RED GOLD
BOOK ONE
THE GABE MCKENNA SERIES
ROBERT D. KIDERA
SUSPENSE PUBLISHING
RED GOLD
By
Robert D. Kidera
DIGITAL EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Suspense Publishing
Robert D. Kidera
COPYRIGHT
2015 Robert D. Kidera
www.robertkiderabooks.com
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, April 2015
Cover Design: Shannon Raab
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/suprun
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/adempercem
Potamology: Written by Linda J. Elliott
Used with the permission of the author
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated, with gratitude, to Southwest Writers, whose members welcomed, taught, encouraged, and supported me all the way.
APPRECIATION
Many people blessed me over the past three years. Whatever value or enjoyment you find in this book is the result of all that my friends have taught and encouraged me to do. I must acknowledge the following:
Dodici Azpadu, for her gentle persuasions and support; Betsy James, for teaching me how to take a machete to my manuscript; Kirt Hickman, for his invaluable instruction in the fundamentals of revision; Steve Brewer, for helping me see the humor in every gumshoe’s plight; Frank Zoretich, for teaching me how to set a scene and be consistent; Dorrie O’Brien, for her suggestions on back-story and character development; Linda J. Elliott, my first editor, for her steadfast encouragement, support, and for her lovely poem.
Thank you to my readers and fellow critique group members, who read some rather awful early drafts and helped me find a way through to the end: Gloria Casale, Teresa Civello, Ann Daniel-Hartung, Pete David, Al Diehl, Gayle Lauradunn, Kate Leistikow (and Toby the Wonder Dog), Andy Mayo, Carol Mengerink, Gordon Sargent, Dr. Veronica Tiller, and Wrona Gall, for her good humor and kindness, and for bringing some Chicago into my life every Wednesday.
My most heartfelt thanks to Joseph Badal, for his faith in my abilities and patience with my learning curve. The generous gift of his time and expertise will never be forgotten. He showed me how to be a writer.
And finally, to my wife Annette, who suffered through more drafts and readings than anyone, never got annoyed, and always urged me onward.
PRAISE FOR “RED GOLD”
“Author Robert D. Kidera owes me big time. His debut novel in the promised McKenna Mystery series, ‘Red Gold,’ kept me up all night. Who can resist a good old-fashioned treasure hunt? ‘Red Gold’ is a thriller packed with deceit and danger but also compassion. McKenna is a damaged hero, but also one to root for.”
—Vincent Zandri, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of “Everything Burns,” “The Remains,” and “The Shroud Key”
“If you enjoy first-class suspense and an author with a unique voice and style, then you will love ‘Red Gold.’ This novel is a masterful blend of mystery, action, and love story, all wrapped up in a wonderful cast of characters and beautifully-described scenes of New Mexico. Robert Kidera’s first novel is a real treat that will have readers demanding more.”
—Joseph Badal, award-winning author of the Danforth Saga and “Ultimate Betrayal”
“In his stunning debut novel, Robert Kidera takes readers on a wild ride through New Mexico as a troubled professor gets caught up in the search for lost gold. Filled with lush detail and packed with thrills, ‘Red Gold’ grabs the reader and refuses to let go. Fans will look forward to more books featuring widowed protagonist Gabe McKenna.”
—Steve Brewer, author of the Bubba Mabry mysteries
“The often-told tale of lost gold, a treasure map, and various people attempting to find it, never grows old. And Kidera’s ‘Red Gold’ mystery is no exception. Kidera’s dialogue rings true and his descriptions allow readers to taste the dirt of a Southwest sandstorm, feel the prickly heat of late spring, relax in the cool of an adobe house. Gabe McKenna, laden with emotional baggage, arrives in Albuquerque from New York. In the process of settling his inherited estate, he discovers a map, hints of treasure and most importantly—himself. ‘Red Gold’ is a traditional story turned on its head and, oh so well written! Fast paced, plot twists at every turn, humor thrown in at just the right moments, Kidera’s debut novel is one that keeps pages turning. ‘Red Gold’ is a gem.”
—Melody Groves, award-winning author of The Colton Brothers Saga
“Robert D. Kidera has written a winning mystery that incorporates the spirit of Raymond Chandler and his characters with an authentic feel for Albuquerque and many other places in New Mexico. Kidera has a native’s eye for quirky details in characters, architecture, and natural features of the Land of Enchantment. The suspense begins to build in the first chapter and Kidera never takes his foot off the pedal. The search for ‘Red Gold’ will evoke comparisons to B. Traven’s ‘The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.’ Be there for the exciting finish.”
—Robert Kresge, author of the Warbonnet historical mysteries and the Civil War spy thriller “Saving Lincoln” (winner of the 2014 Tony Hillerman/Best Fiction Award)
RED GOLD
BOOK ONE
THE GABE MCKENNA SERIES
ROBERT D. KIDERA
CHAPTER ONE
Queens, New York: February 26
I knelt by my wife’s grave, as I had each day for more than a year. Late afternoon shadows from an overhanging oak shifted across the inscription on her headstone:
HOLLY MOONEY McKENNA
August 6, 1961—February 14, 2013
Beloved Wife of GABRIEL J. McKENNA
A goldfinch landed on the marble and rested a moment. If it sang, I didn’t hear it. It crooked its head and looked at me, then flew off into the cold, windy afternoon.
