Death Song

Chapter Five

Kerney’s house wasn’t ostentatious, but it was clearly the home of a well-heeled man and his family. The rooms were large, the ceilings high, and the art on the walls original and highly collectible.

Over the years Kerney had frequently invited Clayton and his family to visit, but they had accepted only once. At Grace’s urging, they’d phoned and been persuaded to come for dinner on the last evening of a long weekend visit to the state capital and several of the nearby pueblos. Although Kerney had repeatedly invited them to stay at the ranch, Clayton, not wanting to impose, had booked the family into a budget motel on Cerrillos Road.

Patrick had just turned a year old at the time, so it had been a good two and a half years or more since Clayton had stepped over the threshold into Kerney’s house. He put his luggage on the floor and shook Kerney’s outstretched hand.

“Welcome,” Kerney said with a warm smile.

Clayton nodded. “Some weather out there.”

“It’s a humdinger of a storm, and desperately needed.”

Clayton removed his leather jacket and draped it over his luggage. “I hope it heads south to Mescalero.”

Before the two men could say more, Patrick scooted between them, stopped in his tracks and gazed up at his half brother.

“You’re Clayton,” he said emphatically.

“That’s right,” Clayton replied.

Patrick stuck his hand out. “Let’s shake hands.”

“Okay.” Clayton bent down and shook Patrick’s hand. When he rose up, Sara was standing next to Kerney. She stepped forward, gave him a quick hug, and released him.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said.

“And you,” Clayton said. “I am happy to see that you are home and recovering from your wounds. Kerney e-mailed me to say you’d been decorated and promoted. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Sara said politely. “I’m so glad you’re staying with us. Since you were last here, we’ve built a guest wing. It’s totally self-contained with its own private entrance, but I do hope you’ll take your meals with us when you can.”

Sara had spoken hurriedly, as though she was trying hard to put him at ease. Or was it that she wished to avoid any conversation about her wartime experiences in Iraq? Clayton decided it was probably a bit of both.

He smiled. “Since I’m not much of a cook, and meals of cold pizza and fast-food burgers get old real fast, I’ll be glad to eat with you when my schedule allows.”

“Good,” Sara said. “We’re big on stews and soups in this household, so there will always be something for you in the refrigerator.”

Before Clayton could protest that he didn’t need any special treatment, Patrick tugged at his hand.

“I’ll show you where you’re going to stay,” he said with the authority of one who knew exactly where he was going. “It’s got a kitchen, a TV, and two bedrooms. My uncle, aunt, and cousins stay there when they visit. So do my grandma and grandpa.”

“Okay,” Clayton said as he grabbed his luggage and jacket. “Lead on.”

Patrick didn’t move. “Are you really my brother? My dad says you are.”

Clayton dropped down on one knee and looked Patrick squarely in the eye while he continued to hold his hand. “I am your older brother, a Mescalero Apache, and a policeman.”

Patrick nodded in confused agreement. “That’s what my dad told me. He said you were all those things and a father too.”

“That’s true. Wendell and Hannah are my children. They’re a little bit older than you. You’ve only met them a couple of times and you were probably too young to remember. What do you think about that?”

Patrick paused and thought it over. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m too young to be a dad, but someday I’d like to be an older brother.”

Clayton laughed and looked up at Kerney and Sara. “Maybe someday you will be. You’ll have to talk to your parents about that.”

Kerney smiled and slipped his arm around Sara’s waist. “He already has.”

“We’re currently in negotiations,” Sara added. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be ready,” Clayton replied as Patrick led him away.

Conversation at the dinner table stayed away from weighty subjects such as the homicide investigations and Sara’s combat experiences in Iraq. Instead, the three adults and Patrick talked about family matters. Clayton spoke of Grace’s job as director of the tribal child development center, and Wendell’s and Hannah’s progress in school. Sara talked about the visit her parents had made to the ranch after her release from the army hospital, and Patrick went on at some length about his older cousins in Montana whom he’d visited with Kerney last fall.

“Are Wendell and Hannah my cousins?” he asked Clayton.

“No, they are your nephew and niece,” Clayton answered.

“You’re their uncle,” Kerney added.

Patrick cast an unbelieving look at his father and turned his attention to Sara for an explanation. “Is Dad teasing me?”

“No,” Sara said. “You are Wendell and Hannah’s uncle.”

Disbelieving, Patrick shook his head. “I can’t be. Uncles are grown-ups, not kids.”

His pronouncement was met with laughter, and it took some patient explaining before Patrick got comfortable with the idea that he was an uncle. By the end of the discussion, he seemed quite pleased with his newfound status in Clayton’s family.

