Hermit_s Peak

"We did something wrong."

Bernardo shrugged.

"Just keep me posted on what your old man and the other cops are doing with the case."

"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

Orlando shook his head.

"You can't be serious."

"I am. We're in this together."

"What good would it do?"

"Maybe keep our asses out of prison. We don't need any surprises."

Orlando studied Bernardo suspiciously.

"Can you be connected to the girl in any way?"

"Chill, boto. I met her one time, that's all. I already told you that."

Orlando thought back to the night they'd picked her up. He'd been too drunk to remember anything dearly, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Bernardo's version of how he talked Luiza into the truck was a little screwy.

"You're sure?"

"Why would I lie about that?" Bernardo replied.

Orlando picked up his beer, clenched the bottle until his first turned white, and took a swallow.

"Well?"

"I'll see what I can find out."

"That's better," Bernardo said, reaching for his brew.

"Relax, dude. Drink up."

"Relax, shit. I feel like puking. I never wanted her dead."

"Shit happens," Bernardo said.

"It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Not really. I can't make it go away. Neither can you.

Besides, lots of murders never get solved."

"You're cold, Bernardo."

"I just want to keep everything cool."

"Including me?"

"I worry about you."

Orlando made a face and stood up.

"I can live with it."

Bernardo chuckled.

"What?" Orlando snapped.

"Can you?"

"I have for a year. Give me a ride home."

"It's early. Drink another beer."

"I'll walk."

Bernardo slapped his empty bottle on the table and got to his feet.

"I'll take you home, maw. You're no fun to drink with anymore, anyway."

Bernardo pulled into Orlando's driveway. The living room curtains were open and a flickering television glowed through the window.

Orlando had kept his head turned away on the drive home, gazing out the passenger window of the car, saying nothing.

Bernardo killed the engine.

"You got something on your mind, bro?" he asked.

"Everything's cool," Orlando replied as he opened the door.

Bernardo placed his hand on Orlando's arm.

"You sure?"

Orlando peeled Bernardo's fingers off his arm.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing. We just have to be straight with each other, that's all."

Orlando got out of the car.

"You want straight? I'll give you straight. I don't want to see you or talk about this shit again."

"Mano." Bernardo leaned across the passenger seat to look at Orlando.

"What?"

"You call me if you learn anything."

"Yeah."

"I mean it."

Orlando nodded sharply and walked toward the house.

Bernardo drove away, thinking he'd made a mistake asking Orlando to check out what the cops were doing with the investigation. It had just shaken him up and bummed him out. He wondered if Orlando might crack under the strain.

He thought back to the night of the murder. They'd been cruising together in his grandfather's truck, drinking beers, and shooting the shit, both with a major buzz going, when Bernardo had spotted Luiza walking along the road from Ojitos Frios.

It had been Bernardo's idea to pick her up and screw her. Orlando was too drunk to argue, too drunk to care.

He passed out just before Bernardo turned the truck around and went back to get her. He pulled up alongside her with his pistol in hand, and told her if she didn't get in he'd kill her. She didn't resist or argue.

After finding a secluded spot away from the road, Bernardo waited until Orlando came to and gave him first crack at Luiza. Still drunk, it didn't take him long to finish, and when he crawled away to puke his guts out, Bernardo took his turn.

Luiza held herself rigid while he fucked her, eyes filled with hate, and Bernardo knew he was going to kill her. When it was over, he pinned her to the ground and smashed her skull with a rock.

He wrapped her body in a tarp and went to Orlando, who was sitting under a tree, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"You killed her," Orlando said.

"She was going to turn us in for rape."

"You said she wanted to get it on with us."

"She changed her mind."

"What are we going to do?"

"I'll take care of it," Bernardo said.

And he did. After taking Orlando home, he returned, cut up the corpse like he was butchering a steer, and hid part of the body on the mesa and the rest in an arroyo twenty miles away. Then he washed out the bed of the truck and got home before anyone was up.

Bernardo coasted to a stop in front of his parents' house. He stayed in the car and lit a cigarette. His parents wouldn't let him smoke inside.

He'd lied to Orlando about not knowing Luiza. He'd met her when she came up from Mexico to work as a housekeeper at the Box Z Ranch that bordered his grandfather's new spread.

Luiza had been a complete turn-on: a great looking piece of ass, with a right body, full tits, a small waist, long black hair, and shy dark eyes. He put some moves on her that Luiza had brushed off, treating him like some little kid.

When she changed jobs and started working at the Horse Canyon Ranch, Bernardo couldn't stop thinking about her. He would see her occasionally, but she'd have nothing to do with him. Once he'd offered her a ride when she was walking along the county road. But she just blew him off and kept walking, making him feel like a fool. After that, Bernardo started to think of ways to teach the dick-teasing bitch a lesson.

Raping and killing Luiza had been a spur of the moment thing, but it opened up a whole new world for Bernardo. If his luck held and the cops couldn't identify Luiza's remains, the next time he would plan things more carefully. He had just the girl picked out. The image of Jessica Varela, the gringo chick with the Spanish name who worked at the hardware store, popped into his mind, and a pleasant feeling of anticipation ran through him.

He pushed the image aside and thought about Orlando. He could ruin everything, and Bernardo wasn't about to let that happen. He would have to keep an eye on him.

He crushed out the cigarette in the ashtray, got out of the car, and went into the house.

In his room, Orlando undressed and got into bed, trying to convince himself that Bernardo was right and there was nothing to worry about.

But ever since the rape and murder, Orlando knew he would be caught and sent to prison-maybe even executed.

For a year he'd kept trying to pretend it never happened.

But talking with Bernardo had brought it all back, like a hammer inside his head.

It had been Bernardo's idea to see if Luiza wanted to get it on. If Orlando hadn't been drunk, he never would have done it. But a lame excuse didn't count for shit.

What could he say? That he didn't mean for it to happen?

That he never wanted to see her hurt or killed?

Lame.

He'd thought a lot about suicide, but he didn't have the balls for it.

Time and again, he'd thought about telling his father, and he didn't have the balls for that, either. If he could hold on for just a little more than a year, he would have his degree and then he could split.

Get away from it all and go somewhere new. Put this shit behind him.

Downstairs in the living room, his father was asleep on the couch with the television on. His briefcase sat on the floor next to the kitchen table. Orlando thought about sneaking down to look through it.

Instead, he started to cry softly into his pillow.

After an uneasy night with little sleep, Kerney kicked off the bed covers, pulled on his jeans, stood up, and stumbled over Shoe in the dark. The dog yelped and scurried out of the bedroom. Kerney found him hiding under the kitchen table.

He glanced at the pet cage he'd bought the night before. With Sara gone he didn't like the idea of sending Shoe away; it would just make the place feel all the more empty. He squelched the thought before it turned into a gloomy feeling and made himself a bowl of instant oatmeal.

By the time he was out of the shower and dressed, Kerney had decided to handle the mesa murder case himself, at least for a few days. It would keep the investigation from stalling, and give him something to think about besides Sara's abrupt departure.

He made some phone calls and found an air freight company that could ship Shoe from Santa Fe and deliver him to the treatment center where Wanda Knox and her son resided. Then he called the treatment center in California and confirmed with a staff member that Shoe would be welcomed at the facility.

He asked the woman to tell Lane Knox his dog would be there sometime during the day, packed Shoe's sneaker and all the pet necessities he'd bought in the cage, leashed the dog, put him in his unit, and drove to the air freight office, where Kerney paid the charges and the freight agent put Shoe in the cage. Shoe immediately started scratching to get out. He gave Kerney a sad look as the freight agent carried him away.

Kerney hesitated, almost called the man back, then turned and walked out of the building, knowing he would miss that dog.

At his office, he pulled the mesa murder file and read it through in detail. Melody Jordan had updated her report with the findings from her meeting with Dr.

Lawrence. Lawrence's assessment wasn't hard evidence, but narrowing the possibility that the murder victim might be either a Central American or Mexican national could prove helpful.

The work Prank Houge had done before being pulled off the case was inconclusive. None of the three missing women who matched the victim's age had suffered an old fracture to the left arm, nor had any of the others from the remaining open cases.

Kerney skimmed the missing persons printout from the National Crime Information Center, came up empty on any matches, and decided it was time to get out and do some old-fashioned legwork. It would also give him a chance to meet some of his new neighbors.

His ride across the mesa with Dale replayed through his mind as he drove out of Santa Fe. It was a beautiful piece of land Erma Fergurson had left to him. He tried to visualize it through Erma's artistic eye.

He could see the crowns of the tall ponderosas in the heavy timber at the rim of the mesa with the stark face of Elk Mountain splitting the horizon, and the rich rangeland, thick with grasses bent by the weight of heavy seeds sparkling like pale white jewels in the breeze.

He wondered where Erma had gone with her brushes and her canvas to paint, and how many landscapes she'd produced during her summer retreats on the mesa. She'd left one of her paintings to him, but he hadn't seen it, and wouldn't until he had a chance to get down to Las Cruces. He knew he would love it. Maybe it would be a landscape of the mesa.

The pessimistic thought that he wasn't going to be able to keep all the land washed over him. He slapped his hand hard against the steering wheel to drive the thought away.

Gabe reviewed the background checks on Nestor Barela and his family that had been requested by Chief Kerney.

On paper Nestor, his three sons, their wives, and the grandchildren were all law-abiding citizens with no criminal records. Nestor had served in World War II as a tank commander and his oldest son, Roque, had been in Vietnam with the Ordnance Corps.

Nestor's three sons, Roque, Lalo, and Elias, all had clean slates.

Roque, the oldest, had retired from the state highway department and now ran the family ranch.

Lalo, the middle son, was a medical technologist at the local hospital, and Elias worked as an independent plumbing contractor.

Lalo's boy, Fermin, was a career marine assigned to embassy duty in the Philippines. The other grandchildren consisted of two boys-Bernardo and Gerald-offspring of Nestor's youngest son Elias, and Roque's three girls, who were still in high school. Both Gerald and Bernardo lived at home.

Gerald worked in the business office at a regional vocational school and was engaged to be married in June. Bernardo worked with his Uncle Roque on the family ranch south of Las Vegas that Nestor had bought with part of the proceeds from the sale of Horse Canyon.

Nestor had one great-grandchild, a two-year-old girl born out of wedlock to Bernardo and his former high school girlfriend, who lived in Denver. Under a court order, Bernardo paid child support of three hundred dollars a month, and his payments were up to date.

Nestor's wife had died several years before he'd sold Horse Canyon.

He'd built the family compound on the Gallinas River to have his sons, their wives, and the grandchildren close to him, deeding a house and five acres to each of his boys, and keeping one parcel and a home for himself.

Gabe approved of Nestor's old-fashioned yet modern scheme to keep his extended family together. Too many Hispanic families had scattered as land changed hands and children moved away.

None of the information about the Barelas surprised Gabe. He'd grown up with Elias Barela and knew the family fairly well.

Nestor's truck was parked in front of his house, but there wasn't an answer when Gabe knocked at the door.

He turned the corner of the house, saw three men leading saddled horses from the barn to a stock trailer, and walked down to meet them. When he got close, he recognized Nestor, Roque, and Bernardo.

He nodded a greeting to Bernardo.

"Did you have a good time with Orlando last night?"

"Yeah, we drank a few beers and hung out for a while."

Gabe shook Roque's hand.

"Working hard, Roque?"

Roque smiled.

"Always. My father treats us like peons."

Nestor laughed.

"You tell such stories, Roque." He eyed Gabe's civilian attire.

"What brings the state police to see us?"

"To ask a few questions. Did you know Carl Boaz?"

"I didn't even know his name until I read it in the paper," Nestor said.

"How about you?" Gabe asked Roque.

"I knew him by sight," Roque replied.

"But not to talk to."

"How about Rudy Espinoza?"

"We all knew Rudy," Roque said.

"He was nothing but trouble."

"Do not speak unkindly of the dead," Nestor said.

"I heard a rumor that you shot him," Roque said, "for cutting wood and speeding."

"Did Rudy have your permission to enter the Fergurson property?" Gabe asked, sidestepping the remark.

"Never," Nestor answered.

"I give no one permission to go on that land."

Gabe turned to Bernardo.

"Did you ever see him driving a three-quarter-ton dark blue Chevy long bed?"

"If I did, I don't remember it. We don't spend much time at the mesa."

"That's right," Roque added.

"You said Rudy was trouble. Did he cause you any?"

Roque shook his head, "Not personally."

"A gringo came here on Sunday," Nestor said.

"A tall man with a limp. I don't remember his name. He was with another man in a pickup truck. He wanted to buy out my lease on the Fergurson property. He asked about Boaz."

Gabe knew of the chief's visit to Barela and decided to keep it to himself.

"Did he ask for Boaz by name?"

"No," Nestor said.

"Did either Boaz or Rudy ever give you cause to be suspicious?"

"Rudy just drank a lot," Bernardo said.

"He couldn't keep a job," Roque added.

"That's it?"

"Rumors," Roque said.

"Rumors?"

"That he was maybe breaking into some of the summer homes in the valley," Roque said.

"Who told you this?"

"I don't know where I heard it."

"Do you think he killed the woman you found on the mesa?" Bernardo asked.

"I don't know," Gabe replied. Bernardo's eager tone of voice struck him as somewhat odd.

"What do you think?"

Bernardo shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, if he was so bad, why not?"

"That's an interesting theory. Do you know who Rudy hung out with?"

"Not me," Bernardo said.

Both Roque and Nestor echoed Bernardo's comment.

"But I heard he got fired from Horse Canyon Ranch," Roque added.

"When?"

"About a year ago. He worked there a short time."

"Do you know why he got canned?"

"I have no idea. Emmet Griffin, the ranch manager, can tell you."

"Thanks," Gabe said. He shook hands with the men and walked up the gentle incline toward the compound.

Nestor waited until Gabe was out of earshot before turning to Bernardo.

"Unsaddle my horse, Jito, and put him in the pasture."

"You're not going to the ranch with us?" Roque asked.

"No, I'm going to the mesa."

"What for?" Bernardo asked.

"To see for myself what damage has been done."

"You shouldn't go alone," Roque said.

Nestor looked sharply at his son. His reaction brought a quick, acquiescent nod from Roque. His gaze moved to Bernardo, and he raised his chin to point at the trailer containing the three mounts.

"Jito, get my horse and put him back in the pasture."

Bernardo moved off.

"Well, be home before dark," Roque said, still unable to mask his concern over Nestor's plan to go to the mesa by himself.

"Stop always worrying about me, Roque. You make me feel old, and I am not ready to welcome such a judgment."

He patted his son on the arm.

"I'll be back before you get home."

On the road through Ojitos Frios, Nestor Barela found himself behind a slow-moving white van with a state government license plate. There were few places safe to pass on the dirt road, but he did so when the driver of the van opened the window and waved him around. He waved back at the woman and the passengers as he drove by. Soon the vehicle was out of sight in his rearview mirror.

He grunted in annoyance as he approached the old cabin. The gate to the property stood open and the scrap wood that had been nailed over the cabin door had been pulled off. He wondered if the police had entered the old building searching for clues.

Before he could take a look the white van appeared on the road. It slowed, turned, rattled over the cattle guard, and stopped next to his truck. Nestor approached the woman behind the wheel. Painted on the side of the vehicle was the logo of the state university.

"This land is posted," he said to the woman. The six passengers with her all looked very young.

"No trespassing."

"I have the owner's permission," Ruth Pino said.

"The owner is dead," Nestor replied.

"The new owner is very much alive," Ruth replied, studying the man. He was about her father's age, perhaps a few years older, and his voice conveyed the tone of a man who expected to be obeyed.

"Who is the new owner?"

"Kevin Kerney. He inherited the property from Erma Pergurson."

The name registered with Nestor.

"Does he walk with a limp?"

"Yes, he does."

"And you are sure he is the owner?"

"I doubt that Mr. Kerney would lie to me," Ruth replied.

"He is the deputy chief of the state police.

Would you mind telling me who you are?"

"I hold the lease on this property," Nestor said, concealing his surprise about Kerney and his profession.

Why had the man not told him who he was?

"Then you must be Nestor Barela," Ruth said.

"I am."

"You can't deny us entry," Ruth noted.

"Why are you here?"

"Fieldwork, Mr. Barela. There is a very rare plant on this land, and it must be protected."

"What kind of plant?" Nestor asked.

"A cactus," Ruth said. She described it in detail.

"I have seen it."

Ruth's eyes widened in expectation.

"You must show us where."

"I have no time to hunt for plants," Nestor said.

"Where did you find this cactus?"

"At the wood poaching site," Ruth answered, "on the west side of the mesa."

"How much timber was taken?"

Ruth shook her head sadly.

"Par too much."

"I will go with you," Nestor said.

"I wish to see what has been done."

Ruth smiled.

"We'll follow you."

It was midmorning when Susie Hayes took Sara's call in her Tucson office. After listening to Sara, Susie decided to take the rest of the day off and spend it with her friend. She had never heard Sara sound so pensive.

She asked where Sara was calling from, gave her directions to her townhouse, and beat her home by twenty minutes. When the doorbell rang she opened it to find Sara smiling apologetically.

Susie gave her a hug and pulled her inside.

"You look wiped out, girl. Did you drive straight through?"

Sara nodded.

"Thanks for putting up with me."

She laughed and took Sara into the living room.

"I owe you a bushel full of favors. I wouldn't have made it through the academy if it hadn't been for you always telling me to finish what I started."

"Maybe I didn't do you a favor."