The brown grass beneath my knees felt icy and brittle. Each time I shifted, it broke a little bit more. When my time came, would I shatter, or have the courage to face death the way she had battled her cancer; defiant to the end?
I stood and walked back to my car, prepared to risk my life on the Long Island Expressway.
My first stop was Rose’s on 69th Street; a take-out double-cheese and meatball pizza would be dinner. I drove along 75th past all the two story homes, to my co-op on Broadway in Elmhurst, parking my Taurus in the three hundred dollar per month subterranean parking space I could barely afford. I slumped back against the seat, closed my eyes, and allowed the aroma of pizza to fill my car.
Once inside the lobby, I spotted a Post-It note on my mailbox: Pick up your goddamn mail. Sincerely, the mailman.
I hadn’t bothered to check it for days. With the pizza box balanced on my left arm, I located the mailbox key on the chain in my right hand. The mailbox was stuffed and I had to lean hard on the key before the small door popped open. Direct-marketing junk mail, most of
it, along with one business-sized envelope from a law firm in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Putting it all on top of the pizza box, I took the elevator up to the fourth floor.
My television was still on from that morning. The big ESPN story told of a prizefighter killed in the ring in Vegas the night before. I paused to watch. A lady sportscaster in a chiseled blue dress shuffled some papers in front of her and decried the barbarity of the sport before breaking for a commercial that pitched the network’s upcoming UFC title fight coverage. As I turned away, the mail slid off the top of the pizza box and onto the pile of letters and circulars that already covered my dining room table. I dropped the box on the kitchen counter, grabbed the last clean plate from the cupboard, and threw two slices of pizza on it. Snatching a cold beer from the refrigerator, I sank into my recliner.
My trophy stared back at me from the mantelpiece:
1977 Golden Gloves
155-Pound Division Semi-Finalist
Gabe “White Lightning” McKenna
I chugged the beer until it burned my throat. “Thirty-seven years and forty pounds later!” I raised the empty can in mock salute to a guy who once knew how to fight.
It took my eyes a while to adjust to the darkness. A feeble sliver of light passed through the window blinds from the streetlights below. Another dream about Holly had startled me awake in my chair. I stood, stepped over the empty pizza box on the carpet, moved to the window, and parted the blinds. Another gloomy winter night in Gotham.
My apartment was a mess, like so many other things in my life. I returned to my recliner, fumbled the remote from the seat cushion, and turned off the droning TV. I shifted in the chair, but found no way to get comfortable. My lower back ached and my head pounded; sweat dampened my forehead and the back of my neck.
My phone rang.
“Hi Gabe.” It was Dan Mooney, Holly’s brother and my self-appointed nursemaid.
“Dan.”
“We haven’t heard from you in a while. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
There was a pause. I waited for the question I knew was coming.
“Not drinking too much, are you?” he said.
“Haven’t had a drop all week, Dan. Thanks for asking.” I kicked an empty beer can across the carpet.
“That’s great. Listen, there’s big news here.”
“Oh?”
“Your brainy nephew just got awarded a Dean’s Scholarship to Fordham, just like his uncle before him.”
“Give him my best. Tell Gerry I’m proud of him.”
“Yessir,” Dan said. “He tells me he’s going to major in history.”
“Oh, dear god.” I rubbed my temples with my left hand to quell the pounding. “Remind him that at some point he’s going to have to earn an actual living.”
“I already have.”
“In the meantime, tell him I may have some books he can use.”
“Will do. Take care, Gabe.”
“Right.”
I flicked on the reading lamp beside my chair, leaned down, and picked the rest of the empty beer cans up off the rug. Cradling these and my dinner plate, I walked into the kitchen. A fifth of Black Bush on the counter seduced me with its promises, so I found a clean glass and poured in three fingers of liquid gold. As I drank it down, I remembered the letter from New Mexico and grabbed it on the way back to my chair.
The document had come from a law office in Albuquerque, addressed to Dr. Gabriel James McKenna. The cover letter was attached to a New Mexico Probate Court Form 4B-107. The letter read:
This document is to notify you of the recent death of Nellie Mae McKenna. The law firm of Chavez, Lujan, Vigil, and O’Connor is executor of her will. You have been named as the sole beneficiary of this estate. The public reading of the Last Will and Testament will take place in our offices at one-o’clock in the afternoon on April 1st upcoming. We urge you to attend or to have legal representation at this meeting. Please contact our office with any questions.
Good old Aunt Nellie. I’d been her only living relative for more than two decades. I’d neglected her all that time, not a single letter or phone call. The last time I’d seen her was at my wedding; she had traveled all the way to New York for that.