“But uncles still have to put on their pajamas, brush their teeth, and get ready for bed,” Sara said as she plucked Patrick from his chair and carried him toward his bedroom.

“I’ll pull KP,” Kerney said, pushing back from the table.

Clayton joined in to help clear the table and load the dishwasher. Never having served in the military, he’d wanted to learn more about Sara’s combat experiences, but had been reluctant to ask. As he towel-dried a pot too big for the dishwasher, he asked Kerney if she was doing all right.

“It’s a tough transition to make, especially after getting wounded,” he replied. “But she’s coming along. We’ll be moving to London soon after I retire. She’s being posted there as a military attaché to the U.S. Embassy.”

“For how long?”

Kerney took the dried pot from Clayton and stowed it in the appropriate kitchen cabinet. “Three years. Then she’ll have her full twenty years in for retirement and we’ll come back to New Mexico permanently.”

“That’s a long time to be gone,” Clayton said.

Kerney closed the dishwasher and turned it on. “We’ll return every year during her annual leave, and I’ll come back with Patrick occasionally on shorter trips.”

“Are you looking forward to living in London?”

Kerney folded the dish towel and hung it on the rack. “You know in a way I am, as long as I can get back every now and then for some New Mexico sunshine and a green chili fix.”

Kerney gestured toward the door to the living room, and after Clayton had settled into one of two oversize easy chairs separated by a hand-carved nineteenth-century Spanish colonial chest that served as a coffee table, Kerney offered him a cordial.

“No, thanks. It would only make me sleepy.” Clayton leaned forward in the chair and waited until Kerney sat down across from him. “How involved are you in the investigation?”

“I want it solved, preferably before I retire. Denise Riley’s sister, Helen Muiz, who is also retiring, has been with the department for over thirty-five years. More important, she’s a friend. I don’t want this case hanging over our heads when we both walk out the door for the last time.”

“Has Sergeant Pino been keeping you briefed?”

“She has,” Kerney answered, “right down to her concern that Sheriff Salgado may be sabotaging the investigation while spouting platitudes about giving you his full cooperation. What do you need?”

“I need some fresh eyes to look at everything and everybody again. I need somebody to analyze what’s been done up until now and tell me what we’re missing. I need more people digging deep into Denise and Tim Riley’s lives and their recent activities.”

“I thought your assignment was to investigate the relationship between the Rileys and sheriff’s office personnel to determine if there are any possible suspects.”

“It is.”

“Wouldn’t doing what you suggest mean you’d be stepping on Don Mielke’s toes?”

“It means stomping on them big-time,” Clayton replied, “but with good cause.”

Kerney sat quietly for a moment. Without saying it directly, Clayton was asking him to muscle in on the investigation. He had no quarrel with Clayton’s assessment of the situation. He read it the same way. Salgado was at best a lightweight police administrator; his chief deputy, Leonard Jessup, was no better, and Don Mielke was competent but unreliable.

Ineffective, muddled leadership coupled with a complex, difficult case could only spell disaster. The investigation would most probably bog down and wind up in a cold case file to be trumpeted every few years in the print media as one of Santa Fe’s major unsolved crimes.

Concerned almost to the point of distraction about the well-being of Sara, Kerney had done nothing on the case other than assign staff to work with the S.O. and ask to be kept informed of the progress, or the lack of it.

Had he been shirking his responsibility to Helen Muiz, her family, and the men and women under his command? He didn’t like the way that notion made him feel. Clayton’s face—including his eyes—was composed and watchful. Clearly, he wanted Kerney to step up to the plate.

Kerney leaned forward. “Bring me up to speed on your end of the investigation down in Lincoln County and then we’ll figure out a way to get around Salgado and his underlings.”

Clayton’s expression lightened and he started talking. By the time Sara brought Patrick out to say good night, the two men were deep in conversation. Much later, when Sara came out of the library to say that she was retiring for the night, they were still at it.

They decided their best strategy was to have Paul Hewitt ask for additional assistance from Kerney’s department. Because Hewitt had jurisdiction over the Lincoln County homicide, there was no way Salgado could challenge the appropriateness of the request.

Kerney, in turn, would allocate all available resources of his department to the investigation and assume direct oversight of the joint operation.

“We’re probably going to need to have Paul come up here for a face-to-face with Salgado,” Kerney said. “I’ll put the idea to him when I call him in the morning.”

Clayton nodded, yawned, and stood. “Good deal. Are you and Sara serious about adding to your family?”

Kerney got to his feet. “Absolutely, but it may not happen as quickly as Patrick would like. Right now Sara’s questioning the wisdom of bringing another child into the world.”

“That’s understandable seeing what she has been through,” Clayton said.