Situated in the foothills, Susie's townhouse had excel 5 lent views of the mountains to the east and the city below. She got Sara settled on the couch that faced a large picture window and sat next to her.

"Yes, you did. Colonel."

Sara looked surprised.

"You heard about that?"

"I may have left active duty, but I'm still tied into the grapevine.

You did a hell of a job on the DMZ. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Now, tell me about this cop you're in love with."

" I never said anything about being in love."

Susie stifled a laugh with her hand.

"What?" Sara demanded.

"Oh, do you talk about having a baby with every man you sleep with?"

Sara looked at her friend. Susie's gray eyes smiled back at her.

"I like him a lot," Sara said. It sounded defensive.

Susie ran her hand through her chestnut hair, put her feet on the cushions, and wrapped her arms around her knees.

"Let's have it, Sara, and I mean full disclosure.

We've got all day, tonight, and tomorrow, if needed."

Gabe stopped by the county sheriff's office and got fresh crime statistics for the first quarter of the new year.

Thefts and break-ins in San Geronimo had continued to rise, and none had been cleared. Somebody was having a hell of a lot of success ripping people off in the valley.

At home Gabe worked the phone. Connecting the dots between Rudy Espinoza and Joaquin Santistevan proved more difficult than he'd expected. He'd assumed that the phone company would be able to verify a call from the wood lot to Angie Romero's residence about the time Gabe had left, but no such call was made.

Gabe tried the cellular providers, hoping either Rudy orjoaquin were customers with one of the companies.

He came up empty with the local companies, worked the out-of-town providers, and struck out again.

The exercise took him the better part of the morning.

He left the house wondering how in the helljoaquin had gotten in touch with Rudy. Without confirmation that Joaquin had ripped Espinoza, Gabe didn't want to make any premature moves.

He decided to stake out Buena Vista Lumber and Supply to see if Joaquin left the office for lunch. If so, he would do a little snooping and talk to the employees.

He found a good spot where he wouldn't be noticed and settled down to wait. The lunch hour came and went, and Gabe was about to call it off when Santistevan's truck appeared and turned onto the highway, traveling south. Gabe wondered where Joaquin was headed.

There wasn't much along the state road for a good thirty-odd miles-certainly no place to grab a quick lunch.

He drove into the lot half-expecting to be recognized, but the two employees on duty were not people he knew. One man was busy checking out a customer's load, while the other worked at a large pile of wood chips, bagging the material in burlap sacks.

He parked and made a show of inspecting fencing materials before wandering over to the worker bagging chips, where the odor of fresh-cut, green pinon wood greeted him.

"You need some help?" the man asked, as he tied off a bag and tossed it to one side. Anglo and in his mid-thirties, the man had long hair that was skinned tight against his head and tied in a bun at the nape of his neck.

"Not really," Gabe said.

"Do you sell that stuff or give it away?" he asked, nodding at the mound of chips.

"Sell it," the man answered as he kept working.

"Texans buy it to use in their fireplaces. They don't have much pinon to burn and they like the smell of it. Put a few chips in with the logs and it gives a nice aroma."

"You're kidding."

"It's true. A trucker hauls three or four semi loads a year to Lubbock, Amarillo, even Dallas."

"A local trucker?"

"Yeah, Lenny Aland, from Anton Chico, does the hauling."

"How well did you know Rudy Espinoza?"

The man stopped working and looked directly at Gabe.

"What's it to you?"

Technically Gabe had no official powers while on administrative leave, so there was no need to identify himself as a cop.

"Rudy's family isn't happy with what happened. I'm looking into it."

"Wasn't that something? Yeah, I knew Rudy. He worked here for a while until the boss fired him."

"Joaquin?"

"No, Philip. Rudy had sticky fingers."

"He was stealing?"

"Yeah, little crap. Hand tools, fence posts, partial rolls of leftover wire-stuff like that."

"When did he work here?"

"Last summer. I think he got the boot in August."

"What was his job?"

"Yard worker, just like me."

"Who did he hang with?"

"Nobody, really. Joaquin, a little bit. You know, the brother-in-law thing."

"Do you remember the truck he drove?"

"A beat-up Toyota. Piece of shit."

"Nothing else?"

"That's all I ever saw him in. Is Rudy's family gonna hire a lawyer and sue the shit out of the cops for shooting Rudy?"

"Possibly."

"Nobody should get wasted for just being a thief."

"You're not wrong," Gabe replied.

Approaching Ojitos Frios, Gabe hoped the rumors circulating about the Rudy Espinoza shooting hadn't reached Angie Romero. He didn't want to face an angry, uncooperative drunk with an attitude.

Serious drinkers sweated booze out of every pore, and Angle's front room stank with the sickening smell of alcohol-laced perspiration.

"Who was the son of a bitch who shot him, Gabe?"

Angie asked.

"I can't tell you that," Gabe replied, looking for a place to sit down that wasn't totally foul. He decided to remain standing.

"Rudy was a good man when he wasn't drinking."

"I'm sure he was."

Gabe knew the Romero family fairly well. The oldest of the three sisters, Angie had transformed herself from a bubbly teenager into a worn-out alcoholic and a family embarrassment. The house she lived in belonged to her grandfather, the Mustang she drove was registered to an uncle, and the money she lived on came from her father, a vice president at a local bank, "We were going to get married," Angie added, as she sat on the soiled divan and sipped her whiskey from a coffee mug.

Her narrow face seemed completely asymmetrical, her lips and fingernails were painted blueberry, and she wore a wrinkled pair of black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and no shoes. Her dull, watery eyes looked sunken against the contrast of her rouged cheeks.

Gabe figured Angie had dressed-as best she could in an alcoholic daze-to be a lady in mourning.

"Do you know who called Rudyjust before he left the house?"

"No, he answered the phone and then said he had to leave. When do I get my car back?"

"Soon."

"It better not be wrecked."

"There is very little damage. Was Rudy working anywhere?"

"Not since last summer."

"How did he get money?"

"Odd jobs."

"What was he doing?"

"He didn't say."

"Not a word?"

Angie shrugged her shoulders.

"He had money. I didn't ask where he got it."

"A lot of money?"

"I don't know if it was a lot. He borrowed some from me before he took the Mustang and left."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No."

"Was he tight withjoaquin?"

"What are you getting at?" Angie asked as she got up and went to the kitchen. She returned with a full mug.

"All these questions. Rudy got killed by a cop, that's all I know."

"Something made him run."

"Who wants to be hassled by cops?"

"I'm trying to find out what happened. Was Rudy tight withjoaquin?"

"He was his brother-in-law."

"But not good friends?"

"They got along."

"Did he ever talk about Joaquin?"

"Only to say that Joaquin had some woman problems."

"With his wife, Debbie?"

"Her, and with some other girlfriend, while he was separated."

"Does the girl have a name?"

"I didn't pay any attention. Are you finished? I have things to do."

"Take care of yourself, Angie."

"Just leave me alone, okay?"

Kerney did a house-to-house canvas of San Geronimo and the surrounding countryside, asking questions about a young Mexican woman who had either lived or worked in the area. Not surprisingly, no one recalled a woman who matched the description Kerney had compiled from the information supplied by Melody Jordan's analysis.

What Kerney did find surprising was the number of new homes in tucked away places. Aside from upscale vacation cabins and summer homes sprinkled throughout the valley, there were houses of year-round residents in several rural subdivisions and on small parcels of land adjoining some of the large ranches.

Very few people were home. But from the number of swing sets. sandboxes, and basketball hoops outside it was dear that working couples with children were migrating to the once remote, rural setting.

North of San Geronimo, above Mineral Springs in the pine forest at the edge of Johnson Mesa, he quesoned caretakers at three youth and church summer camps, and came up empty again.

The afternoon wore on as he stopped at the larger ranches in the valley before looping back through San Geronimo and picking up the county road that paralleled the mesa.

He couldn't quite think of the mesa as his land. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The old stone cabin came into view with a pickup truck parked inside the open gate. He turned in and recognized Nestor Barela walking toward the cabin.

Barela heard the sound of Kerney's vehicle and reversed his direction.

"So, it is the policeman who now owns the Fergurson land," Barela said when Kerney approached. His tone wasn't friendly.

"Mr. Barela," Kerney replied.

"I do not like being made to a seem a fool," Barela said.

"You came to my house under false pretenses."

"I saw no need at the time to tell you who I was."

"Because you suspected me of wrongdoing?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

"And now?"

"I haven't reached any conclusions," Kerney replied.

"I would never spoil this land."

"I'm not saying you did. Why are you here, Mr.

Barela?"

"To see for myself what was done." Barela gestured at the cabin.

"The wood covering the door must be replaced, and the gate must be locked."

Kerney shook his head.

"Not until the police investigation is concluded. When it is, I'll close the cabin up, buy a lock for the gate, and give you a key."

"When will that be?"

"It could be days, maybe a week."

"Make sure you do as you promise," Barela said, turning away abruptly.

Kerney watched as the old man got into his truck, wondering why Barela even cared about a worthless structure on the verge of collapse.

He closed the cabin door, got a crime scbnb warning placard out of his unit, and taped the warning on the door. He taped another placard to the gate and closed it before leaving.

Emmet Griffin opened the door to the Horse Canyon Ranch foreman's residence holding a bowl of stew in one hand. Kerney displayed his shield, identified himself, and asked for a few minutes.

"I thought you might be a cop," Griffin said as he motioned with his head for Kerney to enter.

"What gave me away?"

Griffin padded across the hardwood floor in his stocking feet. A pair of cruddy work boots were carefully placed on some newspapers by the door.

"I used to talk the talk, and walk the walk. Spent five years as a deputy sheriff in Texas before deciding working with animals was a hell of a lot safer." Griffin sat in a worn wicker armchair with a matching ottoman, pulled the ottoman close, placed the bowl of stew on it, and started eating.

"No lunch," he said between spoonfuls.

"You don't mind?"

"Not at all."

Besides the chair and ottoman, the only other furniture in the room consisted of a small TV on a low table and a floor-to-ceiling pole lamp with three light canisters that was right out of the 1950s.

"One of your officers stopped by earlier," Griffin said.

"A Sergeant Gonzales. He was asking about Rudy Espinoza."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I had to let him go because he wasn't worth a damn. About a week after he started, we began losing things." Griffin paused to wipe his mouth on a shirt y sleeve.

"I didn't pay much mind to it at first. Stuff can get misplaced. But when a couple of good saddles turned up gone, I fired him."

"Did he admit to taking the saddles?"

"No."

"Did you report it to the sheriff's office?"

Griffin laughed.

"A lot of good that did. The deputy came out and took a report. End of story."

"Did you ever actually catch Espinoza stealing?"

"Nope. But I knew the rest of my crew wasn't doing it. They've been with me since I moved over to this job."

"Where were you working before?"

"The Box Z down on the Conchas River."

"Did Espinoza cause any other problems?"

"Not with me."

"With somebody else?" Kerney asked.

"The housekeeper didn't like him. He kept pestering her. She complained to the boss."

"What was he doing?"

"Making excuses to go up to the house, trying to get alone with her-at least that's what she said." Griffin dropped the spoon in the empty bowl.

"He wasn't the only one to show interest in her. Luiza attracted men.

Cute little thing. Real pretty in a shy sort of way."

"Can you describe her?"

"She was about five four, in her mid-twenties. Dark hair, dark skin.

Her left arm was skinnier than her right arm. She said she broke it when she was a kid."

"Do you know her full name?"

"Luiza San Miguel was her Spanish name. But she was mostly Indian."

"You talk about her in the past tense."

"Yeah, she quit and went home to Mexico. She was from somewhere in Chiapas, the southernmost state, on the border with Guatemala."

"You knew her fairly well?"

"Not really. But my old boss at the Box Z gave her a good recommendation when she came to work here." Griffin took his bowl into the kitchen, returned, brushed the dirt off his boots, and pulled them on.

"Did you work with her at the Box Z?"

Griffin shook his head.

"Nope, she didn't start there until after I left."

"When did she quit working here?"

"Soon after I fired Espinoza. Sometime in April last year."

"Did she give a reason for leaving?"

"Not to me. Maybe the boss knows."

"Where is your boss?"

"Santa Fe," Griffin said as he reached for his work jacket.

"Won't be back until late tonight."

"What about tomorrow?"

"She'll be here all day, far as I know," Griffin replied.

"I can't say I liked Rudy much, but I sure didn't wish him dead. You boys are taking some shit about that shooting."

Kerney held out a business card.

"Please give Ms.

Bingham my card. Tell her I'll stop by to speak with her in the morning."

"I'll do that." Griffin took the card and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

Kerney inserted his card key in the electronic lock and walked down the empty corridor past silent offices. The majority of the civilian workers and headquarters staff was gone for the day, but lights were on in the vestibule to the crime lab. He thought about checking in with Melody Jordan-if she was still working-but decided he had no reason to do so, and walked up the stairs to his second-floor office.

Kerney often worked late to compensate for his totally nonexistent social life. Tonight he was even less inclined to go home. The place would only seem more empty than usual with the departure of Sara and the dog.

A message that Andy Baca had called from Florida was taped to the handset of his telephone. He called Andy, who was about to leave for a cocktail party at the convention center, and enlightened him on the events of the week.

He rang off after reassuring Andy that everything was under control, and started in on the paperwork. He was halfway through a proposed plan for a narcotics raid when his telephone rang.

"Good, you're there," Melody Jordan said when he answered.

"I've got something to show you. Chief."

"Come up."

"See you in a minute."

Kerney's attempt to refocus on the plan failed as his gaze kept wandering to the open office door. He thought about asking Melody to join him for a drink.

Since he did not directly supervise Melody, it would not violate policy to do so.

Why not? Kerney thought. He was a free man with no obligations, and the company of a pretty woman might be the right tonic for his blues.

Melody walked in just as he forced his attention back to the text. She wore a black V-neck top under a waist-length lightweight jacket and a short pleated skirt that accentuated her trim figure.

He put the report aside and smiled.

"What have you got?"

"Test results on the bones," Melody replied, "confirming Dr. Lawrence's assessment. The victim suffered from rickets. That strengthens the possibility she was Latin American."

"That's good to know. Are you heading out?"

"You bet." Campbell Lawrence was waiting for Melody. He'd proved to be a very horny man, and she was enjoying every minute of it.

"So am I," Kerney said, standing up.

"Do you have time to join me for a drink?"

"That's a lovely idea, but I'm afraid I can't tonight.

Rain check?"

"Let me know when you're free."

"Sure thing."

Melody smiled, thinking that when it came to men in her life it was either feast or famine. Still, she felt pleased with the notion that she'd finally turned Kerney's head.

Melody left and Kerney tried without success to concentrate on work. He finally gave up and put the document away. He'd felt both annoyed and relieved when Melody turned down his invitation. He tried to think it through, but nothing came except a vague, dissatisfied feeling.

He stepped to the office door and hit the light switch.

He had to get back into sync. Somehow, he didn't think that would be easy to do.

Sara woke to the aroma of coffee and found herself on Susie's couch covered with a lightweight throw. She sat up and looked at the night sky through the picture window.

The lights of Tucson flickered, flowed, and gathered along the major roads and highways that bisected the desert floor.

She combed her fingers through her hair and found Susie in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta.

"What time is it?"

"Almost dinnertime," Susie answered.

"Welcome back to the living."

"When did I fall asleep?"

"About three o'clock this afternoon, right in mid-sentence."

"Can I help?"

"Pour yourself some coffee and sit yourself down.

Warning: I only brew leaded sludge."

Sara got coffee, sat at the Shaker-style table, and watched Susie spear a green bean out of the pot and taste it.

"A few more minutes," Susie said, turning to face Sara.

"This is simple fare. I'm not much of a cook."

"What were we talking about before I lost it?"

"Your extraordinary discovery of an honest man."

Susie brought over some flatware and place mats, and arranged them on the table.

"If you decide you don't want Kerney, would you arrange an introduction for me?"

Sara laughed.

"He sounds that good, does he?"

"He sounds yummy," Susie said, putting a salad bowl between the place mats.

"Tonight's menu is store-bought spaghetti sauce, frozen green beans, and salad with bottled dressing. However, I did cook the pasta to perfection."

"You're quite domestic."

"That's not where my charm lies," Susie said as she strained the pasta.

"Nor yours. Do you really think you can't be a career officer, mother, and a wife?"

"I could handle two out of three fairly well."

"So, which one goes by the boards?" Susie asked as she slid into a chair and handed Sara a plate of food.

"I haven't a due."

"Why not have it all?"

"I don't think Kerney would be willing to follow me around from post to post for the next ten years. Besides, neither of us discussed getting married."

"Maybe you haven't mentioned the M word to him.

But you've come close, with all that talk of a stud book and getting pregnant."

Sara poked into the pasta and twisted it around the prongs of her fork.

"I guess I have."

"You amaze me."

"Why?"

"You have one of the best tactical minds of any serving officer I know, and yet you don't have the foggiest notion of how to reel Kerney in."

"I'm not sure I want to be that calculating. I don't see you baiting the hook when it comes to men."

"Oh, you're so wrong. I'm just waiting for the right one to swim by."

"Okay, how would you reel Kerney in?"

"I'd ask him flat out if he's interested in marriage."

"I don't know if I'm ready to do that," Sara replied as she stabbed a green bean.

"Why not?"

Sara placed her fork on the edge of her plate.

"I'm not the wife type."

"You're sure of that?"

Sara picked up her fork and then placed it back on the plate.

