Why wasn't a field search of the property under way? Why hadn't Santiago Terjo's tracks in the snow been identified and followed to see if he might be hiding nearby? Had the whereabouts of the ambassador been determined?
His jaw tightened. As much as he wanted to stand back and let Molina run the investigation without interference, the victim's prominence argued against such an approach. This was a case where every wrong move or screw-up would be placed under a media microscope.
He would wait for Molina to finish briefing the techs and ME before talking to him.
Across a deep arroyo that cut into the hillside an SUV climbed a paved road and turned into the driveway of the closest house. While the distance was too far for Kerney to see clearly, the person who got out of the vehicle looked to be a woman wearing a parka, cap, and blue jeans.
She opened the back of the SUV and a large dog hopped out.
For a moment the woman stood by the vehicle staring in the direction of the Terrell residence. Then she started down a footpath into the arroyo and walked quickly in Kerney's direction, the dog following eagerly along.
Using a path that intersected the Terrells' driveway, Kerney hurried to cut the woman off. He intercepted her as she scrambled up the side of the arroyo through wet snow.
"What's wrong?" the woman asked breathlessly as she came to a stop.
The dog, a Labrador, gave Kerney's pant cuffs a quick sniff and kept going.
"I saw the police cars at the end of the driveway. Has there been a burglary?"
"Can you control your dog?" Kerney asked.
The woman whistled once.
"Cassidy, stay."
The dog sat, tail wagging, and smiled at the woman.
Wisps of dark brown hair showed from under the wool cap pulled down over the woman's ears. Her worried brown eyes wandered from Kerney's face to the Terrell residence, partially hidden by pine trees along the path.
"What happened?" she asked
"Tell me who you are," Kerney said.
"You go first," the woman said.
"I'm a police officer," Kerney said, displaying his shield and ID.
"Let me walk you back to your residence."
The woman didn't move.
"If there has been a burglary, Phyllis will want to know about it."
"Are you friendly with Ambassador and Mrs. Terrell?" Kerney asked.
"You're not answering my question," the woman replied, as she tried to step around Kerney.
"I'm going up there to find out what happened."
Kerney blocked her way.
"You can't enter a crime scene. Let me escort you home."
The woman bit her lip.
"Can you really force me to stay away?"
"Yes, I can."
She gave Kerney an unhappy look, whistled once for Cassidy, then turned, and backtracked into the arroyo. Kerney followed as the woman climbed quickly and easily up the far side of the arroyo.
Inside the house the woman turned off the burglar alarm by the front door.
Cassidy scooted past Kerney and made a beeline for a dog bed. He retrieved a rubber ball, brought it to Kerney, and dropped it on the floor, ready to play.
"Sweet dog," Kerney said.
The woman, who had shed her parka and cap, stood with her hands on her hips and said nothing. Slender and of average size, she had attractive features accentuated by lips which suggested that, under normal circumstances, a ready smile came easily. Kerney guessed her to be in her early forties.
"Tell me your name," Kerney asked.
"Alexandra Lawton. Look, I know Phyllis is out of town. She will want to know what has happened."
"I take it the Terrells are friends as well as neighbors," Kerney said.
"Phyllis has been a friend since she built her house two years ago."
"What about Mr. Terrell?"
"He doesn't live here. He moved out shortly after the house was built.
They've been separated ever since."
"Do you know Santiago Terjo?"
"Of course I know him. He's worked for Phyllis for over a year."
"Doing what, exactly?"
"Landscaping and construction. Phyllis is creating an extraordinary garden bit by bit inside the patio wall. It keeps growing in scale as she designs it. It's turned into quite a project."
"Would you know where I might find Terjo?" Kerney asked.
"If he's not working or in the RV, mostly likely he'll be at the stables, caring for the horses. He's not a thief. He's worked for me upon occasion, and he's entirely trustworthy."
"Where are the stables?"
"I'll show you." Lawton led Kerney through the living room, which was filled with northern New Mexico antiques, inviting, comfortable easy chairs, and a grand piano, into a sunroom that had a panoramic southwest view of the valley.
"Phyllis bought two acres in the valley, right across from her driveway, to keep her horses nearby," Lawton said, reaching for a pair of binoculars on an occasional table between two rattan chairs.
She handed Kerney the binoculars.
"Look over the house on the far side of the road just a little bit to the left, and you'll see the stables and corral. If Santiago's pickup is there, he's most likely tending to Priscilla and Gigolo, Phyllis's mare and gelding."
Kerney looked; the truck was parked in front of an open stable door.
"He doesn't leave his vehicle at the house?"
"Never. In fact, the RV is kept at the stables unless Phyllis is out of town.
Then it's moved up so Santiago can keep an eye on the place while she's gone."
"Does Mrs. Terrell have a dog?" Kerney asked.
"No, but Santiago does. It's a Rottweiler-German shepherd mix, named Zippy. What was stolen?"
"We're not sure, Ms. Lawton."
"Well, I'm going to call Phyllis in Virginia. She's visiting her sister.
She needs to know what happened."
"Please don't bother. When did you last see Mrs. Terrell?"
"She came for coffee here yesterday afternoon."