“Exactly,” Kerney said. “Do you think, when the time comes, Patrick will enjoy his role as an older brother?”

The carefully worded, pointed question went right to the heart of Clayton’s uneasiness about his relationship with Kerney. He could either respond to it truthfully or sidestep the issue and give a trite answer.

Clayton decided to be candid. “We both know that Patrick is much more ready to be an older brother than I was to be a father’s son. I’m sorry it took me so long to warm to the idea.”

Kerney smiled. “Knowing you as I do, I’m proud to be your father.”

Kerney’s direct expression of his feelings toward him took Clayton by surprise, and for a moment he didn’t reply. Finally he said, “Thank you.”

It came out sounding stiff and lame. Embarrassed, he noted the lateness of the hour, said good night, and retired to the guest suite.

Sunup found Kerney in the horse barn mucking out stalls, laying down fresh hay, and putting out oats for his horse, Hondo; Patrick’s pony, Pablito; Sara’s mare, Ginger; Gipsy, one other gelding; and Comeuppance, Kerney’s stallion at stud. Housed in a separate wing of the barn with his own paddock, Comeuppance sired foals that Kerney and his partner, Riley Burke, raised and trained as cutting horses. It was Riley who did most of the work, but he was away for a few days with his wife and his parents, attending a meeting of the New Mexico Cattle Growers Association in Tucumcari, so the morning chores fell to Kerney.

Last night’s blizzard had fizzled out, leaving behind less than two inches of snow on the ground that would quickly melt under a clear sky and bright sun. Still, any moisture was welcome, and it gave Kerney hope that more might be on the way, although the absence of clouds argued against it.

He was breaking the ice in the water troughs when the sound of a car engine caught his attention. Across the meadow he watched Clayton drive away in his Lincoln County S.O. unit.

Back at the house all was quiet. Sara, who was ranch born and raised, had always fallen asleep easily and was by nature an early riser. But since her discharge from the hospital, her sleeping patterns had been erratic. She would stay awake late into the night and sleep through most of the morning. Or she would fall into a fitful sleep for several hours, tossing and turning, before getting out of bed and dozing on the couch, where Kerney would often find her when he awoke.

Her doctor saw it as a symptom of depression and gave her a prescription that she’d refused to get filled. Sara had firm opinions about not taking drugs unless it was absolutely necessary. But this time Kerney, who understood and appreciated her point of view, truly believed she was wrong not to take the medication.

He went into the library, closed the door, found Paul Hewitt’s cell phone number in his address book, and dialed it. Breathing heavily, Hewitt answered abruptly.

“This is Kevin Kerney. Have I called at a bad time?”

“No, you haven’t,” Hewitt said, pausing for a breath. “I’m riding an exercise bike at my gym and I’m about out of steam. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got a situation up here I think you need to know about.” He filled Hewitt in on the state of affairs with the Santa Fe S.O., laid out the plan he’d hatched with Clayton, and asked Paul if he would be willing to come up to Santa Fe and flex some muscle at Salgado.

“Sounds like you’re in good enough shape to do it,” he added with a chuckle.

“Oh yeah,” Hewitt grunted. “I’m looking forward to the day I kiss my health club membership good-bye, sit in my rocking chair, and grow a nice potbelly.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Kerney replied.

“What time do you want me up there?”

“If you’d get off the phone, we could stop talking and you could start driving,” Kerney said. “While you’re traveling, I’m going over to Salgado’s house and tell him exactly what we want him to do this morning.”

“What is it we want him to do?” Hewitt asked.

Kerney ran it down.

“Sounds like a plan,” Hewitt replied before he abruptly disconnected.

From the living room Kerney heard Sara and Patrick talking in the kitchen. He found them at the table reading a picture book together. Although Pablito the Pony remained one of Patrick’s favorite stories, he’d recently expanded his literary horizons to a newly discovered book about Herman and Poppy, two horses who formed a unique and lasting friendship. Patrick hadn’t quite learned all the words yet, so Sara was reading those parts he’d yet to master.

Kerney poured himself a second cup of coffee, pulled a chair next to Sara, and joined his wife and son at the table.

When they had finished reading the story, Patrick closed the book. “The end,” he said. “I bet Pablito, Herman, and Poppy would all be friends if they knew each other.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Sara said.

“Do you think so, Daddy?”

“They would be best friends,” Kerney replied, turning his attention to Sara, who looked a little more rested and less withdrawn. “Did you sleep well?”

“Maybe Herman and Poppy could live on our ranch with my pony, Pablito,” Patrick said hopefully.

“Herman and Poppy are storybook animals,” Sara said.

“But Pablito was just a storybook pony until Daddy and I went and got him,” Patrick replied with great certainty about his scheme to bring the three horses together.