"I don't know if I'm sure of anything anymore."

"That's promising."

"You think so?"

"Do you care for Kerney?"

"I feel more connected to him than any man I've ever known."

Susie shook her head and her chestnut hair covered her eyes. She brushed it away and grinned.

"Jesus, Sara.

Listen to yourself."

"I guess I'm confused."

"Finally, we're getting somewhere," Susie said.

"Eat your dinner."

Ruth Pino removed her reading glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose with a thumb, closed her notebook, and glanced at her wristwatch.

Dinnertime had come and gone, and by now her ever tolerant husband had their two boys bathed and ready for bed.

The morning's chance encounter with Nestor Barela had turned out to be serendipitous. He had guided Ruth and her team to another site in the narrow valley away from the alluvial fan, where a large, undisturbed colony of Knowlton's cactus thrived. The sight of it nearly made Ruth shiver with delight.

She had no classes to teach tomorrow and would be back in the valley at first light with her graduate students.

There was an incredible amount of mapping and census taking yet to be done.

To protect the plants adequately a good square mile of land, perhaps more, would be needed for a preserve. Although he had no legal responsibility to do so, Mr. Barela had volunteered to supply all the fencing material to temporarily protect the two separate sites.

She would tell Kevin Kerney about Barela's generosity the next time they spoke.

Ruth reached for her address book, and dialed Reese Carson's home telephone in Santa Fe. Reese handled all land protection programs for the New Mexico Nature Conservancy.

"Reese, Ruth Pino. I thought you might like to come up to Las Vegas tomorrow for the day."

Reese groaned.

"Is this another last-minute plea to get me to lecture to your undergraduates?"

"No, I've found something I think you might like to see."

"Don't keep me hanging, Ruth. Tell me what you've got that would be worth my time."

"Knowlton's cactus," Ruth said with a smile as she settled back in her chair.

"You're joking."

"Outside San Geronimo."

"You're serious."

"Completely."

"Jesus, you know what you've got?"

"You bet I do."

Gabe turned off the shower, dried himself quickly, pulled on a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweatshirt, and slipped his feet into a pair of shower dogs.

A full day of fieldwork hadn't gotten him anywhere.

He had half a mind to confront Joaquin Sandstevan directly and put the squeeze on him about Rudy Espinoza. What held Gabe back was the nagging idea that Boaz hadn't been killed simply to cover up the wood theft. There had to be more to it than that. For now, he would keep digging and let Sanristevan think he had nothing to worry about.

As Gabe walked downstairs he decided to follow up on Angle Romero's interesting tidbit about Joaquin's involvement with another woman during his separation from his wife. He found Orlando at the kitchen table looking through his open briefcase.

"What are you doing?" Gabe snapped.

Orlando closed the briefcase and turned to face his father.

"Nothing."

"You know better than to mess with my stuff."

"Sorry. I was just…"

"Just what?"

"Interested, that's all."

Gabe pulled the briefcase off the table and studied his son. Orlando kept his eyes glued on the tabletop.

"You shot Rudy Espinoza," Orlando said.

"Don't you dare tell anyone about that," Gabe replied as he sat.

"People are already saying you did it. Are you going to lose your job?"

"No."

Orlando shifted nervously in his chair.

"You could retire."

"Not while you're in school."

"I've been thinking about transferring to another school for my senior year."

"Why? You've got just a little more than a year until you graduate."

"I'm bored. The classes are too easy. There's no challenge."

"For chrissake, you're on the dean's list. Where would you go?"

"Albuquerque."

"And live with your mother?"

"Maybe."

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"Not yet."

"Will all your credits transfer?"

"I don't know. I just know I'm bored with school here and sick of living in Las Vegas."

Gabe let out a sigh.

"You're over twenty-one and I can't make you stay, but I think it's a dumb move at this stage."

"I'm not asking for your advice or help. I plan to do it on my own."

Gabe shook his head, mostly as a reminder to himself to stop arguing with his son.

"Do what you think is best.

But let's talk about this again later, okay?"

"You wouldn't be pissed at me?"

"No."

"You sure?"

Gabe reached over and rumpled his son's hair.

"I'm sure. But I'll miss you if you leave."

"Me, too."

"Do you still have that baseball card collection?"

"Yeah, it's in my closet. What made you think about that?"

"It flashed through my mind a couple of days ago, and I remembered all the time we spent looking for those hard-to-find cards you just had to have. You were nuts about those cards."

"Yeah." Orlando forced a smile and glanced at the briefcase.

"Are you still mad at me for looking through your stuff?"

"No. Just keep what you read to yourself, and don't be sneaky, okay?

I'd rather have you ask."

Orlando stood up.

"Okay. I work from six to midnight."

Gabe checked the wall clock.

"Well, you better go flip those burgers."

"The job sucks."

"Which makes finishing college all the more important."

"I'm going to finish. Dad. Just not here."

"It sure sounds that way."

"Later."

"Yeah."

Orlando left and Gabe stared at the wall while reality bit him in the ass. He knew Orlando's leaving was inevitable, but he'd never imagined it would happen before he finished college. He pushed himself out of the chair, made a sandwich, ate it quickly, went to his bedroom, and put on his shoes and socks. Coming downstairs he could hear his footsteps echo through the house. Maybe he should sell the goddamn place like Orlando suggested, or at least rent it out and move into something smaller.

He grabbed a jacket from the hall closet. Tonight he would hit the bars and work the Santistevan girlfriend angle.

Bernardo opened the car door, climbed into the passenger seat, and gave Orlando a broad smile.

"What's up?"

Noise from cars crossing the highway bridge over the train tracks vibrated through the open windows.

"My dad is just working on the Rudy Espinoza shooting, nothing else."

"He blew Rudy away, didn't he?"

"I don't know about that."

Bernardo laughed.

"Bullshit."

"Fuck you."

"Is that all you know?"

"Luiza's bones haven't been identified, and the two officers who were working on the case have been reassigned."

"Does that mean they're giving up?"

"I don't know what it means."

"It sounds like it to me."

"Every case stays open until it's solved. I know that much," Orlando said.

"They're never going to solve it," Bernardo said, putting his hand on the door latch.

"Stay in touch."

"I don't think so."

"Play it that way, if you want."

Orlando shot Bernardo a hard look.

"What we did doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Worrying about it won't change anything."

"That's cold."

Bernardo got out and ducked his head inside the open window.

"You sure you don't want to keep your eyes and ears open, just in case?"

Orlando shook his head.

"I'm out of it."

"Suit yourself."

"Just split, Bernardo. I'm already late for work."

Except for a dispatcher and one officer who was finishing her end-of-shift paperwork, the district office was empty. Gabe exchanged a few words with the woman, told the dispatcher he'd stopped by to pick up some personal items, and moved on to the shift commander's cubicle he shared with two other sergeants.

He booted up the computer, accessed Motor Vehicle records, typed in Joaquin Sannstevan's name, scrolled through the file to the photograph, and printed a copy.

The photo came out grainy but usable. He stuck it in his pocket and glanced across the corridor at the vacant assistant commander's office.

He wondered if he would ever get to pin lieutenant bars on his collar and move in. Two days ago, his chances for the promotion looked good.

Now, maybe they weren't so hot, unless he could tie Rudy Espinoza to the Carl Boaz murder. With Orlando planning to leave home, he wasn't so sure he cared.

He left the office and drove down the main strip, stopping at each bar along the way, showing Sandstevan's photo and asking bartenders and customers if they knew Joaquin. None of them did.

He tried the college hangouts near the university with the same results, and dedded on one more stop at the Plaza Hotel bar before calling it quits for the night. Inside, two couples-obviously out-of-town hotel guests-were sitting together at a window table that looked out at the plaza, and three men were at the bar watching a basketball game on the wall-mounted television.

He approached the bartender and showed her his shield andjoaquin's picture.

"I know him by sight, not by name," the woman said.

"But he doesn't drink here. I haven't seen him for a while."

"Where did you see him?"

"At the monthly singles party. The local paper sponsors it. They use one of the banquet rooms in the hotel. I work them for the extra money."

"When was that?"

"Last year. Maybe April or May, I don't remember exactly. He came three or four times in a row."

"Did you see him connect with anybody?"

The woman laughed as she nodded at a customer holding up an empty beer glass and moved away to refill it.

"Are you kidding?" she said when she came back.

"Those singles events are nothing but a feeding frenzy for hustlers of both sexes."

"Do you remember anything about Santistevan?"

"He liked to hit on young, pretty girls."

"How young?"

"Young enough to card if they wanted alcohol."

"Do you know who runs the singles party for the newspaper?"

"Viola Fisher. She coordinates it. Orders the finger food, pays for the banquet room, signs people in when they arrive-that son of stuff."

"She keeps a roster?"

"Oh, yeah. You can't come to the party unless you take out an ad in the personals. It's in the paper every week. Haven't you seen it?"

"I usually skip over it."

The woman glanced down at Gabe's left hand. There was no wedding ring.

"Maybe you should pay more attention. There are a lot of women your age who'd love a shot at you."

"That's good to know."

Kerney's apartment felt cold and looked dingy. He roamed around restlessly, tidying things up, trying not to think about Sara. But that was impossible. He stood in the middle of the small living room disgusted with the way he lived. Seeing Sara had made him want more than a crummy place and an empty bed to sleep in. Sara lit him up inside, and he didn't want to loose her or that feeling.

He was half-asleep on the couch when the telephone rang. He grabbed for it, hoping it was Sara.

"Are you awake?" Dale asked.

"More or less."

"I've been thinking about the partnership idea," Dale said.

"I'd really like to do it."

"I don't see how it can happen."

"Why not?"

"I'd have to pay six million dollars in taxes to keep all ten sections.

Erma's lawyer figures the payments to the IRS would be over four hundred thousand a year."

"What in the hell have you got on that mesa, a gold mine?"

"It's more like suburban sprawl pushing up land values. Everybody wants five or ten acres of paradise. The real estate developers and some area ranchers are eager to oblige."

"What are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided."

"Sell it," Dale said, "and look for something closer to my spread.

Maybe around Carrizozo, or over in the Black Hills. I know a couple of ranchers who might consider a fair offer. I could put you in touch with them."

"That's a thought."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about the idea."

"I've been distracted lately."

"The murder case?"

"That, and Sara. She showed up at my door Sunday night."

Dale let out a hoot.

"No wonder you're distracted. Is she there? Let me talk to her."

"She's come and gone."

"What happened?"

"Damn if I know. I thought everything was going great, then she just up and left."

"Did you two argue?"

"No, she just took off to visit a girlfriend in Tucson.

Said she had some thinking to do."

"About what?"

"I don't have a due."

"You sound pretty low."

"I guess I am. I miss her. Dale. No woman has ever meant as much to me."

"I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that.

You need a woman in you life, Kerney, and Sara's the cream of the crop."

"What should I do?"

"Ride it out. She probably just needs some breathing room. Women are like that."

"I hope so."

"I'm telling you the gospel truth."

"I don't want to think about it anymore."

"So let's change the subject," Dale said.

"I still think we can put a partnership together."

"We'll talk about it later."

"Jesus, cheer up. She'll be back."

"Yeah." Kerney hung up and headed for the bedroom, hoping he could push Sara out of his mind and get a few hours sleep.

Kerney arrived at Horse Canyon Ranch as the morning sun washed the deep purple off the mountains. He eyed the headquarters as he drove down the paved ranch road, thinking that sooner or later one of those trendy, glossy magazines would undoubtedly feature Alida Bingham and her marvelous hacienda in an issue on living the good life in northern New Mexico.

It would be a gross distortion of how the local people in the valley lived in their mobile homes, ramshackle farms, and subdivision-type stick houses plunked down in the middle of five-and ten-acre tracts.

But it would sell copies, and have people from coast to coast dreaming of pinon logs crackling in a kiva fireplace, sweeping vistas of mountain ranges, and private trophy homes nestled near the wilderness.

His quick and dirty background check on Alida Bingham had revealed that the woman was an English dozen, part of the Hollywood film scene, divorced, wealthy, and a member of several international horse breeder and riding competition organizations.

He rang the doorbell at the hadenda and waited, wondering what, other than a love of horses, had drawn Alida Bingham to New Mexico.

Alida Bingham opened the door and studied the man standing under the portal at her front door. Tall, with wide, square shoulders, brown hair touched with gray at the sideburns, and keen, deep blue eyes, he was quite good looking.

She took the business card from his hand and glanced at the policeman's badge held up for her inspection.

"Griffin said you might be stopping by for a chat," Alida said.

"Do come in. Chief Kerney."

Kerney stepped inside the vestibule. Along one wall stood a large flowered vase used for umbrella storage. A pair of Wellingtons sat under a coat rack that held an assortment of rain gear, jackets, and barn coats. A three-legged occasional table opposite the coat rack contained fresh-cut flowers in a blue-and-white milk pitcher, a ceramic table lamp, and an assortment of family photographs in gold frames.

He followed Alida Bingham into the living room.

Oriental rugs were scattered around the floor, family portraits and photographs filled the walls, and chintz curtains in a spring flower print draped the long windows.

Deep sofas and chairs, separated by an oversize ottoman used to hold an array of books and magazines, occupied the space in front of a large fireplace. Somehow, the very English decor blended nicely with the clean lines of the double adobe house.

"Join me in the conservatory," Alida said as she led the way through the room.

Never having seen a conservatory before, Kerney followed along curiously. It turned out to be a sun room used for dining that took full advantage of the morning light. The round gate leg table centered in the middle of the room was antique oak with matching high ladder back chairs. On an exposed adobe wall hung a nineteenth-century sampler made by Marjorie Higgins, age ten. Below an elaborate alphabet and numbers, young Marjorie had embroidered a three-story Georgian mansion surrounded by lush grounds.

"Would you care for some coffee or tea?" Alicia asked as she sat.

"No thank you," Kerney repUed, joining her at the table. He made Bingham to be somewhere in her early forties. Dressed in a, gray-striped cashmere sweater and designer blue jeans, she had perfect teeth, wide set brown eyes, and short, light brown hair that covered her ears.

"I shouldn't like to rush you, but please ask your questions straight away. I have a very busy morning ahead of me."

"Emmet Griffin said you might know why Luiza left her position."

Alicia Bingham smiled.

"I'm afraid during Luiza's time with us I was frantically engaged in so many different projects, I didn't give her very much attention."

"She gave you no reason for leaving?"

"Homesickness certainly was an issue for her. I don't believe she realized that she would be viewed by the local Hispanics more as an Indian than a Latina."

"She felt shunned?"

"I would say so. The locals pride themselves on their Spanish heritage. Many view Mexicans with disdain."

"She made these feelings dear to you?"

"Yes. Luiza spoke passable English. She attended a Baptist missionary school in Chiapas for several years. I was sorry to lose her. She was a very capable housekeeper."

"Did she complain of any inappropriate attention from your male employees?"

"The men flitted around her for a time until I put a stop to it. She was quite an exotic-looking creature."

"She made no complaints about anyone specifically?"

Alicia shook her head.

"She simply asked me to keep the men from interrupting her at work."

"Was she more agreeable to their attentions on her free time?"

"Insofar as I could tell, no. She rarely left the ranch when I was here."

"You don't live here full-time?"

"Heavens, no. My ex-husband and I own and operate a special effects studio in Los Angeles. I divide my time between here and California."

"So, you can't say for certain what Luiza did during your absences."

"Griffin would have advised me of any concerns or issues. There were none as far as I know."

"Did Luiza leave suddenly?"

"Yes, but that's not uncommon with immigrant workers. They tend to come and go without much warning."

"Did she have a green card?"

"Yes. I follow the immigration rules carefully. Chief Kerney. As an Englishwoman, I certainly do not wish to violate any American laws that would jeopardize my permanent resident status."

"You have documentation?"

"In my files."

"Did Luiza leave any personal belongings behind?"

"As a matter of fact, she did. A box of clothing, most of which I had passed along to her. We were almost the same size. I still have them stored in the garage. I expected that she would write to have the box sent along by post, but I never heard from her."

"I'd like to see it."

"Of course."

"And the immigration forms for Luiza, if it's no bother."

"I'll get them for you." Alida rose, left the room, and returned with a slim folder.

Kerney read through it quickly. It looked to be in order.

"May I borrow this for a day or two?"

"Yes."

"If you don't think it too personal, may I ask what brought you to New Mexico?"

Alida smiled.

"When I was a young girl, I had a darling great-uncle who was in his nineties. He was my absolute favorite member of the family. He was the youngest son of a minor peer who struck out for America early in the century. Quite a few of the lads without hopes of inheriting did so during the waning years of the empire. He came to New Mexico and worked on a cattle ranch before World War I. He told such glorious stories of his adventures, I just knew someday I would have to live here."

"And now here you are," Kerney noted.

"Exactly. And loving it. Now, Chief Kerney, you must tell me something. What is this interest you have in Luiza?"

"She may have been raped and murdered."

"May have been?"

"Yes. We're still trying to identify a victim."

Alicia nodded.

"Is this about the skeleton that was found last weekend?"

"Yes."

Alida's expression turned serious.

"I do hope your assumption about Luiza is wrong. It's chilling just to think about it."

"Do you have a photograph of Luiza?"

"No, I don't think so." Alicia held up a finger.

"On second thought, perhaps I do. Not a photograph, actually.

Come along with me."

She led Kerney out of the conservatory, through the living room, and into a media room equipped with comfortable chairs for a dozen people, a large-screen television, and expensive video camera equipment.