"How was her mood?"
"Excellent. She was looking forward to her trip. She always flies back to celebrate her sister's birthday. They're very close."
"Does she have any current houseguests?"
"Not since the holidays."
"I'd like to use your phone so I can have a detective come over and take a statement."
"Aren't you a detective?"
"I'm the police chief."
Lawton paled.
"You wouldn't be here to investigate a simple burglary."
"No, I wouldn't. Mrs. Terrell has been murdered."
"Oh, my God," Lawton said, sinking into a rattan chair.
Kerney called Lieutenant Molina on his cell phone, filled him in, and asked for one detective to come to Lawton's house. He ordered an immediate search for Terjo at the stables, and told Molina to stand by at the Terrell residence for his return.
Lawton cried quietly while Kerney kept the binoculars trained on the stables.
Soon two detectives and a uniformed officer moved in on foot. They crossed the road, used trees and shrubs for concealment, and split up at the small open meadow in front of the stables. Keeping low, the detectives sprinted to their positions, one at the front and one at the back of the stables, while the uniformed officer found cover behind Terjo's truck, his sidearm drawn and ready.
Kerney focused the binoculars on the detective standing to one side of the stable's front doors, but the distance was too great for him to see any mouthed orders. A few minutes passed before a figure emerged from the darkness of the stable, hands held high. The detective quickly put the man facedown in the snow and cuffed him as the uniform moved in, his weapon aimed at the back of the man's head.
The doorbell rang and Kerney turned to find that Lawton hadn't moved.
Although her tears had stopped, the expression of disbelief remained.
Cassidy was at Lawton's feet, his chin resting on her kn
ee. She absentmindedly stroked the dog's head.
"I'll get it," Kerney said, and Lawton nodded dully in agreement.
Kerney let the detective in. Molina had sent over Amos Cis neros. He gave Cisneros the gist of his conversation with Lawton, and took the overweight, still wheezing man to the sunroom, thinking he'd have to tighten up the physical-fitness requirements for commissioned personnel.
"Do you know how I can find Ambassador Terrell?" Kerney asked after introducing Cisneros to Lawton.
"No," Lawton replied.
"He's a delegate on a trade mission to South America. He's out of the country a great deal of the time."
"Does he still have ambassador rank?"
Kerney asked.
"I don't know what his official status is."
"It may take some time for Detective Cisneros to interview you."
"That's fine," Lawton said, smiling weakly.
"Please excuse my tears. I really cared for Phyllis. She's been a good friend."
"I understand."
On his way back to the Terrell residence Kerney framed the most diplomatic way he could ask Lieutenant Molina about the lack of resources at the crime scene.
He caught Molina's eye. The lieutenant stepped away from the medical examiner and joined him at the edge of the patio.
"Who did your people arrest?" Kerney asked.
"Terjo," Molina replied.
"We'll take his preliminary statement here and then interrogate him at headquarters. Thanks for the heads-up, Chief."
"You seem a little short on manpower, Lieutenant," Kerney said.
"Can I call in more people?"
"You don't need my permission, Lieutenant."
Molina paused.
"Yes, I do. There's a standing order in effect:
Only the chief can authorize additional personnel for major felony investigations."
"That makes no sense."
"It's what your predecessor wanted."
"Why?" Kerney asked.
Molina shrugged and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
"Cost containment. My unit goes over budget every year. Nothing I said would change his mind. It didn't seem to matter that I don't have a crystal ball that lets me predict violent crimes on an annual basis."
"The order is rescinded," Kerney said.
"Get the help you need up here pronto.
And in the future, get in my face if there's something that keeps you from doing your job. Are you clear on that?"
Molina smiled broadly.
"You bet I am, Chief."
"Let me know when you plan to interrogate Terjo," Kerney said.
"I'd like to watch."
"Ten-four."
"Has Terrell's sister or husband been informed of her death?" Kerney asked.
"Not yet. We haven't gotten an answer from the State Department on the ambassador's exact whereabouts."
"Inform the sister, but keep the local media in the dark for as long as possible. If any newspaper reporters show up, refer them to me. I'll be at headquarters."
Looking relieved, Molina hurried away to make his calls. Kerney walked down the driveway, kicking himself mentally. Since coming on board weeks ago, he'd met with each commander and supervisor personally, had spent a good deal of time observing operations, and was still digging through reams of department documents.
To avoid the possibility of reacting to personal agendas carried over from the last administration, Kerney had wanted to be completely up to speed before asking senior staff to recommend any organizational reforms. Now that would have to change. He couldn't let past stupidities stand in the way of good police work.
At the driveway gate Officer Herrera thrust the crime-scene log into Kerney's hands. Kerney studied the officer as he scrawled his name.
Herrera was short and skinny through the chest. Not even the Kevlar vest worn under his uniform shirt bulked him up enough to hide his lack of muscle. He had a potbelly and gray humorless eyes.
"How's the leg?" Kerney asked, glancing down at Herrera's torn uniform trousers.
"It's nothing, Chief."
"Glad to hear it. Tell me something, Officer Herrera: Why didn't you accompany the animal-control officer when he went looking for the dog?"