“The day will come when you’ll be able to ride every horse on the ranch whenever you want,” Kerney said in hopes of putting to rest Patrick’s idea of adding Herman and Poppy to the herd.

Patrick thought hard. “Every horse includes Comeuppance, right?”

“Yes, it does,” Kerney answered slowly as Sara cocked an eye at him. “Your mother and I will decide when that day has arrived.”

“How about this morning?”

“No, not this morning. And not tomorrow morning, either. You’ve got a lot more to learn about horses and riding first, and you’ve got to get bigger, too.”

“How much bigger, Dad? This big?” Patrick held his hand a few inches above his head.

Kerney raised Patrick’s hand a few more inches. “More like this, Patrick. Don’t worry. You’re growing fast.”

Patrick smiled at the happy thought, and Sara chuckled. “You got yourself out of a tight spot there, Kerney.”

Delighted by Sara’s cheerfulness, Kerney asked, “How did you sleep?”

“Well enough,” she replied. “I see that Clayton has already left. How did the two of you get along last night?”

“Much better than I anticipated. I think there’s actually a chance we can be friends.”

“That’s good news.”

Patrick got down from his chair and went to the glass patio doors that looked out on the meadow and the horse barn. “It snowed last night,” he announced excitedly. “We have to make a snowman.”

Kerney walked to Patrick, picked him up, and carried him back to the kitchen table. “I can’t help you, sport. I have to go to work today.”

“That’s okay,” Patrick said, wiggling to be set free. “I can make it myself. Put me down.”

Kerney lowered Patrick and he ran to get dressed.

“Will you be working all day?” Sara asked.

“Yes.” Kerney sat next to her. “Today and every day, if necessary, until we either catch Denise Riley’s killer or I get put out to pasture at the end of the month. Whichever comes first.”

“That’s a relief,” Sara said.

“Meaning exactly what?”

Sara smiled, and for the first time since her return home there was a sparkle in her eyes. “Meaning that I’ve been wanting to tell you for days to just leave me the hell alone until I feel better. Just knowing you’re not going to be around every minute worrying about me has already lifted my spirits considerably.”

“Have I been that much of a nuisance?”

Sara shrugged. “In a good way.”

“But you want me gone,” Kerney added.

“Not permanently.”

“How reassuring.” He leaned close and kissed her. “Perhaps retiring is a bad idea. I would be constantly underfoot.”

“There’s no backing out of that now, Kerney.” Sara poked him lightly on the bicep. “We’re all going to London together. That’s the deal.”

“Yes, it is.” Kerney stood. “So I’d better get cracking.”

By the time Kerney left, Sara and Patrick were busy building a snowman in the meadow, unconcerned that it would be a melted puddle by noon. He drove the ranch road to the highway with his spirits lifted for the first time in weeks, hopeful that Sara had turned the corner and was on her way to a full recovery.

Clayton arrived at the law enforcement center to discover that none of the S.O. honchos were around. When he asked Salgado’s secretary if the sheriff was ready to meet with him, he was told without further explanation that Salgado had been delayed and she didn’t know when he would arrive. Frustrated by the sheriff’s cavalier attitude, Clayton went to his borrowed office, where he found the desk piled high with reports, and started the arduous task of reading through every document. Two hours later he looked up to see a clear-eyed Don Mielke standing in the doorway.

“Come with me,” Mielke said, and without waiting for a response he started down the hallway.

In the briefing room he introduced Clayton to a state police crime lab tech named Stan Steiner, who had been sent over to take saliva samples from all male personnel.

Steiner, a young man with a serious hair-loss problem, a high forehead, and wide-set brown eyes, had the look of a person who’d found his calling among test tubes and microscopes and was completely ill at ease in the alien environment of the sheriff’s department. After a limp handshake and a mumbled greeting, he quickly returned to the task of setting up for the onslaught of male deputies and civilian employees who would soon be lining up to have their mouths swabbed.

“Just so there is no question about evidence contamination, Sheriff Salgado thought it best to have the state police crime lab gather the saliva samples,” Mielke explained as they left the room.

“That’s smart thinking,” Clayton said.

“Also,” Mielke continued, “he decided to order all male correctional officers at the county detention center and all male police dispatchers to give samples. He wants to make absolutely sure every male employee under his command is screened.”

“That’s good,” Clayton said, wondering what Kerney and Paul Hewitt had already done to cause such a quantum leap in Salgado’s procedural IQ. He briefly considered the possibility that Salgado had wised up on his own. He couldn’t dismiss it out of hand, but it seemed highly unlikely.