"We videotape our horses as part of the training program," she said, opening a cabinet. Inside were dozens of cassettes neatly stacked on shelves.

"Sometimes Luiza would watch. I believe there are one or two tapes that show her dearly."

She searched through the cassettes, pulled one out, put it in a playback machine, and turned on the TV "Yes, this is the one," Alicia said, as she fast-forwarded through a dressage exercise with a gray gelding.

"That's Highland Boy. He'll compete in the next summer Olympics."

She pressed the remote control and the motion returned to normal speed.

Luiza quickly came into view as the rider finished up with Highland Boy and turned him toward the paddock gate.

Alicia froze the frame.

"Quite a lovely face."

Kerney nodded in agreement. Luiza had long jet-black hair, thick eyelashes, and delicate, almost Eurasian features.

From the neck down her figure was full, with a tiny waist and wide, inviting hips.

"May I borrow the tape?"

"Surely." She popped it out of the machine and handed it to Kerney.

"Griffin told me that you asked him about the Barela grazing rights to the Fergurson property."

"I did."

"Are you both a policeman and a rancher?"

"In a small way. I understand you may be interested in buying the property."

"I would love to protect this side of the valley from the encroachment of subdivisions and summer homes.

I'm sure Great-Uncle Howard would approve."

"I'm sure he would," Kerney said as he stood.

"Let me show you where Luiza's possessions are stored/"Alicia said as she checked her wristwatch.

"And then I must fly away."

She escorted Kerney to the garage, pointed out the box, and left him to search though its contents. He took it off the shelf, placed it on the hood of a green Jaguar sedan, and cut the packing tape with his pocketknife.

Inside there was nothing but clothes. He checked all the pockets and found only a hairpin and a crumpled chewing gum wrapper.

Disappointed, he closed the box, put it away, and looked around the three bay garage. It was finished, insulated, heated, and at least twice the size of his apartment.

Along with the Jaguar, Bingham owned a top of the line Range Rover and a four-wheel-drive pickup truck, all in cherry condition.

He walked to his vehicle and saw Alida Bingham leading a fine-looking saddled mare into a training paddock.

She waved to him cheerily, closed the gate, mounted the mare, and guided the horse over a series of fences and a water jump. She rode beautifully.

Emmet Griffin wandered out of the horse barn, threw a foot up on the fence, and watched his boss put the mare through her paces. Kerney joined him.

"Are you making any progress?" Griffin asked. He opened a tin of chewing tobacco and put a pinch in his mouth.

"It's hard to say. Did Luiza give notice before she quit?"

"Nope. She just left."

"How did she leave?"

"She walked away."

"Didn't you think that was unusual?"

"Not at the time. She didn't know how to drive, and most evenings, if the weather was nice, she'd go for a walk. She liked to walk."

"Was she carrying anything when she left?"

"Not that I noticed."

"Where would she walk to?"

"Mostly down to Ojitos Frios."

"Was she visiting somebody in the village?"

"I don't know."

"How was she dressed that evening?"

Griffin shrugged.

"Jeans, some sort of top, I think.

That's usually what she wore."

"Did she ever hitch rides?"

"Only with people she knew from the ranch."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yeah. Couple of times I'd be on the road and see some guy in front of me trying to pick her up. She'd wave him off."

"What exactly did she say to you before she left?"

"That she was going home. At the time I didn't think she meant right that minute."

"Who was here that day?"

"Me, my crew, and Richard, the boss's son. The boss was in Los Angeles that week. Richard brought a friend from college with him for the weekend, a girl."

"Tell me about Richard."

"He goes to college down in Santa Fe. He comes up on weekends, when school is out, and during summer vacations. He's twenty. A good kid."

"Did Richard ever come on to Luiza?"

"Richard doesn't like girls that way, if you get my drift."

"When did Richard and his friend leave?"

"Soon after Luiza did."

"What was his friend's name?"

"Nancy something."

"Does Richard live on campus?"

"No, Alida bought him a condo in Santa Fe."

"Do you have the address?"

"Yeah, but I'd rather you got that information from the boss. I'm sure she won't mind telling you."

Gabe arrived at the newspaper office promptly at eight in the morning and waited for Viola Fisher to show up for work. A big-boned woman with a round, cheerful face. Fisher entered her office at eight-fifteen.

"The receptionist said you were a policeman."

Gabe had his badge case ready. Fisher took it and studied the credentials before giving it back.

"How can I help you?"

"I'd like information on Joaquin Santistevan. He attended some of your singles parties last year."

"The name rings a bell." Fisher turned to the file cabinet behind the desk, pulled out a stack of papers, and ran a finger down the pages.

"Yes, here he is. He came to our Valentine's Day event a year ago in February. That's our most popular gathering."

"Was that his first time?" Gabe asked.

"Yes." Viola flipped through more papers.

"Then he attended in March and April. After that, he stopped coming."

"Do you know if he met somebody?"

"I really couldn't say," Viola replied.

"We use a voice mailbox system. A customer places an ad, a voice mailbox number is assigned through our special telephone line, and each person records a brief message. If a caller likes what they hear, they leave a message in return."

"Do you have records of those mailbox assignments?"

"Not unless they are still active. Once a party drops out or makes a connection, the mailbox is reassigned."

"What kind of information do you collect from your customers?"

"Age, address, and phone number. Whatever else a person is looking for romantically is usually spelled out in their recorded message and weekly personal ad."

"I'd like the telephone numbers and names of the women who attended the events from February through April of last year."

"That information is strictly confidential."

"One of those women may be able to help me solve a murder."

"Our policy is very dear. We do not release that information."

"What you're telling me is that some guy can sign up for this dating service you run, rape and murder one of your female customers, and you can't help me because a policy forbids it." Gabe got to his feet and played a bluff card.

"Tell your boss I'll get a court order."

Viola looked startled.

"Who was murdered?"

"I can't release that information."

Voila raised herself from her chair.

"Let me speak to the city editor."

"I'll be happy to wait," Gabe replied.

In five minutes, Viola Fisher returned looking a bit chagrined.

"We'll be glad to assist you. Sergeant Gonzales All we need is your assurance that the information will be used with discretion. We don't want to create any unnecessary anxiety among our customers."

"I'll handle the matter delicately."

"Good," Viola said as she started pulling files.

Gabe left the newspaper building with the names and phone numbers of sixty-eight women. At home, he called the phone company, read off the names and numbers, and asked to have them cross-checked with Santistevan's home phone, the business phone at Buena Vista Lumber and Supply, and the telephone number of Joaquin's uncle, Isaac Medina.

"Is that all?" the phone company supervisor asked sarcastically.

"If you get any hits, I'd like a record of the calls placed by the women, starting in February of last year."

"This is going to take a while, Gabe," the supervisor said.

"Mid-afternoon?" Gabe asked hopefully.

"I'll see what I can do."

Richard Bingham weighed in at no more than 150 pounds on a six-two frame. He had long, curly hair that fell over his forehead, and he was trying hard to grow a mustache.

He sat on a chair with a day pack positioned between his knees, busily filling it with textbooks and papers.

He laughed when Kerney questioned him about Luiza.

"Didn't Emmet tell you I'm gay?" he said as he zipped the pack shut.

Kerney didn't respond.

"It's no secret," Richard said. He walked to the Murphy bed, folded it against the wall, and closed the doors that hid it from view.

Bingham lived in a studio condominium of no more than 800 square feet, yet given its location in downtown Santa Fe, Kerney figured it was worth a pretty penny.

"I gotta go," Richard said.

"I've got a class."

"Give me a few more minutes," Kerney replied, gesturing at the chair Richard had vacated.

Reluctantly, the boy sat.

"Did anything happen to upset Luiza the day she disappeared?"

"Well, Nancy kind of freaked her out."

"How so?"

"She wanted to get it on with Luiza."

"Nancy's gay?"

"Yeah, and she can be very butch at times."

"What happened?"

"She kept grabbing at Luiza and talking sexy to her."

"Anything else?"

"Luiza slapped her in the kitchen after Nancy grabbed her ass. That chilled Nancy out. Then Luiza split and went to her room."

"When did this happen?"

"About three o'clock in the afternoon."

"Did you see Luiza after the incident in the kitchen?"

"Not until we left the ranch. She was walking down the side of the road, about halfway between the ranch and Romeroville, when we passed her."

"Going in which direction?"

"Toward the interstate."

"Did you stop?"

"No. After what happened we didn't think Luiza wanted to talk to either of us."

"What time was that?"

"It was getting on toward dusk."

"Emmet Griffin said that Luiza never hitched rides with strangers. Did you see anyone on the road who might have given her a lift?"

"No." Richard paused for a moment.

"Well, not right away."

"What about later?"

"You know where the pavement ends as you make the turn out of Romeroville heading toward Ojitos Frios?"

"I do."

"Bernardo Barela passed me in his grandfather's pickup."

"Would that be Nestor Barela's grandson?"

"Yeah. He had another guy with him. I didn't know him."

"Did Bernardo recognize you?"

"No. We were in Nancy's new Pathfinder. Her father had just bought it for her."

"Did Luiza know Bernardo?"

"Sure."

"Would she have accepted a ride from Bernardo?"

"If she wanted to get back to the ranch before dark, she might have. I don't know."

"How well do you know Bernardo?"

"Not well. He stops by at the ranch every now and then."

"Did he ever say anything to you about Luiza?"

Richard laughed.

"Straight Hispanic dudes don't tend to talk about women with gay men."

"He knows you're gay?"

"Everybody knows." Richard stood up.

"It's who I am. I have to go now."

Reese Carson rewound his last roll of film and returned his camera to its case. The day had turned windy and a strong gust coursed down the west slope of the mountains, picked up loose top soil from the dear-cut area, and spun a dust devil up the side of the mesa. As he turned away, his wispy, baby-fine brown hair fluttered in the wind and his red-rimmed gray eyes watered.

"Allergies," Reese said ruefully to Ruth Pino as he sniffled.

"What a find you have here. It's absolutely amazing.

This is the last place I'd look for Knowlton's cactus."

"I agree," Ruth said. She wiped some dust from her own eyes and watched as her graduate students moved slowly across the dear-cut area.

The Knowlton's cactus census was complete-over eight thousand plants had been counted at the two separate sites-and now other indigenous plants were being studied and recorded.

"But if you compare soil samples, plant life, and elevation to the San Juan County preserve, it's almost a perfect ecosystem match."

"You mean it was a match," Reese replied. The devastation of the woodlands turned his stomach.

"This site is a disaster waiting to happen. And you could lose the second site when the erosion spreads down the valley."

"We have to move fast," Ruth said.

"Spring runoff in the canyon is going to wash away more of the alluvial fan." She pointed to the mesa.

"And summer storms will cut more erosion furrows down from the ridgeline. It will be a double whammy."

Reese nodded glumly in agreement.

"Protecting the site is essential," Ruth added.

"We need to restore the riparian vegetation along the streambed, reforest the woodlands, and stop the accelerated runoff."

"And fence it," Reese said.

"That's a given. Actually, we need a series of fences.

One for each site and then a perimeter fence."

"How much of a perimeter?"

"If I could, I'd do the whole ten sections," Ruth answered.

"The ranches east of the county road are being subdivided and sold off.

Eventually, development could spread right to the national forest boundary."

"Is the leaseholder willing to keep his livestock out of the area?"

"He is, and he's willing to supply the materials so we can do some immediate fencing."

"That will help," Reese said.

"What about money to buy the property?"

"Slow down, Ruth. That isn't going to happen overnight."

"Like hell, slow down."

"We don't even know what the new owner is willing to consider."

"What can we offer him as an incentive?"

"For now, our assistance. If you're willing to complete the floral and plant community survey, I'll get a hydrologist out here to map out an emergency erosion control plan."

"When?" Ruth asked.

"This week. And I think the state forestry division would be willing to donate seedlings. I can get a volunteer crew to do the planting."

"How fast can you move?"

"I'll get on it right away. Since the land adjoins the national forest, the feds might be willing to help out."

"Putting a Band-Aid on this isn't going to solve the problem."

"I know it. I'll call my chapter board members when I get back to the office, explain the situation, and ask for authorization to begin negotiations with the owner. It shouldn't be a problem. I'll need to borrow your field notes and plant and analysis charts."

"They're in rough draft form and incomplete."

"It doesn't matter. After I get the board's permission to move, I'll need to sit down with the owner and find out if he's willing to work with us."

"He will be." Ruth reached into her back pocket and handed Reese a folded piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"A check for a thousand dollars. I took the money out of my oldest son's college fund. It's for this project only."

"You don't have to do this."

"I want those volunteers here next week and the seedlings on hand for planting." Ruth waved in response to a call from one of her students and started to walk away.

"Anything else. Dr. Pino?" Reese called after her.

Ruth turned and smiled.

"We're going to have a post setting, wire-stringing party this weekend.

Bring the family, your camping gear, and enough food for two days."

"You are something," Reese said.

"Is that an RSVP?"

Til be here."

Although Carl Boaz's cabin had been thoroughly tossed during the original search, Gabe felt he'd missed something.

If Boaz's journal truly reflected the amount Rudy Espinoza had agreed to pay for access to the woodcutting area, Boaz had settled for chump change.

It was hard to believe Boaz had been that stupid. Boaz had a doctorate, and had put together a sophisticated marijuana production scheme that might have gone undetected if Rudy hadn't blown him away.

Beyond that, Gabe still couldn't figure out why Rudy had iced Boaz. Why would Rudy want to kill a conspirator in what amounted to nothing more than a low-grade felony? Assuming Rudy knew about the marijuana cultivation, wouldn't he think Boaz had every reason to keep his mouth shut about the wood poaching?

He checked the time. He had hours before the phone company records on the women who attended the singles parties would be ready. He searched every nook and cranny of the cabin, the greenhouse, and Boaz's truck, looking for hiding places that might have been missed. He tore out sections of the cabin walls, shoveled topsoil out of the greenhouse nursery tables, and stripped the interior of the truck down to the metal. He found nothing.

Frustrated, Gabe leaned against the front fender of the truck, and scanned the meadow and the buildings waiting for inspiration. What was he missing? He was about to give up when his gaze settled on the gas-powered electric generator installed on a concrete pad halfway between the cabin and the greenhouse.

He walked to it and took a closer look. The generator, expensive and fairly new, sat on two long metal runners that were bolted to the pad.

He found the manufacturer's plate and a metal tag from an electrical supply company in Lubbock, Texas.

Why would Boaz buy a generator from a company hundreds of miles away when he could get the same item locally? He wrote down the information, went to the greenhouse, and climbed on the roof to inspect the bank of south-facing solar panels. All of them were tagged by the same Lubbock company.

At the water well, he disconnected the power supply, removed the housing cover, pulled up the submersible pump, and found another tag from the Lubbock supply house.

In the cabin, Gabe sat at the table and went through Boaz's cancelled checks, cash purchase receipts, and lists of expenditures for construction costs he'd checked out of the district office evidence room. Boaz had kept detailed records of his costs to get the operation up and running. None of the items from Lubbock showed up as purchases.

Gabe looked around the cabin. The propane refrigerator and the propane stove looked new. He ran through Boaz's records again and found no documentation for the purchase of either item.

Where did Boaz get all this stuff?

He pulled the stove and refrigerator away from the wall, wrote down the make, model, and serial numbers, and used his cellular phone to call Russell Thorpe.

"Where are you?" Gabe said, when Thorpe answered.

"Lunch break at the Roadrunner."

"I need you to run some information through NCIC.

Have you got a pen and paper?"

"Roger that."

Gabe read off the make, model, and serial number for each item and had Thorpe repeat the information back to him.

"How soon do you want this, Sarge?"

"ASAP."

"I'll call you right back."

Gabe used the time waiting for Thorpe to call going over Boaz's journal line by line, looking for anything that might give him an insight into the murder.

The phone rang and Gabe answered.

"What have you got?"

"Three hits, Sarge. The gas-powered generator, solar panels, and the pump were stolen from a Lubbock electrical supply company. The propane refrigerator was boosted from a freight car on a railroad siding in Amarillo and the propane cooking stove was taken from an appliance store in Midland, Texas. All within the last year. All major heists."

"Good deal," Gabe said.

"Where did you find this stuff?" Thorpe asked.

"I'll tell you later."

"You got something else you need me to do?"

"I'll call you back," Gabe said as he hurried out the cabin door to his vehicle. Angie Romero had a large-screen television in her living room that he wanted to check out.

Angie opened the front door a crack and gave Gabe a sour look.

"What is it?"

"Can I come in?" Gabe asked "What for?"

"We need to talk about your car."

"When do I get it back?" Angie asked, swinging the door wide.

"Tomorrow," Gabe said, stepping inside.

Angie's smell almost made him retreat to the front porch. She wore a frayed bathrobe, dingy gray pajamas, and a pair of tattered slippers.

She ran a shaky hand through her tangled hair and looked at Gabe with bloodshot eyes.

"Mind if I look at your television?" Gabe asked as he walked to the set that stood against a wall.

"Why?"

"Did Rudy buy it?" Gabe pulled the set away from the wall.

"He gave it to me as a present."

"When?" Gabe found the manufacturer's information and wrote it down.

"You can't do that," Angle said as she crossed the room.

Gabe pushed the set back to its original position.

"When did Rudy bring home the TV, Angie?"

"Maybe six months ago. You can't come in here and paw through my property."

"Where did Rudy buy it?"

"I don't know. He just brought it home one day."

Angle's closeness made her smell almost unbearable.