Herrera ran his tongue under his upper lip and clamped his jaw shut.
"Say what's on your mind, Officer."
"I'm not a dogcatcher, Chief."
"No, you're not," Kerney said, thinking Herrera might not be much of a police officer either.
As Kerney walked past the animal-control truck, the young man inside the cab rolled down the window.
"How long do I have to wait here, Chief?" Matt Garcia asked.
"Cloudy said I have to give a statement."
"Who's Cloudy?" Kerney asked.
"Officer Herrera."
"Give your statement to Officer Herrera."
Matt shook his head.
"He says it's up to the detectives to take it. I'm backed up on five calls and my supervisor wants to know when I'll be released."
Kerney motioned to Herrera. He approached slowly with his chin up and a sour look.
"Take this man's statement," Kerney ordered, "so he can go back to work."
"Right away, Chief."
Kerney turned on his heel to hide his frustration, went to his unit, and drove through the valley, glancing at the expensive homes-some new, some old adobes that had been restored and enlarged-that peppered the hillsides and the river bottomland. Interspersed among the symbols of new wealth were a few remaining modest houses. They were sure to be gobbled up or demolished pretty soon by newcomers seeking a prestigious Santa Fe address.
With the money he'd realized from the sale of the land Erma Fergurson had left him, he could easily build a trophy home and move into the neighborhood.
The thought was totally unappealing. Instead, Kerney had a realtor looking for a section of land in the Galisteo Basin twenty minutes outside of Santa Fe, where he could build a ranch house and keep some animals.
A ranch house with a nursery, he reminded himself, thinking of his wife, Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon, pregnant and on active duty while attending the U. S. Army Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.
In January they'd spent a weekend together at Fort Leaven worth. Sara had toured him around the post on a cold, clear Kansas morning, walking him across the parade grounds, pointing out the Victorian houses where George Armstrong Custer and Douglas Macarthur had lived. She showed him the building where F. Scott Fitzgerald had written his first novel.
He got to see the old French cannons that looked out over the Missouri River and the monumental Buffalo Soldier statue that honored Africanamericans who'd served in segregated units during the Indian campaigns.
After the tour they'd snuggled up in a lovely bed-and-breakfast and tuned out the world. It had been a wonderful weekend, and Kerney had returned to Santa Fe knowing that Sara's commitment to her career as an army officer was as strong as her commitment to their marriage. He wondered if that would ever change.
Sara was due in Santa Fe on the weekend. Kerney hoped that the Terrell murder investigation wouldn't get in the way of her visit. As it was, they had little enough time together.
Radio traffic told Kerney that detectives were responding quickly to Molina's call for more manpower. The street narrowed and curved on the approach to the plaza, past rows of tightly packed houses, creating the feeling of a village lane in a Spanish town.
Kerney pulled to the curb and waited. Five unmarked units running a silent code three passed by in a matter of minutes. That should give Molina the resources he needed. Hopefully, the lieutenant would put the personnel to good use.
Kerney made a mental note to learn more about Officer Herrera and drove on.
Chapter 2
Although the city hadn't been hit with a lot of snow, a foot of new powder crowned the ski basin, and traffic along Cerril los Road was heavy with day trippers from Albuque
rque on their way to and from the slopes. At the Airport Road intersection Kerney turned off and headed for the nearby police headquarters, remembering the time when the old Blue Mountain Ranch and a vast stretch of rangeland along Cerrillos Road had defined the southern limits of the city. Now that open space was gone, filled up by a large shopping mall, an auto park with four dealerships, and commercial clutter that stretched along the roadway almost to the Interstate.
Since starting the job, Kerney had tacked extra time onto his twelve-hour days to explore the city by car and get familiar with his jurisdiction. The growing south-side sprawl continued along Airport Road, where a mixture of strip malls, new residential subdivisions with houses on tiny lots, and boxy apartment buildings had sprung up at an astonishing rate. Santa Fe was fast losing its unique identity and Kerney doubted anything could stop it.
He entered police headquarters, where the receptionist, a young woman with a lackluster complexion and a bit too much blush on her cheeks, sat up straight in her chair and smiled a polite greeting that showed no warmth.
Kerney had grown used to the wariness most of the staff displayed when he came around. But he didn't like it, and he wondered how long it would take for it to ease.
He climbed the stairs to the administrative wing. The vacant deputy chief's office reminded him that he needed to act soon on filling the number-two slot.
Helen Muiz, Kerney's personal secretary and office manager, greeted him with a sheaf of telephone messages.
"Anything urgent?" he asked.
Helen shook her head and took off her reading glasses.
"Not yet. But I think you'd better tell the city manager about the Terrell murder before he hears about it from an outside source."
Kerney smiled. A thirty-five-year veteran of the department, Helen had been Kerney's secretary during his tenure as chief of detectives, and had served as the office manager for the past three chiefs. Now a grandmother in her late fifties, Helen didn't look the part. Full bodied, taller than average, with large round eyes that radiated a sharp sense of humor, Helen was the best-dressed civilian employee in the department. Today, she wore a pearl-gray wool gabardine suit and a silk plum-colored blouse.
She could retire at any time on a full pension, but chose not to do so.
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