Mielke stopped in front of Clayton’s office. “The sheriff is hiring a private laboratory to do the DNA testing,” he said, “so that we can get a fast turnaround on the results. The medical investigator will send DNA material from the fetus to the private laboratory for comparison.”

“Excellent,” Clayton said.

“By the way,” Mielke said, “at the sheriff’s request, the state police will cover our patrol calls while you and your team take statements from on-duty personnel. That should give you and your team adequate time without feeling rushed.”

“Tell the sheriff this helps a lot,” Clayton said.

“Then you’re all set,” Mielke turned on his heel and walked away.

Clayton checked the time. Ramona and her two detectives were due to arrive in thirty minutes. He needed to create an interview outline along with questions to be asked before they began talking to all the male deputies, correctional officers, and dispatchers.

While welcome, the sudden and unexpected high level of cooperation from Salgado made the task before him only more daunting. With an inner laugh, he reminded himself that Kerney was apparently doing what he had asked. He looked forward to learning exactly what tactics had been employed.

Late last night, the trucker Ramona Pino had been unable to make direct contact with had called the Santa Fe P.D. and left word that he would be home no later than 7 A.M.

In the morning, Ramona sent her two detectives off to link up with Clayton at the S.O. and drove out to Cañoncito to interview the trucker. On the way, she mentally reviewed the substance of the statement that the man, Roy Mirabal, had given to a deputy. An independent livestock trucker, Mirabal had supposedly been gone from his residence during the time the murder occurred, hauling a load of cattle from Las Vegas to a Roswell feed lot, although no attempt had been made to verify the information. Additionally, Mirabal, who lived alone, said he’d been home the night that Denise Riley had been reported missing, and had been awakened by a man who’d asked him if he’d seen Denise or knew where she might be. According to Mirabal, the man pounding on his front door had identified himself as Denise Riley’s brother-in-law.

Last night, Ramona had called Ruben Muiz and asked him about his late-night conversation with Roy Mirabal. Ruben had confirmed the story, but added a comment that ratcheted Ramona’s interest in Mirabal up a few notches. Ruben said that after learning that Denise was missing, Mirabal had asked if she’d run off. Ramona was eager to find out why Mirabal asked such a intriguing question.

She pulled to a stop next to an older-model tractor trailer and knocked on the door of a rather run-down double-wide mounted on concrete blocks. Mirabal opened up and inspected Ramona’s police credentials before stepping aside to let her enter.

In his late fifties, he had a round face, a heavy two-day beard, and a trucker’s potbelly that spilled over a large fake rodeo belt buckle. He wore a badly wrinkled Western shirt, blue jeans, and scuffed steel-toe work boots.

The inside of the double-wide looked no better than the outside. Cheap floor-to-ceiling wood laminate paneling darkened the front room, and a long sectional couch with tattered armrests positioned in front of a large-screen television dominated the space. Stretched out on an overstuffed easy chair covered in a dull gray throw was the largest domestic cat Ramona had seen in a very long time. It raised its head, cast a lazy look in Ramona’s direction, and promptly lost interest. From somewhere inside the trailer came the smell of a litter box that desperately needed emptying.

Ramona thanked Mirabal for meeting with her. “Have you been driving all night?” she asked in an attempt to put him at ease.

“No,” Mirabal replied. “I took a rest break in Lubbock. Your message said you had some questions for me about the Rileys.”

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Ramona replied with a smile. “But first could you show me your trip paperwork for the load you hauled during the time Denise Riley was murdered?”

Mirabal licked his upper teeth with his tongue and looked slightly confused. “I don’t know exactly when she was murdered. The deputy who came here just asked if I’d been home two or three days ago—I don’t remember the exact date—and I told him no, I’d been on a run to a Roswell feedlot, and from there I picked up a load of cows in West Texas for delivery to a rancher down in Fort Sumner. I was gone at least thirty-six hours.”

Ramona nodded understandingly. “I’m sure there isn’t a problem, Mr. Mirabal. If I can just take a look at your paperwork, we can clear this up right away.”

Mirabal reached for a briefcase on the couch, snapped it open, pulled out a clipboard, and gave it to Ramona. “Look all you want,” he said.

A quick scan of the documents confirmed Mirabal’s story, but Ramona’s cop instincts weren’t completely satisfied. Paperwork could easily be forged. Mirabal could have deliberately cast an aspersion on Denise to deflect suspicion from himself. Ramona decided to contact the feedlot operator and the rancher to make sure his story checked out 100 percent. She jotted down names and phone numbers before returning the clipboard to Mirabal.

“You gonna check up on me?” Mirabal asked.

“Yes, and that should take care of it, if you’re telling the truth,” she said. “Except I do have one more question.”