Gabe moved quickly toward the open door.

"Sorry to bother you."

Angie followed at his heels.

"I want my car back."

"Tomorrow, Angie." Gabe stepped off the porch.

"It damn well better be here."

"It will be," Gabe said with a smile.

He called Thorpe with the information on the television as soon as he was out of Angle's driveway.

Thorpe called back just as Gabe pulled onto the interstate.

"The TV was stolen from the same store in Midland where the stove was boosted," he reported.

"Ten-four. Get me complete reports from the Texas authorities on all three heists."

"What have you got, Sarge?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out. Do one more thing for me."

"What's that?"

"Have Angle's Mustang towed back to her house tomorrow morning."

"That car can't be driven until it's fixed. The front end is totalled."

"I know it."

Before leaving for his class, Richard Bingham provided Kerney with his friend Nancy's full name and address.

The girl lived in a dormitory on the college campus.

A private institution with a small enrollment, the school was situated in the Santa Fe foothills. The nearby mountains, million-dollar homes, and an adjacent private prep school insulated the campus and its carefully tended grounds.

Kerney found Nancy Rubin in her dorm room, introduced himself, and asked a few questions. No more than nineteen years old. Nancy had a slim, lanky body, short curly blonde hair, and a heavy New York accent.

She wore three diamond studs in her right earlobe.

The girl confirmed Richard's version of the events at the ranch involving Luiza, and Kerney left feeling fairly certain that he'd gotten candid answers. m Las Vegas, Kerney stopped at the county sheriff's office and got directions to the Box Z Ranch, where Luiza San Miguel had once been employed. The route took him along a state highway that cut through high, rolling plains and onto a narrow two-lane road that provided a panoramic view of the mountains. Where the dun-colored plains ended, massive, dark opal peaks swept beyond the limits of perception and faded into a rippling, mirage like vagueness.

The road curved away from the view and Kerney saw the first sign of a deep trough that pierced the hilly grasslands. Soon he was hugging the lip of a canyon that cut a thousand feet below the plains and opened out in a widening valley flanked by red-rimmed tabletop mesas.

The pavement turned to dirt, and the road crossed and recrossed a rocky, shallow river, and then rose to expose an expanse of rangeland that seemed to push back the mesas. After navigating a boulder-strewn bypass bulldozed around the remnants of a washed-out wooden bridge, Kerney topped out at a small rise, and stopped to take a look around.

Ten miles south, a lone butte towered where the canyon lands ended.

Stands of pifion and juniper trees peppered lush pastures filled with blue stem and Indian rice grass. Patches of spring wildflowers threw color against the foot of the mesas.

Kerney drove toward the butte, taking it all in. Here the land dominated, making the small herds of cattle moving across the valley look like dots; turning the ranch road into a vague incision that faded away to nothing in the distance; putting fences, windmills, feed troughs, and stock tanks into a perspective that made man's efforts seem inconsequential.

Sheltered at the foot of the butte, the Box Z headquarters was surrounded by groves of cottonwood trees. The houses, barns, sheds, outbuildings, and corrals were made of rock and in perfect condition.

Behind the barn stood a pitched-roof garage with a red 1930s gasoline pump off to one side. The main ranch house was a two-story Queen Anne "Victorian. The roofline was broken by two shingled dormers, and round columns supported the deep front porch.

The man who opened the front door wore a straw cowboy hat pushed back to reveal a high forehead and eyeglasses with plastic frames. Somewhere in his sixties, he had straight lips beneath a pudgy nose and deep creases in his cheeks mat ran down to his chin.

Tm looking for the owner," Kerney said.

"You found him," the man replied, glancing at Kerney's open badge case.

"I'm Arlin Fullerton. What brings you out this way, Officer?"

"I have a few questions to ask you about Luiza San Miguel."

"Is something wrong?"

"I just need to find her," Kerney replied.

"She took a job last year at Horse Canyon. My wife sure hated to lose that girl," Arlin said.

"If she's not there, I don't know where she's working now. We haven't kept track of her. Have you checked at Horse Canyon?"

"Yes. What was her reason for leaving the Box Z?"

"She just decided to move on, I guess."

"Did you hear from her after she left?"

"We got a card from her sometime back."

"What did it say?"

"Just that she liked her new job."

"How did you come to hire her?"

"I pay a fair wage, but not too many locals-especially the younger ones-want to work six days a week on a remote ranch. So most of my employees are Mexican.

They've got their own grapevine when it comes to finding work. My wife was looking for a housekeeper when Luiza showed up."

"How did she learn about the job?"

"Word of mouth would be my guess."

"Not one of your employees?"

"She didn't know a soul when she started here."

"Did Luiza talk about herself or her family in Mexico?"

Fullerton shook his head.

"Not much. She's a shy girl.

Quiet. Keeps to herself."

"Did she have any dashes with other employees? Any friction, disagreements, dissension?"

"Not that I know about. She was pretty even tempered.

Got along with everybody."

"Everybody?"

"Except when she got pestered."

"Who pestered her?"

"Well, it wasn't pestering to start; it was more like skirt chasing.

One of the neighboring ranch boys took a shine to her. Luiza didn't like him at all. But the kid wouldn't take no for an answer. It really got Luiza's back up."

"What's the kid's name?"

"Bernardo Barela. He works on the next spread over with his uncle."

"Nestor Barela's grandson?"

"That's him."

"How do I get to their place?"

"Take the left fork out of my gate and follow the road ten miles due west. They use an old homestead as their line camp. You can't miss it. They come down from Las Vegas most days. You should find them there. They borrowed my bulldozer this morning to do some road work."

"Thanks."

"Mind telling me what this is all about?"

"You've got a nice place here, Mr. Fullerton," Kerney said as he turned and stepped away.

"Thanks, again."

At home, Gabe waited restlessly for Russell Thorpe to deliver the burglary reports that the Texas law enforcement agencies had faxed to the district office. Now that Orlando had announced his intentions to move away, the house seemed too big, and Gabe felt vaguely uncomfortable in it.

Thorpe arrived and hung around with an eager look on his face, hoping to learn what was up. Gabe thumbed through the papers, verified that the stolen items matched the information out of Texas, and looked at Thorpe.

"Go recover the stolen property at Boaz's cabin, and see what else you can find," he said.

Thorpe could barely contain a grin.

"How do I keep you out of it?"

"If anyone asks, say you got an anonymous tip. Also, write up a search warrant for Angie Romero's house, get it signed, and toss the place.

Take somebody with you. Who is the shift commander on duty?"

"Art Garcia is filling in for you."

"Tell him-and only him-what's up, and ask him to go with you."

"What's my probable cause for the warrant?"

"You have reason to believe that items taken in a Texas burglary are in Angle's house. Cite the Midland Police Department report. Art can help you fill in the blanks."

Gabe waved the Midland Police Department report at Thorpe.

"Did you make copies for yourself?"

Thorpe nodded.

"You bet."

"Good. Now go do your job."

Thorpe strode through the front door and almost bounced his way down the front porch to his unit. Gabe smiled at Thorpe's rookie enthusiasm, knowing that soon it would get washed away by harsh reality.

He read the reports again. All three Texas burglaries were professional scores, and the MO on each case was nearly identical. He wondered if the cops in West Texas even knew they had a crime ring operating in their backyards.

Maybe, maybe not.

The thought slipped away as he reached for the ringing telephone.

Several miles west of the Box Z headquarters the ranch road was freshly graded and crowned. Not yet packed down and compressed, the loose dirt was soft under Kerney's tires, and his vehicle drifted into the old ruts hidden under the fresh topping spread by the bulldozer.

The road took him away from the open rangeland toward a somber line of steep-walled, forested mesas tinged purple and red. In places the mesa clifis had been scoured bare by rock slides of massive proportions, and large boulders littered the canyon floor.

Halfway to the line camp he passed an unattended bulldozer, and the road became a worn indentation of tracks in ground-up sandstone and powder-dry day. The road veered toward a blocky rimrock mesa, and the day and sand gave way to shale and cobbles.

The line camp consisted of a battered mobile home on concrete blocks and a pump shed behind a falling-down single-story house with a spindle work porch. All the windows and doors were missing and part of the brick diimney had crashed through the roof. Across a bare patch of ground, next to a weathered corral containing two saddled mounts, was a horse trailer.

Kerney recognized the truck in front of the mobile home as one of the ve hides he'd seen at Nestor Barela's family compound. The sound of his arrival brought two men out on the three-step, rough-cut stairs to the trailer.

The men studied Kerney as he approached the trailer.

The older man stepped down to meet him. Kerney ignored the kid, who had to be Bernardo, and kept his attention fixed on Roque.

Built along the same lines as his father, Roque sported a well-fed belly tightly cinched by a belt. A large silver buckle dug into his midsection.

"You must be really lost," Roque said with a shake of his head.

Tm Kevin Kerney."

The amused expression vanished from Roque's face.

"You're the cop who lied to my father."

"That's one way to look at it."

"What do you want?"

"I'm investigating the disappearance of Luiza San Miguel." Over Roque's shoulder Kerney saw Bernardo stiffen.

"I know the girl," Roque said.

"Haven't seen her around. I heard she went back to Mexico."

"You knew her, too, didn't you?" Kerney called out to Bernardo.

"Yeah, I did." A frown line crossed Bernardo's forehead and the corners of his eyes tightened.

Kerney stepped around Roque toward Bernardo.

"I understand you were interested in Luiza."

"Me? No way."

"Really?"

Bernardo shrugged.

"Yeah, well maybe for a little while. But she wasn't interested in me."

Roque snorted.

"That's no lie."

Bernardo shot his uncle a dirty look as he walked down the steps.

"So I liked her and she didn't like me. Big deal."

"Was it a big deal?" Kerney asked.

"I don't have to waste my time with babes that don't like me."

"So, it wasn't a big deal."

"That's what I said."

"Did you see her after she went to work at the Horse Canyon Ranch?"

"Yeah, once or twice. But not to talk to."

"How about last April, outside Ojitos Frios, on the road to Romeroville? Did you see her walking?"

Bernardo shook his head.

"Is that a no?"

"No, okay?"

"You were seen on that road in your grandfather's truck with a passenger the day Luiza disappeared."

"Maybe I was, but I don't remember seeing her."

"Who was with you?"

"I don't know, man, that was a year ago. It could have been a lot of people-one of my bros, one of the family, anybody."

"Think back, Bernardo. It was a weekend evening last April. A Saturday." Kerney gave him the exact date.

"Do you have any idea what you might have been doing in the area?"

"Going to work, throwing a cruise, giving somebody a ride home. What's the big deal?"

"What would take you to the mesa in the evening?"

Kerney closed in on Bernardo. The boy flinched but held his ground.

"Maybe I left the gate unlocked. I could have been going to check it.

Maybe we had some cattle on the road. That happens a lot."

"That all makes sense." Kerney moved even closer to break into Bernardo's personal space. He used his height advantage to force Bernardo to raise his head and look him in the eye.

"But you didn't see Luiza?"

"I already said that," Bernardo replied, stepping off to one side.

"You'd remember if you did?"

"Sure."

"Look," Roque said, "if Bernardo was driving my father's truck, he was working. That's the only time he gets to use it."

"But it wasn't you in Nestor's truck with Bernardo?"

Kerney asked Roque.

"Not likely," Roque said.

"I always drive my own truck."

"So, who was riding with you?" Kerney asked Bernardo.

"Like I said, maybe one of my bros," Bernardo said, jamming his hands into the pocket of his jeans.

"Maybe I gave somebody a ride. Who said they saw me?"

"Do you remember if you gave somebody a ride that day?"

"This is bullshit," Bernardo said.

"Why the fuck are you asking me these questions again? I already answered you."

"I'm just trying to find somebody who may have seen Luiza."

"I didn't see her."

Roque jabbed his finger hard against Kerney's shoulder before he could ask another question.

"Don't jack my nephew around because my father won't turn over his lease to you."

"I'm sorry if you have that impression," Kerney said.

"That's the way it sounds to me," Roque said.

"You go to my father's house, lie to him about who you are, and now you show up here playing some sort of hardass cop game. Just leave."

"Whatever you say," Kerney said as he locked on to Bernardo again.

"Did Luiza leave her Box Zjob because of you?"

"Because of me? That's crazy."

"We'll talk again," Kerney said, to raise Bernardo's tension.

"I'll listen to anything you have to tell me."

Bernardo turned his head, cleared his throat, spit on the ground, and said nothing.

Kerney waited a few beats, nodded good-bye to Roque, gave Bernardo a quick, even stare, and left.

The grandeur of the valley and canyon lands didn't hold Kerney's attention on the drive back. His mind stayed focused on Bernardo.

Perhaps the kid had simply made some Don Juan moves on Luiza, got rejected, and-like a lot of young studs-moved on to greener pastures.

But too many issues led Kerney away from such a generous conclusion.

Bernardo knew the victim, had shown an interest in her, and could be placed near where Luiza had last been seen, on the same day, and at approximately the same time as her disappearance.

More damaging was the fact that some of Luiza's bones had been found on land Bernardo's family controlled.

That, coupled with Bernardo's uneasiness under questioning-his body language, his defensiveness, his vague answers-raised Kerney's suspicions. He stopped at the Las Vegas district office and called Emmet Griffin.

"You said you saw Luiza occasionally refuse rides from strangers when she went out walking."

"That's what I said," Griffin replied.

"Did you ever see her refuse a ride from someone she knew?"

"I can't say that for sure."

"Meaning?"

"Once I saw Nestor Barela's grandson driving real slow on the wrong side of the road, talking to her while she was walking. It went on for maybe a minute or two.

He spun his wheels and threw up a lot of dust when he left. You know, show-off kid stuff."

"You mean Bernardo?"

"That's the only grandson I know."

"Did you ask Luiza about the incident?"

"No, I didn't think anything of it at the time. She waved and smiled when I drove by. I figured she was just out on one of her evening walks."

Kerney thanked Griffin and hung up. What had Bernardo said at the line camp? He took out the pocket-size microcassette recorder he'd used to surreptitiously tape the conversation with Bernardo and Roque and played it back. On the tape Bernardo said he hadn't talked to Luiza after she started work at Horse Canyon.

According to Emmet Griffin's recollection, mat was a lie. him Anton Chico, Gabe took a look around to familiarize himself with the terrain. The phone company's records showed a customer named Bernadette Lucero had made a number of calls to Buena Vista Lumber and Supply.

Bernadette had been a participant in the singles events sponsored by the Las Vegas newspaper.

A cross-check revealed frequent calls from Joaquin Santistevan to Bernadette during the workday from his office phone and late at night from his home. The pattern of calls suggested thatjoaquin's reconciliation with his wife hadn't kept him from keeping company with Bernadette.

Anton Chico was Spanish for Little Anthony. Some held that the village was named after one of the original Hispanic settlers, others that it was a corruption of and6n chico, which meant "little bend."

Gabe cast his vote for the little bend theory. The village sat on a gentle rise above the Pecos River where it curved out of a progression of low-lying barrancas and flowed toward the eastern plains. Old cottonwoods graced the wide fields and pastures along the river, and the houses and farms perched above the flood plain were almost all nineteenth-century stone and adobe structures, with a few modern additions tacked on here and there.

Anton Chico and the neighboring settlements were part of a Mexican land grant still controlled by the descendants of the original colonists.

Halfway between Las Vegas and Santa Rosa-a city that thrived on the tourist traffic along Interstate 40-the village was off the beaten path, and provided no amenities for travelers.

Aside from a modern public school and a post office housed in a mobile home on a large dirt lot, the village center consisted of old territorial buildings. A mercantile store, a church, a rectory, some traditional long adobe houses with narrow portals, and old stone cottages with tin roofs faced two parallel lanes.

There were no gas stations, motels, restaurants, or markets. Where the lanes converged at the outskirts of the village, the pavement ended, and dirt roads wandered to nearby farmhouses and ranches.

Gabe stopped at the post office and approached the clerk after waiting for several locals to pick up their mail and leave. A round-faced woman with silver hair, she reached for reading glasses that hung from a cord around her neck and studied Gabe's credentials.

"Do you know Bernadette Lucero?" he asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

"She applied for a job as a police dispatcher. We do a background investigation on every job applicant. It's required."

"You must mean Gloria's daughter," the woman said.

She removed her glasses and let them dangle against her chest.

"Is there more than one Bernadette Lucero living in Anton Chico?"

"Not as far as I know."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"She's turned into a real good mother since she had the baby" "How old is her child?"

"About two months. She had a boy."

"Do you know the baby's father?"

The woman shook her head.

"Bema isn't married."

"How can I find her?"

"She lives next door to Gloria and Lenny."

"Can you give me a last name?"

"Alarid. Gloria is Bema's mother. She married Lenny after divorcing her first husband."

"What else can you tell me about Berna?"

"She's never been in trouble, as far as I know. She went to college up in Las Vegas for a couple of years, driving back and forth to her classes. She dropped out when she got pregnant."

"How do I get to Bema's house?"

With directions in hand, Gabe sat in his car and thumbed through the quick field notes he'd made after his last visit to Buena Vista Lumber and Supply. Twenty years as a cop had taught him to write everything down, no matter how inconsequential it seemed at the time.

Lenny Alarid's name popped up, followed by the notation that he hauled pinon chips to Texas under contract to Buena Vista.

He had no idea how everything would shake out when the dust settled.

But he found the developing connections intriguing.

Bernadette Lucero and the Alarids lived behind the church and rectory.