Now she’d named me in her Will. Whatever her bequest, I didn’t deserve it.
I stumbled back to the kitchen and poured more whiskey into my glass. I raised a toast to her memory and swilled it down.
At least now I had a reason to get out of town for a few days. Maybe get some fresh New Mexican air into my lungs.
CHAPTER TWO
Albuquerque, New Mexico: April 1—3:00 p.m.
I’d flown in on the red eye from JFK the night before and taken a room at the El Camino Motor Hotel on Fourth Street, close to where Aunt Nellie had lived. This was my first visit to Albuquerque in almost thirty years. In the old days, I hung out at the university doing research for what would subsequently become The Mystery of the Anasazi, my debut publication. It proved to be my scholarly swan song as well. Albuquerque, by contrast, had kept on growing.
The old Albuquerque could still be seen and felt on the side streets in the residential neighborhoods: the Spanish touches on small adobe homes; turquoise decorative accents highlighting many buildings; the Pueblo Revival style all over the University campus; the sun, and the timeless Sandia Mountains watching over the city each day.
I saw too much sprawl here now. Too many office buildings that could have been anywhere. Too much ‘sameness.’ In the explosive growth of the past thirty years, something had been lost. And it left a bad taste in my mouth.
I stepped out of the law offices of Chavez, Lujan, Vigil, and O’Connor at three in the afternoon and paused on the sidewalk. Donning my Ray-Bans, I looked around, a bit disoriented. Old Aunt Nellie had been loaded and she’d left it all to me: her home and its contents in the North Valley; eight-hundred thousand dollars in cash; stocks and bonds valued in excess of two million dollars; and, forty-eight hundred acres in Catron County with water and mineral rights and a cabin.
Executor Richard O’Connor, in his late-thirties and more than six feet tall, radiated confidence beneath his hundred-dollar haircut. He told me the land alone could be worth more than two million dollars.
I felt overwhelmed. So I walked into a bar at the end of the block.
My ideal saloon is trimmed in dark wood and dimly lit, with beer-soaked sawdust on the floor and framed 8x10 photos of rugged prizefighters covering the walls. The El Tapado was a lot of glass, chrome, and pastels, marinated in an antiseptic cool.
The bar’s only other patron was a dark-haired, overly made-up woman, who wobbled on a barstool as she sipped a tall drink. I settled in two stools down.
“What can I do ya?” the bartender said. There was a touch of Dixie in his voice.
I ordered three fingers of Black Bush, neat. He gave me a generous pour from a brand new fifth. My kind of guy. I nodded, raised the drink to my lips, and downed half of it in a swallow.
Lowering my glass, I checked the mirror behind the bar. A young man entered the premises and swaggered to the stool nearest the door. He flexed his fingers as if his hands were sore, and he looked around. The guy wore a black Stetson Rancher hat and a gray suit that held him tight. There was a bulge under the left side of his coat, but despite the swagger, he looked like a child wearing adult clothes. He grabbed some pretzels from a bowl on the bar and caught my eye in the mirror. He stared, as if he recognized me.
I glanced away and unintentionally made eye contact with the woman two stools down. It was all the encouragement she needed.
“Hi there,” she said, as she turned toward me and crossed her legs. The move flashed me several varicosed inches from her knee to a too-short skirt. Her voice held ten thousand cigarettes in its rasp. Her hair was heavily lacquered. As she smiled, the rest of her face seemed to freeze. The softness had been squeezed out of this woman a long time ago.
“My name’s Angel,
but I can be as naughty as you want.” She coughed out a laugh and then hacked until her face turned red. “You got a name?” she asked, when she could finally breathe again.
“Gabriel. My name is Gabriel.”
“You’re an angel, too? That’s sweet.” She licked her lips. “You know, Gabe, you’re an all right looking guy.”
I forced a smile and tried to sound polite. “Ma’am, I didn’t come here to talk.”
She gave me the finger and turned back to her drink.
“Don’t mind Mary,” the bartender whispered, as he wiped his rag over a circular stain on the bar. He flicked his index finger over his red bulbous nose and leaned toward me. “She used to be a nun.”
I finished my drink and headed for the door. The guy in the Stetson kept his face turned away as I passed behind him. But as I walked outside, I heard the definitive sound of a barstool scrape across the floor.
The El Camino Motor Hotel is owned by the same family that ran the place when I’d stayed in it thirty years ago. Its sand-colored exterior looked almost cheerful in the day’s bright light. My room was colorless but clean and the AC worked. Tossing my suit coat on a chair, I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
I awoke at sunset and stepped out onto my tiny second floor balcony. Across Fourth Street, off to the east, shadows inched up the flanks of the Sandia Mountains. They seemed to be creeping toward me in the shifting light.
Streetlights were on. A white Toyota Camry barreled into the parking lot beneath my room, Latin music blasting from its open windows. A crow swooped over my head and flew into a stand of cottonwoods next to the bodega across the street.
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