“What that?”

“When Mr. Muiz came to your door looking for Denise, you asked him if she’d run off.”

“Yeah, I remember saying that.”

“I’m wondering why you weren’t surprised to learn that Denise had gone missing.”

Mirabal shrugged. “I can’t say I know anything for sure. It was just some things I saw and heard.”

Ramona gestured at the couch. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me about it.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Mirabal hoisted the cat off the easy chair, dumped it on the carpet, and plopped down. The cat arched its back, stretched, looked insulted, and padded away to the kitchen.

Ramona took a cautious seat on the edge of a couch cushion. “What exactly did you see and hear?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t work regular hours; no long-haul trucker does. So I’m home at different times, day and night. With Riley a deputy sheriff and all, his schedule would change from days to swing to nights. Sometimes I’d be here when he was working graveyard or swing shift and I’d see Denise walking down her driveway at night. I’d hear a car engine on the country road, see headlights. When the wind was right, I’d hear voices. Then the car would drive away and an hour or two later come back. Before you know it, there would be Denise walking back up the driveway to her house.”

“You could tell it was Denise?” Ramona asked.

“On moonlit nights I could. Other times I just figured it had to be her. When I could hear voices, it was her voice for sure. The other voice was a man’s.”

“Did you hear what was said?” Ramona asked.

Mirabal shook his head. “Not really. Sometimes they would laugh, or I’d catch a word to two on the wind.”

“Did you ever see the man, see the vehicle?”

“Nope.”

“How often did Denise walk down the lane to the county road at night?”

“I can’t say for sure, because I’d be gone a good deal of the time. But I do know she was meeting somebody who she didn’t want visiting her at home and didn’t want to be seen with, so I’m thinking she’s probably screwing around with a guy her husband knew. Least ways, that’s the way I saw it.”

“That makes sense. When was the last time you saw Denise walking down the lane?”

“Three nights before her brother-in-law came pounding on my door. I saw the beam of her flashlight from my kitchen window as she walked down her driveway. Five minutes later, I saw her coming back toward her double-wide.”

“Can you be sure it was Denise?”

“No, but who else would it be? Anyway, she was gone and back in a hurry, which was real unusual.”

“As far as you know, whenever she met somebody at the end of her driveway it was always at night,” Ramona said. “Is that correct?”

“Yeah, if you put it that way. I know she worked during the day. But I can’t tell you where she went when she drove away in her car by herself.”

“Did you ever visit socially with the Rileys?”

“Never did. Every now and then, I’d see them at the supermarket or the gas station and we’d say howdy and spend a few minutes passing the time of day. When they were together they seemed happy enough. I never saw them arguing or fighting.”

“Did you ever talk to Riley about his wife’s nocturnal behavior?”

“I don’t butt into other people’s business. Like I said, I had my suspicions, but that’s all. Besides, they weren’t real friendly neighbors. Can’t say that I’m very friendly either.”

“Was there any hostility between you and the Rileys?”

Mirabal shook his head. “Nope.”

Ramona went over Mirabal’s story with him again to jog his memory in case he’d forgotten something. The only new bit of information he recalled was that he’d started noticing Denise’s late-night rendezvous behavior about two years ago.

She thanked Mirabal for his time, gave him her business card, and left Cañoncito. By the time she reached the sheriff’s office, she’d talked by cell phone to the rancher and the feedlot operator. Not surprisingly, Mirabal’s alibi had held up.

Inside the S.O., Ramona swung by the regional dispatch center and asked for the whereabouts of Deputy John Quintana, the officer who’d initially interviewed Roy Mirabal. The supervisor, Joanne Bustos, a tiny, middle-aged woman who bordered on being anorexic, told her that Quintana was in the building meeting with the lieutenant in charge of training and planning.

“How long has Quintana been with the S.O.?” Ramona asked.

“Less that six months.” Joanne opened the door to the hallway and stepped outside. Ramona followed.

“He’s a cadet,” Joanne continued, “so he hasn’t been to the law enforcement academy yet. I think he’s scheduled to start with the next class.”

Ramona had known Joanne Bustos from the day she’d been hired as a night dispatcher back when the P.D. had its own separate communication center. She’d always been a good source of back-channel information and gossip.

“What else do you know about him?” she asked.

Although the hallway was empty, Joanne lowered her voice. “He’s struggling on the job. He gets lost a lot when he’s sent out on calls, still has trouble remembering his ten-codes, and from what I hear his paperwork and reports are totally subpar.”

“So why is he still wearing a shield and carrying a weapon?”

“He’s Sheriff Salgado’s nephew. I understand his patrol supervisor is hoping and praying that he’ll flunk out of the academy.”