A fenced lot enclosed two houses and a free-standing carport large enough for a semi tractor. Surrounding the carport was an assortment of large truck trailers, a stack of spare tires, and accumulated junk.

A full-size domestic sedan and a pickup truck were parked in front of a pitched roof adobe house. A smaller double-wide manufactured home, with full skirting and an add-on deck, stood nearby. At the front of the deck steps was a late model sport utility vehicle.

Behind the carport, among some cedar trees at the backside of the lot, was an old garage with an attached shed. Next to the shed was a major pinon and juniper woodpile.

Gabe drove past the open gate, turned around, parked between the two homes, and knocked first at the adobe dwelling. After a few minutes and no answer, he tried the manufactured home.

The young woman who greeted him cradled a baby in one arm. She was bright-eyed, wore her long brown hair in soft curls, and was dressed in a dark blue sweatsuit.

"Bernadette Lucero?" Gabe gave her a reassuring smile and flipped his badge case open.

"Yes."

"Do you have time for a few questions?"

"I guess so. About what?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure."

Gabe followed Bernadette inside and waited until she settled on the couch with the baby before sitting across from her.

"What a beautiful baby," he said.

Bernadette's face lit up.

"Everybody says that." Holding the infant under his arms, she placed him on her knee facing Gabe.

"You must be very happy."

"I am. He's my little jito." She kissed the baby on the top of his head.

"Does he look like you or like his father?"

"Oh, his father, of course."

"Joaquin must be very proud."

Bernadette's smile vanished.

"You know about Joaquin?"

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Only my mother and Lenny are supposed to know."

"Debbie doesn't know?"

"Why should she? Besides, Joaquin is leaving her soon."

"Is he going to marry you?"

"In the summer," Bernadette said, her smile returning.

She bounced the baby happily on her knee and it gurgled in response.

"I really stopped by to see Lenny."

"Lenny and my mother are out of town. She goes with him sometimes on his short runs."

"I'm sorry I missed him. Maybe you can help me. Did you know Rudy Espinoza?"

"I knew Rudy. He used to cut wood for Lenny."

"Lenny sells wood?"

"He takes truckloads to Texas every fall and sells them there."

"And Rudy supplies the wood?"

"He did last year."

"What kind of truck did Rudy drive?"

"It's in the garage behind the carport. Rudy always left it here. He didn't like to drive it every day because it used too much gas. He just used it mostly when he went woodcutting."

Gabe suppressed a smile.

"I hope Joaquin is taking good care of you and the baby."

"He bought me my house, my car, the furniture, and he pays all the bills. He's a good man."

"I bet he is. Joaquin and Lenny must do a lot of business together."

Bernadette nodded in agreement.

"He keeps Lenny working a lot."

"A lot?"

"Well, for Lenny it's one of his biggest contracts."

"When will Lenny and Gloria get home?"

"Not until tomorrow sometime."

"Mind if I take a look at Rudy's truck in the garage?"

"Go ahead."

Gabe walked into the garage and let the grin he'd been holding back break across his face as soon as he saw the vehicle. He put on a pair of plastic gloves, opened the truck door and popped the glove box. It contained a handgun. Gabe didn't touch it. He looked closely at the exterior of the doors. On the driver's side was a random pattern of minute brown specks, quite probably Boaz's blood. He checked the tires; the tread pattern matched with those found at Boaz's cabin.

Outside, he called Thorpe on his cell phone.

"We've got a bunch of stolen stuff out of Angle's house," Russell said, before Gabe could start talking.

"Good deal. Is Art Garda with you?"

"Roger that."

"I want you both down in Anton Chico, pronto, with a crime scene unit.

I've found Rudy's truck and the handgun."

"Ten-four." Russell's voice rose in excitement.

"Give me your twenty, Sarge."

Gabe gave Thorpe the directions he'd asked for, disconnected, and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.

It was time to talk to Bernadette again. Since she had been willing to let him in the garage, she just might give him permission to take a look inside Lenny's house.

Gabe figured Bernadette was an innocent, gullible kid with nothing to hide, other than her relationship withjoaquin. He decided the best approach would be to convince Bernadette that Rudy Espinoza was the sole object of his investigation.

A brief conversation with Bernadette yielded a signed form giving Gabe permission to search, and a key to Lenny's front door.

After his phone conversation with Emmet Griffin, Kerney felt he finally had a suspect. He stopped off at a Las Vegas hardware store, bought a lock and chain for the gate to his property, several tools, and a pair of work gloves. Then he drove out to Erma's old cabin.

All the crime scene activity had occurred on the mesa, and no one had yet searched the cabin for evidence.

Dale's discovery of Erma's love letter should have triggered Kerney's interest. He wondered if anything else-like the missing skeletal remains-might be hidden under the rotting hay. It was worth checking.

He got to the cabin and started bailing out the deep, wet layer of hay with a long-handled pitchfork. Two feet down, the prongs struck a solid surface. Kerney scraped a section clean and exposed a partially rotted plank floor.

He kept bailing, throwing the hay out the open door, until the pitchfork prongs twanged against rock. He brushed away the last bit of black decomposed hay, and found the edge of the old fireplace hearthstone. The planking that butted against the stone was warped and saturated with moisture. He dug his fingers under the board and pulled it free. Wood joists for the floor rested on the original hard-packed dirt surface.

He cleaned out the rest of the hay, stood in the center of the cabin, and looked around. All he'd uncovered were the nests of pocket mice and pack rats-no bones.

Except for one small section at the side of the hearthstone, the floor squeaked and sagged under his feet. He took a closer look. The nails holding down four boards were not the same as the others.

He pulled the boards free one at a time and found another rat's nest next to a partially chewed-up, disintegrating cardboard box filled with water-stained faded stationery. Carefully, he peeled away one pulpy sheet, held it up to the sunlight that poured through a hole in the roof, and read the salutation.

Kerney scanned the contents and didn't bother to look for the signature; he recognized the handwriting.

He gently removed the cardboard box, carried it to his car, popped the trunk, wrapped the box in a blanket, and put it inside.

He closed the cabin door, drove through the gate, locked it, and headed for Las Vegas. He'd promised Nestor Barela a key to the new gate lock, and it was time to deliver it.

Nestor Barela's living room was a combination of old and new. Two hand-carved, antique pine blanket chests served as side tables for an overstuffed couch and an imitation leather reclining chair that faced a television set.

On one wall was a handmade shelf containing an array of framed family photographs, the largest of which, draped in black bunting, Kerney took to be of Nestor's wife. Beneath the shelf was a low wooden stool on which Nestor parked his work boots.

On the wall behind the television were two paintings.

One was a portrait of a much younger Nestor Barela, and the other was a landscape of the cabin at the foot of the mesa. Both were dearly Erma's work.

Nestor sat on the edge of his reclining diair, holding the forgotten key in his hand, staring at the cardboard box on the coffee table in front of him.

Kerney said nothing and waited.

Finally Nestor looked warily at Kerney.

"What happened between Erma and me occurred many years ago.

I would rather my children not be told."

"From what I could tell, Erma stopped writing to you thirty years ago."

"You read them?"

"Not really."

"Our affair ended after three summers. Erma was not comfortable with it. After she stopped coming to the mesa, I hid her letters in the cabin. I couldn't bring myself to destroy them."

"I understand."

"I loved my wife, Mr. Kerney."

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Mr.

Barela."

"I remained Erma's friend until she died."

"You could do no better than to have Erma as a friend."

"She used to speak to me of a young man who went to the university. The son of her college roommate."

"That was my mother."

"Erma had great affection for you."

"We were both lucky to have her friendship. Did you go to the cabin yesterday to remove Erma's letters?"

Nestor rose from his chair.

"Yes. I feared the cabin might be searched because of what happened on the mesa. I didn't want the letters to be found. Will you keep my secret?"

Kerney got to his feet.

"Your secret is safe with me. I do have one question for you, on a different subject.

Does Bernardo frequently use your truck?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"I'm looking for a witness who may have seen a young woman on the day she disappeared. A vehicle much like yours was reported in the area on that same day."

"Bernardo can only borrow my truck for work. That is my rule."

"Is it a hard and fast rule?"

"On occasion, when his car has not been running, I have let him use the truck."

"Do you remember when that was?"

"The last time was just after Thanksgiving. He needed to get a new water pump for his car."

"And before that?"

"It was last spring, in April, I believe. Bernardo's car would not start, and he had a friend to meet."

"Do you remember who he was meeting?"

"No."

"Do you remember the day?"

"It was on a weekend."

"I doubt it's important," Kerney said with a shrug as he held out a business card.

"But I do need to talk to Bernardo. Would you ask him to call me when he has a chance?"

"I will see that he does."

"Thank you."

Kerney left the Barela compound thinking that digging up Nestor Barela's long-buried secret had unearthed another reason to suspect Bernardo. His next step was to identify the passenger in Nestor's truck, find the kid, and take a statement.

The evening wind blew hard out of the mountains. It swirled last fall's leaves into the air, whipped through tree boughs dense with buds, and shouldered the car toward the center of the roadway.

Kerney headed for the district office. He would check in with Santa Fe, deal by phone with whatever required his immediate attention, and stay the night in Las Vegas.

In the morning, he'd start looking for Bernardo's bros.

Minutes after checking into a Las Vegas motel, Kerney got a phone call that took him to Anton Chico. He arrived to find a group of locals lined up along the fence of the Aland property, watching crime scene technicians gathering evidence from a pickup truck inside a garage.

Several uniforms were searching large trailers parked on the lot. On the wooden deck of a modular home, a young woman barely out of her teens watched the activity with wide eyes. She wore a warm coat and held a baby bundled in a blanket against her hip.

Kerney spotted Captain Garduno in front of a single-story adobe house.

Garduno, red-faced and angry, had Gabe Gonzales, Russell Thorpe, and another uniformed officer braced. Kerney stayed back and listened while Garduno butt-chewed Gabe for pursuing an investigation while on administrative leave. When Garduno finished ragging at the other two men for helping Gonzales, he saw Kerney, and walked to him.

"You heard that?" Garduno asked.

"I did. You need to know that I authorized Sergeant Gonzales to continue his investigation."

Garduno's face turned red.

"We got a chain of command here. Chief. You should have informed me."

"You're right, I should have."

Garduno pulled his chin back and scanned Kerney's face.

"If you want to take over my job and run the district, at least tell me to my face."

"That was not my intention, Captain."

Garduno squared his shoulders.

"This is a policy violation.

I have to document it for the record."

"Write it up. Captain, and make it dear in your report that I assume full responsibility for the infraction."

"Are you serious?"

"You bet I am. Send your report directly to Chief Baca."

"You mean that?"

"Consider it an order. Captain." Kerney took a step away from Garduno and stopped.

"It looks like Gabe has made some progress in the case, doesn't it?" he added.

Garduno opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and damped his lips together.

Gabe, Russell Thorpe, and the patrol officer-a man Kerney didn't know-nodded when he drew near. The officer wore corporal chevrons and hash marks on his uniform shirt denoting a senior patrolman with ten years of service. His name tag read Art Garda.

"Is everything squared away?" Gabe asked.

"I think so."

Gabe introduced Kerney to Art Garda. After shaking Garda's hand, Kerney asked for a status report.

"We've recovered a handgun, a chain saw, and a pair of wire cutters from the truck," Gabe replied.

"The gun is the same caliber used in the Boaz shooting. There's blood splatter on the driver's door, and the tires match the tread impressions we took at Boaz's cabin."

"Do you have any idea why Rudy killed Boaz?"

"According to Boaz's journal, he was squeezing Rudy for more money. I figure he knew that Rudy was pulling jobs in the San Geronimo area, and fencing hot merchandise out of Texas. My guess is Rudy wanted to make sure Boaz didn't talk."

"That's a damn good motive for murder. Have you tied Rudy into any of the San Geronimo burglaries?"

Gabe shook his head.

"Not yet. But I think Lenny Alarid and Joaquin Santistevan were in on them with Rudy. I doubt Rudy was the brains behind the operation."

"Run it down for me."

"Rudy was part of an interstate burglary and fencing scheme operating between here and West Texas. We've recovered a number of items from the Boaz cabin and Angle Romero's house that were taken in major West Texas heists. I believe Rudy kept some of the stolen merchandise for himself and gave some to Boaz as partial payment for access to the woodcutting site."

"What else have you got?"

Gabe nodded at the girl on the deck.

"Joaquin is supporting a wife at home, as well as Bema over there with her new baby. He bought Bema a house, a car, and furniture, which I don't think he paid for out of the salary his daddy gives him.

"Bema is Lenny's step-daughter. He makes frequent runs to West Texas, hauling firewood and wood chips for Santistevan. I don't think that's all he's been freighting"

"Do you have any hard evidence?" Kerney asked.

"No, but Bema said Lenny keeps a semitrailer on the property mat he uses for special runs. She doesn't know what kind. He moved it off the property yesterday."

"You think he transferred the stolen goods?"

"That's what I would have done," Gabe replied.

"I'd like to send Thorpe and Officer Garda down to Santa Rosa to poke around. If Aland did move the stolen merchandise, Santa Rosa would be a good spot to store it."

"Don't."

Gabe turned to Thorpe and Garda.

"Take off. guys. I want every warehouse, storage unit, or possible hiding place in Santa Rosa covered by morning. Call me at home if you find anything."

Thorpe grinned and Garda nodded.

Kerney waited to speak until the two men were on the way to their units.

"What can you tell me about Bernardo Barela mat isn't in the background information Captain Garduno prepared for me?"

"Not much. He had some juvenile arrests when he was in his early teens. Mostly for getting into fights and underage drinking. Nothing serious enough to get him locked up. He was released to the custody of his parents."

"No juvenile probation?"

"Not that I know of. I think maybe he got some informal counseling."

"What kind of fights did he have?"

"Pushing and shoving matches. The usual teenage stuff."

"And the drinking?"

"Open six-packs found in a friend's car. Stopped and questioned at rowdy parties. Nothing more than that."

"Anything since then?"

"No. He seems to have straightened himself out."

"So, he's a good kid?"

"Maybe."

"You don't sound convinced."

Gabe considered his answer.

"There's an edge to Bernardo. He's respectful with me, but I get the feeling it's just surface bullshit. You know how some kids cover up their insolence by acting super polite?"

"Yeah, I do."

"That's Bernardo. Underneath, he thinks he's a tough guy" "Does he have any gang connections?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you know who he hangs with?"

"My son, Orlando, might. He's known Bernardo since high school. They played varsity baseball together."

"How can I contact Orlando?"

"He's at work." Gabe gave Kerney the name of the fast-food burger joint.

"Can I ask what you've got going, Chief?"

"I've got a possible ID on the dead woman, and information that Bernardo may have had more than a passing interest in her."

"That's it?"

"He was seen in the company of an unknown companion on the road to Ojitos Prios the day the dead woman disappeared."

"That's worth checking out. Is the victim on our missing persons list?"

"She was never reported as missing."

Gabe waited for more but Kerney remained silent.

"Orlando may be able to help you. He doesn't pal around with Bernardo all that much, but he probably knows who does."

Til stop by and talk to him."

"Captain Garduno is going to ding me for working this case. Chief. I'm getting a letter of reprimand for my personnel jacket."

"No, you're not. Garduno is going to write me up."

"You're kidding, right?"

Tm serious. In fact, I made it an order."

Speechless, Gabe watched Kerney leave. Never in his career had Gabe ever known of a commander or supervisor ordering a subordinate to write him up. Kerney's action took Gabe off the hook, big time. The chief knew how to keep his word.

He thought about calling Orlando at work to let him know Kerney would be coming around to ask questions, and decided against it. Orlando could handle the situation without any fatherly advice.

He walked toward Bema's house. It was time to sit down with the girl and take a written statement.

Although the day had not been overly hot, the cool of the evening brought many Tucson residents out on the streets. Most stores and small businesses stayed open late to accommodate shoppers, and the wide boulevards buzzed with traffic.

Susie had made dinner reservations at a restaurant located in one of Tucson's original shopping malls. Sara expected to be dining in an enclosed, air-conditioned space filled with franchised businesses and chain department stores. Instead she found herself seated on the open patio of a bistro in a single-story, block-long building that had a mission-style feel to it.

After the meal and a lot of small talk, they wandered in and out of the bookstores, art galleries, boutiques, and antique shops mat opened onto interior patios nicely landscaped with mesquites, paloverde trees, and creosote bushes.

On their way to Susie's car, Sara paused at the window of an art gallery and studied a large oil of cottonwood trees in full fall color.

She looked for the artist's signature and found it.

"That's Irma Fergurson's work."

"The woman who left Kerney the land?"

"Yes."

"It's a wonderful painting."

Sara stepped toward the gallery door.

"Are you sure you want to go in?"

"Why not?"

"You've avoided any mention of Kerney for the last six hours," Susie said.

"I'd hate to see you break your code of silence."

"Don't be so sarcastic."

"I bet you haven't stopped thinking about him since you left Santa Fe,"

Susie said as she opened the gallery door.

Sara paused.

"Would you like to see more of Erma's work or not?"

Susie smiled sweetly.

"Of course I would."

The gallery had a large number of Erma's paintings.

The owner, an older man, explained that he had exclusively represented Erma in Tucson for a number of years.

Sara lost herself in Erma's landscapes. There were pine forests climbing sheer mountain walls, barrel cactus ablaze in color on rolling desert sand dunes, pinon woodlands stretching across tabletop mesas, and fields of hot yellow wildflowers coursing through a valley.

