
"And carrying a deputy chief's shield," Toby noted.
"That's pretty impressive."
"We'll see how long it lasts."
Toby had aged well, Kerney decided. In his late fifties, he carried about 150 pounds on a five-six frame.
He had a full head of hair, and light brown eyes accentuated by wire-run glasses.
Toby chuckled.
"I hear you. The thing I hated most about the job was the chickenshit politics. I don't miss being a cop at all. Now I've got my own company, with regular hours, weekends off, and a personal life again.
Well, most of the time, anyway."
"Sounds sweet."
"It is. So what's up with Matador Properties?"
"The owner may be a target of an investigation," Kerney said.
"That doesn't tell me jackshit," Toby said with a smile.
"Deputy chiefs don't pull peace-loving private citizens out of bed after midnight to talk about the possibility that a rich guy like Bucky Watson may have done something illegal."
"We think Bucky may be connected to a Mexican drug lord."
"Connected how?"
"I'm not sure. But if he is, it means he's working with a man who just had one of my officers assassinated."
"You lost an officerF "Several hours ago. Gunned down at a south capitol residence. I can't tell you more than that right now."
"What a damn shame." Toby shook his head.
"Tell me about your contract with Matador."
"It brings in a good third of my gross annual billings.
I've had the contract for five years."
"Does the contract cover all his properties?"
"Just about. He lives in Rancho Caballo, and the subdivision provides security, so we don't cover his home."
"How many separate buildings do you patrol?"
"Forty-six, but it's more than just patrol work. At the apartment complexes I provide twenty-four-hour security.
And I staff the larger retail outlets with round-the- clock personnel."
"How many properties does Watson own?"
"A bunch of them," Toby said. Tve got two contracts with Watson, one for his Matador Properties and one for his Magia Corporation."
"What do you cover for Magia?"
"Shopping malls, mini-malls, strip malls, discount malls, warehouses, self-storage units-that sort of stuff."
"Is there anything you don't cover'?"
"Well, not really" "Meaning?"
"Bucky owns an art crating business in an old Victorian house. He said it didn't need any security."
"He told you about it?"
"No, I asked him. We patrol a nightclub and restaurant across the street for another company. My night man who works that sector saw Bucky at the house a couple of times and told me about it. I asked Watson if he wanted to add the building to the contract, and he said no. But I have my man keep an eye on the place, anyway."
"Have you gotten any reports of unusual activity at the shop?"
"Nope."
"How long has your man worked for you?"
"Over four years. He's an ex-correctional officer from the state pen."
"Reliable?"
"Absolutely."
"Is he on duty now?"
"He sure is."
"What's his name?"
"MaxOlguin."
"Can you have him meet me outside the nightclub?"
"Can do." Toby wrote down the address and gave it to Rerney.
"I'll have him there in ten minutes." max olguin opened the passenger door to Kerney's unit and got in. The bench seat sagged under his bulk.
An overweight man somewhere in his late thirties, with a chubby face and a crew cut, Olguin shook Kerney's outstretched hand.
"I'm Kevin Kerney."
"I know," Max said.
"I used to see you at the pen when you were still with the city police."
"It wasn't my favorite place to visit."
"Or work at," Max added.
"They ought to send the staff home, seal the perimeter, give each convict a loaded assault rifle, and let them have at it. Those sons of bitches would be killing each other within minutes.
That would solve prison overcrowding, big time."
"Until the courts filled them up again," Kerney noted.
Max grunted in agreement.
"But still, it would give us a break from the scumbags for a while.
Toby said you needed to talk to me."
"I understand you keep an eye on the art crating business."
"Yeah. It's not official or anything. I check it when I patrol the nightclub. Just a visual from my car."^ "Have you noticed anything suspicious or unusual?"
"Not really. A couple of times I got a little concerned."
"About what?"
"Trucks in the alley late at night."
"Was there any activity around the trucks?"
"Yeah. Guys loading and unloading crates. Watson's car was always there, so I figured everything was cool."
"You know Watson's car?"
"Sure do. I give it special attention, so it doesn't get broken into or stolen. The boss says it doesn't hurt to keep the clients happy with a little extra service."
"Describe the trucks to me."
"One time they unloaded a panel truck and a minivan, and another time they were loading a ten-ton Ford."
"Did you ever get a look at the cargo?"
"Nope. I just saw them carrying crates. All different sizes."
"Have you seen Watson at the crating shop recently?"
"Last night I saw his car parked outside on the street."
"Did you see Watson?"
"No, just his car and two other vehicles parked in front of the building. The inside lights were on, so I figured Watson was there and had some of his people working."
"What other kind of vehicles were parked there?"
"A pickup and a subcompact. I've seen both before."
"No large trucks?"
"Nope. But trucks could have come and gone before I came back on my next round."
"Thanks, Max."
"Sure thing," Max said, easing his bulk out of the unit.
Kerney sat in the unit mulling over what Max had told him. He had a strong hunch Bucky wasn't shipping only fine art. He needed to find a way to prove it without conducting an illegal search.
He waited until Olguin drove away, got a flashlight from the glove box, walked across the street, and stood in front of the Victorian house. It had a deep porch supported by white-painted columns with two large windows flanking the front entrance. He walked around the building. A concrete loading dock jutted out from the rear entrance with steps on one side and a ramp on the other. A power line ran from a pole to an electric meter mounted on the corner of the building. The junction box below the meter caught Kerney's attention.
A circuit had been added to the house, and a conduit ran from the box into the ground. Kerney wondered if the building had a basement.
At the front, he inspected the latticework grille that bordered the porch. A
side section was hinged to provide access. He crawled under the porch and found a wooden insert covering a hole cut in the rock foundation, wide enough for a man to crawl through.
He pulled the insert loose, set it aside, and swept the darkness with the beam of the flashlight. About a quarter of the crawl space was sectioned off by walls that disappeared below grade. The electrical conduit at the back of the house ran straight into it.
Kerney crawled in for a better look. A three-sided stud-and-plywood enclosure butted up against the foundation.
It was sloppy, substandard construction, and Kerney had no doubt it had been built without a permit.
Outside, Kerney dusted himself off. He wanted to know what was in the basement. If his hunch about the permit was right, it might be possible to find out without risking an illegal break-in.
alex cast illo a customs narcotics agent called up from Albuquerque, held a Vietnamese potbellied pig in his arms and eyed the state cop.
"What's the pig's name?" Kerney asked.
"Mabel."
"Does she have a good sense of smell?"
Castillo grimaced. It was four o'clock in the morning and he wasn't in a mood for pig jokes. Every cop who met Mabel for the first time turned into a stand-up comic.
"If the narcotics are there, Mabel will tell me," Castillo replied. He scratched the pig behind the ears.
Mabel snorted.
"Can she detect drug residue?"
"Mabel has a great nose, Chief. Bury it, bag it, sweep it up-it doesn't matter to Mabel. She'll sniff it out.
Where do you want her?"
"Under the porch in the crawl space to the house."
"Do you have a search warrant?" Castillo asked.
"I have reason to believe there are controlled substances stored inside."
Castillo shook his head in disagreement.
"Anything we find will be considered an illegal search and seizure."
"I plan to find the stash legally," Kerney said.
"How arc you going to do that?"
"Whatever I do won't involve you or Mabel."
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