“Ah,” Ramona said. “Enough said. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Not at all surprised by Joanne’s revelation about Deputy Quintana, and encouraged by what Roy Mirabal had told her about Denise Riley, Ramona left Bustos and went in search of Clayton Istee.

After several hours spent interviewing deputies about their relationships with Tim and Denise Riley, Clayton was beginning to think that there was no logical, earthly reason the couple had been murdered. Although the Rileys pretty much kept to themselves, they were well liked, and Tim was considered by his peers to be one of the best—if not the best—patrol officer on the force.

None of the men seemed resistant to questions or defensive, and all seemed equally upset about the murders. Although it was too soon to tell for sure, Clayton wondered if the one man in the department who knew the most about Tim and Denise Riley’s personal life might be Don Mielke.

The high point of his morning came when Ramona Pino arrived and briefed him on the substance of her interview with Roy Mirabal. The downside was not having knowledge of Denise’s nighttime assignations sooner. Now everyone along the stretch of county road to the Rileys’ double-wide would have to be interviewed again, this time to see if they could help ID the mystery driver or provide a description of the vehicle.

It was a possible major lead in the investigation that had remained uncovered due to the incompetence of a cadet deputy and the stupidity of a supervisor who’d had allowed an untrained rookie to conduct a major felony case interview.

Clayton shared his frustration with Mielke, who shrugged it off as an unfortunate event that had occurred in the rush to gather information as quickly as possible after Denise’s body had been found.

Clayton couldn’t believe Mielke’s spin on the event, but given how big-time screwups were being managed at every level of government, he wondered if both Deputy Quintana and the yet-to-be-named supervisor would be commended and promoted instead of censured and sacked.

Noon came and went with no sign of Sheriff Salgado, who’d blown off his early morning appointment with Clayton and still had not yet made an appearance at the office. Furthermore, Clayton hadn’t seen or heard from Kerney or Sheriff Hewitt. He wondered if his assumption that they had already put the squeeze on Salgado was correct.

He was reviewing interview summaries with Ramona Pino when Detective Matt Chacon from the SFPD showed up carting a box containing the computers secured from the Riley residence along with the software and zip drives uncovered in a subsequent search of the double-wide.

Chacon put the box on the table and gave the two sergeants a wan smile. “Here’s everything Major Mielke wanted returned to evidence,” he said. “The bad news is that after an exhaustive examination I’ve found nothing useful at all. But it confirmed my suspicion that whoever erased the hard drives was no amateur.”

“Is that it?” Ramona asked, noting that Matt’s smile telegraphed he had more to tell. She nodded at a straight-back office chair.

Chacon sat, took the toothpick out of the corner of his mouth, and said, “I uncovered some interesting, perplexing information. After I located Denise and Tim Riley’s e-mail, cell phone, and landline telephone accounts, I served a court order to access them. The cell phone and e-mail accounts had been almost completely emptied. In fact, the only calls on file consisted of the unsuccessful half a dozen or so attempts Tim Riley made to reach his wife on the night he was murdered.”

Clayton, who’d been half-listening while working on an updated investigators assignment schedule, gave Matt Chacon his full attention. “What do you mean, the accounts had been emptied?” he asked.

“Except for Tim Riley’s few failed attempts to call home, the records had been purged,” Matt reiterated, “and it was done a few hours after Denise was murdered.”

“Purged by who?” Ramona asked.

Matt shrugged. “The service providers claim it was a security breach and they assure me that the information didn’t get dumped accidentally or on purpose by their personnel. But I have no way to verify if they’re telling the truth. If they are leveling with me, that leaves two possibilities. Either a world-class hacker broke into their systems, which I seriously doubt, or we’re dealing with something that’s far beyond our reach.”

“Why not a hacker?” Ramona asked. “Didn’t you initially think that a computer geek or a techie could have wiped the Rileys’ computers clean?”

“And what exactly is it that is far beyond our reach?” Clayton demanded.

Matt turned to Ramona. “I did say it could be a hacker, but the security specialists for the Internet provider and the cell phone companies tell me that whoever penetrated their firewalls and erased the e-mail and call records also found and scoured redundancy files that backed up the data. Furthermore, it was a surgical strike that targeted only the Rileys’ records. Not only that, all the accounts were accessed and cleansed simultaneously.”

He glanced at Clayton. “Which gets to your question. I’m not the world’s greatest expert, but it doesn’t seem likely that one individual, even a brilliant one, could do all that so quickly after the Rileys’ deaths. If it was a lone hacker, it had to have been planned well in advance.”

Clayton leaned back and studied Chacon. “So take a guess and tell me what you think we are dealing with here.”