Erma's works celebrated the light, sky, and vastness of the land. The smallest image was priced above $10,000, and most commanded three times that amount.

The gallery owner heard Sara sigh as she finished a second, thorough inspection of Erma's paintings.

"Her works are heavily collected," he said.

"I have clients who have built additions on their homes to accommodate her larger works."

"I can see why."

"These are the last, except for what is held by her estate. The prices can only go up. Are you a collector?"

"Only in my dreams."

"I have some of Erma's pendl drawings hanging in my office. Mostly studies for her earlier egg temperas and watercolors. They're quite reasonably priced. Would you like to see them?"

"I would love to," Sara said.

An hour later, Sara left the gallery with a signed, framed pendl sketch of Hermit's Peak in hand. The reasonable price had gouged a hole in her vacation funds, but Sara didn't care.

"When are you going to give it to him?" Susie asked as they walked to th e car. Her eyes were smiling.

"When I get back to Santa Fe," Sara answered.

"When are you leaving?"

"Ibnight."

Susie unlocked the car and got behind the wheel.

"I thought so. Do me a favor before you see him."

"What's that?"

"Don't try to have everyfhingfigured out. Let Kerney tell you what he wants."

"He may not want anything."

"Do I detect a note of insecurity?"

"Maybe. Until I met Kerney, I've always encouraged the men I've known to move on."

Susie cranked the engine and pulled out of the lot.

"And now?"

"I can't seem to stay that tough-minded about him."

"TeH him that."

"Those aren't words I'm comfortable saying."

"Practice. You've got all night."

"Love is scary."

"Yes!" Susie said, holding up her hand for a high five.

Sara slapped Susie's open palm.

"What?"

"You used the F word."

"I did, didn't I?"

"First time, about a man?"

"First time ever, about a man."

"Use it with Kerney."

"Youthink?"

"You'd better. Otherwise, he's fair game for the likes of me."

"No cuts. Get at the back of the line."

"Thatta girl."

Kerney studied Orlando Gonzales while he waited for the young man to finish his stint at the drive-up window of the burger joint. Orlando had his fast-food drill down to a well-oiled routine. He began filling orders as they came in over the drive-up speaker, moving quickly between drink dispenser, french fry cooker, and burger-warming trays.

Kerney saw a hint of Gabe in the boy's features, particularly the shape of his head and his chin. But his face was thinner and his eyes a bit less deeply set than his father's.

When the drive-up traffic slowed, the night manager relieved Orlando at the window and pointed in Kerney's direction.

Orlando pulled off his red company logo cap as he hurried around the counter.

"Is my dad all right?"

"He's fine, although you may not see much of him until tomorrow. He's fairiy busy right now."

Orlando's shoulders relaxed as he sat down.

"Man, you scared me for a minute. All my boss said was that a cop wanted to see me."

"Not to worry. Gabe hasn't been hurt."

"So, who are you?"

"Kevin Kerney." Kerney displayed his shield.

Orlando read the engraved rank on the badge.

"Is my dad in trouble?"

Kerney smiled reassuringly.

"Not at all. He suggested that I talk to you."

Orlando shook his head in confusion.

"About what?"

"Bernardo Barela."

Orlando half-closed his eyes.

"He's in trouble?"

"Not necessarily," Kerney replied.

"You've known Bernardo for a long time."

"Yeah, but we don't hang together very much anymore."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"We had a couple of beers a few nights ago. Before that, it's been maybe a year since we've seen each other."

"Did he ever mention a girl by the name of Luiza San Miguel?"

Orlando's voice changed to a thin treble.

"Who?"

"Luiza San Miguel."

"I don't know that name. I don't know who he's dating."

"You're not tight with Bernardo anymore?"

Orlando forced a smile.

"Nah. We sort of went different ways. He's really into the ranching thing and I'm pretty much preoccupied with school."

"That's understandable. Is he popular with the girls?"

"He gets his share of attention."

"Does he brag about it?"

"Not to me."

"Has he dated anyone you know?"

Orlando mentioned some names, which Kerney wrote down.

"What about his pals?"

He gave Kerney a few more names.

After finding out how to locate Bernardo's friends, Kerney closed his notebook and put it away.

"Is Bernardo in bad trouble?" Orlando asked.

"You're worried about him."

"Well, sure. I mean, he's still a friend, sort of."

"When was your last contact with him?"

"Before this week?"

"Yes."

Orlando closed his eyes.

"It was at a party. Yeah, a party." His eyes fluttered open.

"I saw him there and we shot the shit for a while."

"When was that?"

"Last spring. April, maybe May."

"Did he seem upset? Agitated? In any way different?"

"No."

"Who had the party?"

"It was at some girl's apartment. I didn't know her. A bundi of us got invited on the spur of the moment."

"Was Bernardo with anyone at the party?"

"I don't think so."

"Did you do any cruising with Bernardo early last year, around Ojitos Frios?"

"I haven't cruised with Bernardo since we were in high school."

"Has Bernardo ever done anything strange or weird?"

"You mean like crazy shit? Not that I know about."

"Thanks, Orlando."

Orlando opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed hard.

"Did you want to say something?"

"I gotta get back to work."

"Thanks, again."

Numbly, Orlando watched Kerney leave before he pulled himself out of the chair and walked woodenly to the counter. The assistant manager stepped away from the drive-up station and said something.

"What?"

"You've got three specials with cheese coming up, and three large fries. The super drinks are ready to go."

"Okay" He stuck the drinks on the foam tray, packed the fries and ketchup packets in a bag, wrapped the burgers as they came up, bagged them, and turned toward the pass through window. The reflection of his pale face and pinched lips in the glass startled him.

Officers Garcia and Thorpe arrived in Santa Rosa and quickly discovered that there were no warehouses or storage units in the town. But they did find a number of boarded-up, vacant filling stations, motels, and other structures on the main drag that had closed down as new commercial development spread along the frontage road by the interstate on the east side of the city.

Garda dedded to check out the vacant buildings on the off chance that Aland was using one for storage. He assigned Thorpe to one side of the strip and took the other. After two hours of close patrols, he contacted Thorpe by radio, called off the building checks, and met with him outside the Santa Rosa State Police substation.

"I'm shutting it down," Garda said.

"Go home."

"I still think Sarge is right," Thorpe said.

"Aland has got to be warehousing the stolen merchandise somewhere."

"Not in this town."

"Maybe he's storing it in the countryside somewhere, where he won't draw attention to himself."

"Possibly. But that covers a lot of territory."

"I'd like to come back tomorrow morning and take another look around."

"We're out of our district. Let the Santa Rosa substation handle it."

"Then they'd get the bust."

"If they find anything."

"Just give me the morning."

"Don't be so gung-ho, Thorpe."

"Come on. Art."

Garda dedded there was no reason to squash Thorpe's enthusiasm.

"Okay. But I want you to work with Abe Mdendez. He's the sergeant in charge of the Santa Rosa substation. If you strike out, I want you back in Las Vegas by thirteen hundred. Now, go home."

Garda watched Thorpe turn his unit around and drive down the empty street. He flicked on the dome light, made an entry in his daily log, and informed dispatch he was off duty and proceeding home.

Her name was Jessica Varela, and over the past six months Bernardo had learned a lot about her. She was thirty, divorced, had no children, and lived alone on the second floor of an old house that had been converted into two apartments. She worked as a cashier at a hardware store and took night courses at the university.

When Bernardo first saw her at the hardware store he got really turned on. She hid her face behind long blonde hair, kept her head lowered when she spoke, and only looked up to give quick, shy glances. She had a smile that seemed like she was keeping secrets, a small, skinny body, slightly rounded shoulders, and a nice set of tits.

He went into the store a lot to get stuff for the ranch, and he used each visit to talk to her at the register, asking one or two calculated questions. He'd been surprised to learn how old she was; he'd figured her to be a lot younger. He found out she was a grin ga who'd kept her married name, that she'd grown up in the Midwest, and had moved to Las Vegas from Albuquerque after getting divorced.

Bernardo sat in his car across from the hardware store and watched me lights inside the building go out.

The store stayed open late three nights a week, and Jessica worked on those nights when she didn't have an evening class.

He watched the employees leave and waited until Jessica reached the traffic light at the corner before pulling onto the street to follow.

She always took the same route home, so Bernardo didn't have to worry about losing her. He passed by as she pulled into her driveway, made a U-turn at the end of the block, turned off his headlights, and coasted to a stop in time to see her unlock the front door and step inside. He waited until the upstairs lights came on before getting out of his car.

Usually he just drove away after she got home, but tonight something about the house was different; the downstairs apartment was dark.

Always before the lights had been on at night.

Bernardo walked down the opposite side of the street before crossing, then strolled past Jessica's house. There was a for rent sign in the downstairs window. That made him smile. The house only had one front and back entrance, and the rear door opened directly to the first floor apartment. He'd been looking for a way to get inside without being seen or heard. Trying to break in on a morning when she went to work late had always been a risky idea because of the downstairs tenants.

Now that problem was solved.

He wondered what the inside of her apartment looked like. He couldn't wait to see it.

Bernardo got back in his car and drove away, thinking he'd have to move fast before the landlord found new renters. He arrived home to find his grandfather leaving his parents' house.

"Jito," Nestor said.

"I've been looking for you."

"What is it?"

Nestor held out a business card.

"That policeman, Kerney, wants to speak to you."

"Me?" Bernardo took the card.

"Yes, you. Your uncle Roque said that you've already spoken to him once, about some girl. What is this all about?"

"I don't know, Abuelo. What did he ask you about me?"

"Nothing really. He wanted to know if I let you use my truck."

"I already talked to him about that," Bernardo said.

"I have nothing more to tell him."

"Be polite and respectful, Bernardo. Speak with Senor Kerney, answer his questions, and be done with it."

Bernardo nodded abruptly, got back in his car, and slammed the door.

"Where are you going?" Nestor asked.

"It is late and you have work to do in the morning."

"I forgot something."

Bernardo peeled rubber out of the driveway, tailpipes rumbling as he shifted into a higher gear. He cruised past the burger joint, saw Orlando's car, and made a quick decision not to bother him at work. In the morning, he would call and find out if Orlando had talked to the gringo cop Kerney and what, if anything, Orlando had said.

His plans for Jessica would have to wait for a day or two.

Orlando woke up from a dream where he was lost in some strange city that was impossible to leave. No matter which way he went, every route took him back to a block of windowless, silent buildings on an empty street with no cars or people.

He got out of bed thinking that if he waited until the end of the semester to move to Albuquerque, it might be too late.

He showered, shaved, returned to his room, sat at his desk, and figured out how much money he could pull together if he split. If he used his car insurance payment, the two hundred bucks he had in savings, and his last paycheck, he could come up with about seven hundred dollars.

His stomach sank as the realization hit him that running away wouldn't change anything. His life would still be fucked. He threw the scrap of paper in the wastebasket, got to his feet, and slung his daypack over his shoulder. If he left now, maybe Dad would still be in the shower when he hit the front door. The phone rang as he reached for his jacket.

"Did a state cop named Kerney talk to you?"

Bernardo asked when Orlando answered.

"Yeah, last night" "What about?"

"You."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"We need to meet."

"Why?"

"To get our stories straight, before the cop gets all suspicious."

"How did he get on to you?"

"The bitch used to work at a place out near my ahuelo's ranch. He's just talking to people who might have known her."

"I thought you didn't know her."

"I already told you I didn't."

"So why is the cop interested in you?"

"He's interested in both of us, bro. He asked me about driving around Ojitos Prios in my grandfather's truck with somebody last April. Does he know that was you?"

"We're screwed," Orlando said.

"Does he know that was you?" Bernardo demanded.

"No. What are we going to do?"

"Come up with something simple about where we were and what we did. Get our stories straight. Back each other up. He already talked to my grandfather. He wants to talk to me again."

"Shit!"

"We gotta meet."

"Okay."

"Some place where no one will see us. How about down by the Gallinas River where we used to party in high school?"

"That's miles from here."

"It's halfway to town from my grandfather's ranch."

"When?"

"Can you make it by ten?"

"Yeah."

"Just don't say anything to your old man."

"I'm not stupid, Bernardo," Orlando said as he hung up the phone.

He hurried down the stairs, saw his father sitting at the kitchen table, and stopped in the doorway.

"Hey, champ, who was on the phone?" Gabe asked.

"A guy from school. He wants to borrow my class notes. Gotta go."

"Give me a minute before you take off."

Orlando stepped into the kitchen.

"Sure."

"My deputy chief wants to talk to you about Bernardo."

"He already did, last night."

"What did he want to know?"

"Just who Bernardo's friends were."

"What eke did he ask?"

"He asked me if Bernardo was popular widt the girl, and if I ever went cruising with him."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much. Oh yeah, he wanted to know about somebody named Luiza."

"Luiza who?"

"San Miguel. I don't know who she is."

"That's not a common name. More Mexican than Hispanic. You gave him the straight scoop?"

Orlando shrugged.

"Sure. I really don't know who Bernardo dates. Is Bernardo like a suspect or something?"

"I don't know."

"What's this guy investigating, anyway?"

"The mesa homidde. He thinks he has an ID on the victim."

"No shit?"

"It might be a good idea for you to cool it with Bemaido for a while."

"I don't see Bernardo much anyway."

"Keep It that way until things settle down."

"Is that all?"

"Are you still planning to move to Albuquerque when school gets out?"

"Yeah."

"You don't sound so sure about it today."

"I gotta go." Orlando took an awkward step backward and his daypack banged against the door frame.

"Watch it, champ," Gabe said with a grin.

"Don't hurt yourself. Maybe we can talk about it some more tonight."

Orlando nodded and smiled nervously.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Then get out of here. I'll see you later."

"Later."

Outside, Orlando threw the daypack in the backseat of his car and cranked the engine with a shaky hand, praying that there was still a way out of the shithole he was in.

Before leaving Tucson, Sara had tried to reach Kerney by phone without any luck. She left a message on his machine, letting him know she was returning to Santa Fe, packed hurriedly, gave Susie a big hug, and hit the road. The image of Susie's approving smile stayed with her until she reached the city limits.

Sara enjoyed driving late at night. She could wrap herself in a cocoon, let her mind wander, and see where her thoughts took her.

Tonight she kept thinking of Kerney and how she felt about him.

The hours it took to reach Santa Fe felt like minutes as she pulled to a stop in front of Kerney's cottage.

His truck was there but his unmarked state police unit wasn't.

Disappointed, she looked at the dashboard dock and realized he was probably at work.

She let herself in with the key Kerney had given her, expecting Shoe to greet her at the door with his tail wagging and the sneaker firmly in his mouth. The dog was nowhere to found, and all the pet supplies were gone from the kitchen.

Shoe's absence made her worry about both Kerney and the dog. Had Shoe run off or died? Had Kerney decided not to keep Shoe in spite of his genuine affection for the animal?

The answering machine blinked and Sara played back the messages, hoping Kerney had left one for her.

Aside from her message to him and a call from a woman named Ruth Pino there was nothing else on the machine.

She went into the living room, tossed her jacket on the couch, thought about calling Kerney at work, and dropped the idea. She was too tired to think straight. A hot bath and a nap were in order. She picked up her bag and walked into the bedroom.

Without Shoe, the place felt empty.

There wasn't much left to the old settlement on the Gallinas River, just some partial stone and adobe walls, rusted pieces of tin roofing, a few sagging fence posts, and occasional piles of junk, including broken beer bottles and trash left by kids who parried at the site.

The river's floodplain had created a channel no more than three feet deep and fifty feet wide. Spring runoff filled much of the eroded streambed. Cows grazed close to the water near a locked gate on the far side where the dirt road ended.

As far as Bernardo knew the place didn't have a name. It had been settled and abandoned several times since the nineteenth century and was now part of Arlin Fullerton's Box Z spread.

He leaned against the hood of Uncle Roque's truck and watched the cows slosh their way through the water toward a low soggy bottom where spring grasses had greened up. His rio had gone to a spring stock sale in Roswell and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. That left Bernardo with the truck and all the time he needed to meet with Orlando.

He hoped Orlando would show so he wouldn't have to go looking for him.

He heard the sound of tires on gravel, turned to see Orlando's car topping the low hill, and waved as the vehicle slowed to a stop.

Orlando got out and walked to him.

Bernardo gave him a friendly smile.

"Man, you'd better have a good story we can use," Orlando said.

"First, tell me what the cop asked you."

"He asked me if we went cruising together last year in Ojitos Frios. I told him no."

"What else?"

"He wanted to know if you knew Luiza. I told him I didn't know who you were dating."

"Did he say anything about her being missing?"

"No."

"Then he's just fishing."

"I think he knows who she is. My dad said Kerney has a possible ID on the victim." A thought flashed through Orlando's mind. He stared at Bernardo.

"What?" Bernardo asked.

"How did he put us in Ojitos Prios?"

"Somebody saw us in my grandfather's truck."

"Did you tell him we were there?"

"I said I didn't remember." Bernardo tore open a pack of cigarettes and quickly lit up.

"He's probably questioning everybody who knew Luiza. Don't get all bent out of shape. We'll get our shit together and it will all be cool."

Something clicked in Orlando's mind.

"But he's doing a background investigation on you. Asking who your friends are. Where you were last April. If you knew Luiza. That means you're a target."

Bernardo exhaled smoke and laughed.

"Did you learn that cop shit from your old man?"

"You knew Luiza, didn't you?"

Bernardo shrugged.

"Yeah, I knew her."

"She never wanted to party with us that night, did she?"