Matt twisted his toothpick between his thumb and forefinger before responding. “An organization with ultrahigh-tech computer savvy and megabucks would be my guess. That could mean any number of multinational corporations or government agencies, foreign or domestic. I know that doesn’t help much.”

“Can we track the computer break-ins back to the source?” Ramona asked.

“Maybe,” Matt replied, “but not without outside help and even then it could take months. The FBI is investigating.”

“It could be years before they tell us anything,” Clayton said, shaking his head in dismay. As a former tribal police officer, he’d experienced firsthand uppity federal agents who loved keeping local cops in the dark.

“This raises some big questions about our victims,” Ramona said. “What did Tim and Denise Riley know—or do—that got them killed?”

“And who wants to keep it secret?” Clayton added.

“Exactly,” Ramona said.

Clayton pawed through the papers on the desk. “Before I left Carrizozo, I assigned a deputy to do a deep background check on Tim Riley. Has Mielke started one on Denise?”

Ramona flipped through the assignment sheet on her clipboard. “No.”

“What do we know about her?”

Before Ramona could answer, Mielke stepped into the office. He gave Matt Chacon a brief nod and looked directly at Clayton and Ramona.

“Chief Kerney and Sheriff Hewitt are with Sheriff Salgado in his conference room, and they’d like the three of us to join them,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Clayton replied, stifling a smile as he pushed back his chair. “Has anyone interviewed Denise Riley’s employer?”

“The insurance agent was questioned,” Mielke replied, “and was eliminated as a suspect. He’s gay and lives with his longtime partner. His parents have been visiting from Buffalo for the past week. He has an airtight alibi. You should have the report.”

Clayton said, “I mean did anyone interview the insurance agent in depth about Denise?”

“Not yet,” Mielke said.

“Matt,” Ramona said, “after you log in the evidence with the S.O., go have a chat with the man about Denise.”

Chacon nodded, picked up the box of computer evidence, stepped around Mielke, and left.

“Did Chacon find anything useful on the computers?” Mielke asked.

“Not on the computers,” Ramona said.

Mielke turned his attention to Clayton. “What does that mean?”

Clayton gave the major a broad, reassuring smile. “Detective Chacon has made some helpful discoveries. I’ll brief you after our meeting with the brass. What’s that all about?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Mielke replied as he stepped into the hallway behind Ramona. “Did you know that Sheriff Hewitt was coming up here?”

“I haven’t talked to my boss since I left Lincoln County,” Clayton said as he followed along.

“Uh-huh,” Mielke grunted, shooting Clayton a sour look.

The meeting was short and sweet. Wearing his game face, Salgado announced that effective immediately Chief Kerney was officially in charge of all aspects of the homicide investigation. Santa Fe S.O. and P.D. supervisory personnel assigned to the case would report directly to him. Sheriff Hewitt would continue to head up the Lincoln County investigation and work cooperatively with Kerney and Salgado. Clayton would stay on in Santa Fe as a lead investigator, and additional officers and resources would be made available from the Santa Fe P.D.

“This task force is the best way to get the job done,” Salgado said in his closing remarks. “I want everybody behind it one hundred percent.”

Mielke looked like he was seething inside, and Salgado’s chief deputy, Leonard Jessup, had a constipated expression. The two other senior sheriff’s deputies in attendance, both captains, seemed completely nonplussed. The meeting ended with Kerney calling for a supervisory briefing at 1600 hours.

“We’ll want to know everything you’ve got,” he said, glancing from Mielke to Clayton to Ramona. “Get ready for tough questions if we don’t like what we hear, and get ready for some reshuffling if we don’t like the way things have been run.”

Paul Hewitt nodded in agreement to emphasize the threat.

Outside the conference room Mielke scurried to his office with his two captains and quickly closed the door.

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” Ramona said as she and Clayton passed by. “Did we just witness a palace coup?”

“I think it was more like an abdication,” Clayton replied. He smiled at Salgado’s secretary, who shot him a decidedly unfriendly look in return.

Ramona caught the exchange. “But certainly not a voluntary one based on the spiteful once-over you just got from Salgado’s secretary,” she whispered. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

Clayton gave Ramona a sideways glance but kept a straight face. “Me? Like you, I’m just a lowly sergeant.” Politely he stood aside to allow Ramona to enter his temporary office.

“Ah, I see,” Ramona said as she walked through the doorway. “First you give Mielke a non-answer about whether or not you knew Hewitt was in Santa Fe and now I get one about Salgado’s abdication. Is that any way to trust your partner?”

“Are we partners?” Clayton asked with a smile, quickly warming to the idea.

“For the duration,” Ramona said.

“Then close the door and I’ll tell you what’s up.”