Bernardo smiled.

"I had to convince her."

"You meant to rape her all along."

Bernardo didn't respond.

"Do the cops know that you knew her?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean squat."

Orlando shook his head.

"You don't get it, do you?

You're a fucking suspect."

"So what?" Bernardo ground out the smoke with the heel of his boot.

Orlando turned to walk back to his car.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm splitting. I can't live with this shit anymore. I'm done with it. It's over, Bernardo."

Bernardo grabbed Orlando by the arm.

"Are you going to snitch me off?"

"I didn't say that. Let go of me."

Are your' Orlando yanked Bernardo's hand off his arm and pushed him away.

"I don't know what I'm going to do.

I'll let you know when I decide."

"That's not good enough, Orlando." Bernardo put his right hand in his back pocket and grabbed the handle of his sheath knife.

"Live with it," Orlando said.

"Can't do it, bro." Bernardo pulled the knife, took two steps, drove the blade under Orlando's rib cage, and ripped up to find the heart.

Orlando grunted once, his mouth open like a feeding fish, his eyes already empty.

Bernardo pulled the knife free and watched Orlando's blood pump out of his body as he fell to the ground. He'd read somewhere that during Vietnam the Communists would castrate dead Americans, stick their dicks in their mouths, and sew their lips together, to scare the soldiers who found the bodies. He thought about doing it to Orlando but dedded not to bother.

No one was ever going to see him again.

He stepped over to Orlando and slit his throat.

He wanted the body drained of blood before he hauled it to the truck.

When the blood flow turned to a slight trickle, he dumped the body in the truck bed and covered it with hay bales he'd brought along. Using a shovel, he dug around the sticky, deep-red blood pool, turning the soil until dry earth covered the ground.

Uncle Roque had told him to finish grading the road to the line camp, and get the dozer back to the Box Z. Prom today on, anybody who used that road would be driving over Orlando's bones.

Some of Orlando's blood had squirted on his hand.

Bernardo sniffed it as he drove away. It smelled good.

At the start of his shift, Russell Thorpe checked to see if the APB on Aland's truck was still active. Aland hadn't been spotted, so Thorpe got on the road to Santa Rosa. If he could pick up Aland, it would be a significant collar.

He found Sergeant Melendez at the reception counter in the Santa Rosa substation reviewing daily shift reports. Thorpe introduced himself and told Melendez what he was looking for and why.

Melendez rolled his eyes, said there were countless places to hide a tractor trailer rig where it would never be found, and finally suggested that Thorpe do a close patrol of Puerto de Luna, a settlement ten miles southeast of Santa Rosa.

The road to Puerto de Luna hugged the edge of a low butte at the far side of the river valley until it reached a sweep of pasture and farms that bordered both sides of the river. Thorpe crossed the bridge into the village and did a quick patrol. There wasn't much to the settlement: an old church with an adjacent cemetery, a fenced-off, abandoned one-room schoolhouse, a flat-roofed modern building with a brick facade that served as a community and senior citizen center, and several occupied houses made up the heart of the community.

He stopped at a road sign that told of the village's former status as the county seat, and its most notorious visitor, Billy the Kid, before cruising south to the end of the pavement. The road turned to gravel where two converging mesas pinched the valley close to the river, the streambed hidden behind thick bosque. He spotted several old semitrailers near barns and outbuildings, but it was dear they'd been stationary for years.

He worked a series of dirt roads, visually checking each ranch and farm that came into view, until he was a good ten miles south of the village.

Melendez had warned him not to get his hopes up, and Thorpe now understood why. As he crisscrossed and skirted buttes, mesas, arroyos, and canyon lands on rutted tracks that seemed to go nowhere, he realized that he could spend days in the boonies, find nothing, and still have hundreds of places left to search.

Back in Puerto de Luna, he stopped at the community center and talked to a cook and her elderly male assistant, who were in the kitchen preparing a midday meal for senior dozens.

"Do either of you know Lenny Alarid?" Thorpe asked as he watched the stout, middle-aged woman ladle food into a white Styrofoam container and hand it to the old man.

"I don't think so," the woman said.

The old man put the container into a portable warming cart and waited to receive the next meal.

"Do you know him?" Thorpe asked him.

The old man shook his head.

"He's a truck driver," Thorpe added.

"Lots of people around here drive trucks," the cook replied, holding out another meal.

The old man closed the lid and slid it into the can.

The thick veins in his liver-spotted hands were blood red under a thin layer of translucent skin.

"A semi truck Thorpe said. He described Aland's tractor trailer rig.

"Never saw it," the woman said "I have," the old man said.

"Where?" the cook asked before Thorpe could get the question out.

"At Perfecta Velarde's barn. The truck was there yesterday when I delivered her meal to her."

"Did she have any visitors?" Thorpe asked.

"Yes. Her daughter and son-in-law. The daughter's name is Gloria. I didn't meet the man."

"Do you know Gloria's married name?"

The old man shook his head.

"But she lives in Anton Chico."

"Where is Perfecta's place?"

"On the highway to Santa Rosa. The truck is parked next to the barn."

"I didn't see it on the way in."

"You can't. A hill blocks it from view. You have to be driving back to Santa Rosa to see her place from the highway."

"How far?" Thorpe asked.

"Two miles. It's just before the road curves around the mesa. You'll see it."

"Thanks."

Russell keyed the radio as he left the community center and made contact with Art Garda.

"You were supposed to be back a half hour ago," Garda said after acknowledging Thorpe's call.

"I may have located Aland's truck."

"When will you know for sure?" Garda asked sarcastically.

Thorpe took the first turn after the bridge at sixty miles an hour.

"About one minute."

"Standing by," Garda said.

Thorpe floored his unit along a straightaway, braked through a gradual curve, saw Perfecta's barn and Aland's rig, and slowed down.

"Truck in sight."

"Can you positively ID the rig?"

"Give me a minute." Russell rolled to a stop, reached for his binoculars, and focused on the lettering on the driver's door.

"It's Aland's. He's got the trailer unhitched from his cab. Looks like he's planning to leave it here."

"Give me an exact location."

Thorpe snapped off directions into the microphone.

"What should I do if he tries to leave?"

"Stop him when he gets on the highway. If nobody moves, stay put.

Sergeant Melendez is responding. ETA ten minutes. Sergeant Gonzales is rolling now. Good work, Thorpe."

Ten-four."

Smiling to himself, Russell parked his unit, left the engine running, and scanned the farmhouse. All looked quiet. As he lowered the binoculars, his radio crackled and Melendez's voice came over the speaker.

"ETA five minutes. Is everything cool?"

"Roger that. Nothing's moving. Do we have a search warrant?"

"Not yet. Art Garcia is enroute to magistrate court."

"Ten-four."

Melendez clicked off and Russell settled back to wait.

Lenny Aland watched the cops from the living room window. For twenty minutes, two police cars had been parked at the end of his mother-in-law's driveway. At first Lenny told himself the cops were just taking a break and shooting the shit. Now his gut ached with the feeling that he was about to be busted.

Lenny didn't think of himself as a criminal. He wasn't a wife-beater, a drunk, or a bad-ass, and he'd never been in jail. He was forty-eight years old and had spent most of his adult life on the road, hauling whatever he could on a for-hire basis. Only a fraction of his runs consisted of hauling stolen merchandise, but the work netted him the biggest portion of his income. Without it he'd be scraping along, driving a piece of shit rig, trying to live on 15,000 dollars a year.

He took his eyes off the cops for a moment and glanced at his truck. A top-of-the-line model with a sleeping compartment and all the accessories, it had set him back over 150,000 dollars. It was midnight blue with stainless steel grillwork, a chrome bumper, custom running lights at the top of the cab, primo mud flaps, and fancy cherry red pinstriping. It was his pride and joy. But with the cargo in the box, it was about to become a big time liability.

He snorted and rubbed his belly where the gas pressure had built up. He was about to get hammered by the cops because of Rudy Espinoza's stupidity. If he hadn't murdered Carl Boaz, the cops wouldn't be here.

He switched his attention back to the cop cars just as another unit drove up, and Lenny knew for sure his goose was cooked.

Gloria, his wife, stood by his side nervously biting a fingernail. She knew exactly how he made his money.

He'd married Gloria eight years ago when she still had a slender figure and a young-looking face. Then she hit forty and her body got wide, her face got fat and her arms got flabby. Lenny didn't care; he was no prize himself.

"Are they coming here?" Gloria asked.

"What do you think?"

"Don't snap at me."

Lenny grunted.

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Can't we leave?"

"They'll just stop us on the road."

"Think of something."

"Like what?"

"Maybe they're not here for us."

"Yeah, right," Lenny said.

"See the cop standing behind his car. He's got binoculars trained on the house."

The senior citizen meal delivery van came down the highway with a turn signal blinking. The cop with the binoculars halted the vehicle, talked to the driver for a minute, and sent him on his way.

"We're screwed," Lenny said.

"Take your mother to the kitchen."

"I don't want to go to jail, Lenny."

"You don't know anything about my business, understand? Tell them you came along for the ride to keep me company, and don't know nothing."

"What about you?"

"I'll get a lawyer."

A fourth patrol car drove up.

"Shit!" Lenny said.

"Is it time for my meal?" Perfecta asked.

Lenny grimaced in the direction of his mother-in-law, who stood in the middle of the living room, her hands clasped on the rails of a walker.

A stroke had left her partially paralyzed, and her mind was mostly mush.

She barely knew who she was. Except when Gloria came to visit, the old lady had a live-in assistant, who cost Lenny a pile of money to employ.

"Take her into the kitchen," Lenny repeated, just as the phone rang.

Gloria picked it up, listened for a moment, and held it out with a shaky hand.

"I hope they bring me lamb chops and peas today," Perfecta said.

"And peaches."

Gloria gave Lenny a scared look, went to her mother, and walked her through the kitchen door.

"Yeah," Lenny said into the phone.

"This is Sergeant Gonzales with the New Medco State Police, Lenny. Who is inside the house besides your wife and mother-in-law?"

"Nobody. What do you want?"

"We're here to serve a warrant. I want you to step outside the house and stand in plain view with your hands where I can see them. Are there any guns in the house?"

"No."

"Are you armed?"

"No."

"Hang up the phone and step outside. Stay calm and nobody gets hurt."

On the porch step with his hands palms out and open, Lenny watched the four police cars come up the driveway. The front unit rolled to a stop and a uniformed sergeant with a stubby chin and square face got out of his cruiser and stood behind the car door.

Behind him, three officers emerged from their units with guns drawn.

"What's this all about?" Lenny asked.

Gabe studied Lenny before responding. Aland wore a work shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots that added an inch to his five seven frame. A full mustache covered his upper lip, and deep worry lines creased his low forehead.

His hands were shaking.

Gabe didn't see any bulges in Lenny's clothing. He made a circular motion with his finger.

"Very slowly,

Lenny, I want you to make one complete turn and then stop. Keep your hands away from your body."

Lenny finished the turn to find two of the cops within striking distance. One held a gun on him while a baby-faced officer patted him down.

"He's clean," the baby-faced cop said as he tossed Lenny's truck keys to Gabe.

"Check inside," Gabe ordered.

The cops moved into the house as Gabe walked to Lenny, smiled, and handed him some papers.

Lenny couldn't focus on the document.

"What's this?"

"You want me to read it to you?"

"No."

"What's inside your trailer, Lenny?"

"You tell me."

"How about a truckload of stolen goodies from Texas?" Gabe asked.

"I don't know nothing about that."

Gabe took the papers out of Lenny's hand and waved them in his face.

"This is a warrant to search your truck and trailer, Lenny. Let's try again. What's in the trailer?"

Lenny's shoulders sagged.

"Water heaters, washing machines, and some other stuff."

"You got a bill of lading for the cargo?"

"No."

Gabe stepped behind Lenny, pulled his hands to the small of his back, and cuffed him.

"You arresting me?" Lenny asked.

"Yeah. Let's go take a look in the box," Gabe said.

"But first let me tell you about your rights."

Lenny refused to confess to anything other than transporting one load of stolen property, still in original factory crates and boxes, boosted from a regional warehouse distribution center in El Paso.

Gabe took Alarid into the kitchen, closed the door, sat him down at the table, and had him write a voluntary confession. The kitchen was right out of the late 1940s. It had a cast-iron enamel sink positioned under a window, a run of metal kitchen cabinets painted white with a battleship gray linoleum countertop, and a badly worn tile floor. The oval kitchen table had chrome legs and a yellow top, and the matching chairs were padded with cracked vinyl cushions. On one wall hung a framed photograph of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

While Art Garda and Abe Melendez inventoried the stolen merchandise, Russell Thorpe stood watch over Gloria, who was in the living room feeding Perfecta her meal. Gabe had let the senior citizen van driver deliver it on his way back to the village.

Through the closed door, Gabe could hear me elderly woman complaining that she wanted lamb and peas, not fish.

Gabe watched Lenny sign his name at the bottom of the paper.

"Date it," he said.

Lenny scribbled the date and held out the confession.

Gabe read it and shook his head.

"This isn't going to work, Lenny."

"Why not? I confessed, didn't I?"

"I forgot to explain a few things to you."

"Like what?"

"I'm going to have to book you on a murder charge."

Lenny's armpits got sweaty.

"I didn't kill anybody."

"I know that. But we found Rudy's truck and the murder weapon hidden on your property. That makes you an accessory after the fact to murder."

"I didn't know he'd killed Boaz."

"The law is funny about being an accessory. If you helped Rudy in any way, you can be charged with murder.

Probably second degree."

"That's crazy."

"Then there's the conspiracy charge."

"What conspiracy?"

"You paid Rudy for all that wood he poached. Don't tell me you didn't know where he got it."

Lenny rubbed his nose with a thumb.

"He never told me."

"You'll have to convince a jury of that. You're looking at a shitload of felonies." Gabe ticked them off on his fingers.

"Murder, conspiracy, and multiple counts of receiving and transporting stolen property. Each item in the trailer can be a separate charge against you. Have you ever been in prison?"

Lenny shook his head.

"You could get over a hundred years. What about Gloria? Has she done time before?"

"She can't testify against me."

"She might want to, if it means staying out of the slammer. After all, she's got a mother who needs looking after, and a brand-new baby grandson. You know how women get when it conics to families. I'll talk to her."

Lenny held up a hand to stop Gabe.

"What do you want?"

Gabe tore off Lenny's handwritten page from the tablet and slid the pad across the table.

"All of it.

Your Texas contacts, who you deliver to, what Rudy boosted that you trucked out of state, where you took it, and what arrangements you had with Joaquin Santistevan."

"What do I get?"

"Probably a break from the district attorney, if you cooperate."

"What kind of break?"

"Tell you what: I'll ask the DA to drop the murder and conspiracy charges. He might even be willing to cut back on the number of receiving stolen property indictments. After all, you'll be going into court as a first-time offender."

"I'll do time?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

Lenny reached for the pad and pencil..

"Answer one question for me before you start writing," Gabe said.

"How did Joaquin tip off Rudy that I was nosing around? He didn't use the office telephone."

"He used my cell phone."

"You were at the wood lot "I was on the office crapper when you came into the trailer. I just stayed out of sight until you split."

By noontime, Kerney was down to the last person on the list of names Orlando Gonzales had given him. So far, none of Bernardo's friends and former high school classmates had provided any relevant information.

His last potential informant, Melissa Pena, now married and known as Melissa Valencia, worked as a secretary for an independent insurance agent. Kerney arrived at the agency and found the young woman standing behind a reception desk in a small, two-office suite, filing paperwork in a four-drawer metal cabinet.

She had long dark hair that fell below her waist and wore a jumper over a short-sleeve turtleneck top that didn't hide her pregnant belly.

Kerney guessed she was in her last trimester. He identified himself and asked about Bernardo.

"I really can't tell you very much about him," Melissa said as she eased herself into her secretarial chair.

"I was told you were once good friends."

"Not me. He was my best friend's boyfriend. I kinda put up with him because of her, but I never really liked him."

"Who would that be?"

"Patricia Gomez. She went with him for three years, during high school and her first year in college."

"Didn't she have Bernardo's baby?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't she marry him?"

"They were going to get married."

"What happened?"

"After high school, Patricia enrolled at the university and I started working here. We got an apartment together. She kept dating Bernardo.

It was more than dating, if you know what I mean. Anyway, she soon got pregnant."

"How did Bernardo handle it?"

"He seemed real happy. They both did."

"And then what?"

"Patricia had a lot of problems carrying the baby, especially morning sickness. One day I came home for lunch and found her crying. Bernardo had come over, wanting sex. When she said no, he beat her up."

"Was she badly beaten?"

"Mostly he slapped her and pushed her around. She had some bruises and her face was all red."

"To your knowledge, had this happened before?"

"No. Patricia was like in shock about it."

"What did she do?"

"She broke up with him right away. Patrida isn't stupid.

She wasn't going to put up with an abusing asshole."

"What did Bernardo do?"

"He kept calling and stopping by, trying to apologize.

But Patrida wouldn't see or talk to him."

"Did Patrida report the inddent to the police?"

Melissa shook her head.

"No, but she told her parents.

When school got out she moved back home and lived with them until the baby was born."

"Why did Patrida go to Denver?"

"To get away from Bernardo. He was like stalking her."

"In what way?"

"Mostly just following her when she left the house.

But only when she went out alone. He wrote her a few letters about how she was making a big mistake by breaking up with him, and that he'd get even with her."

"You know this for a fact?"

"Patricia showed me the letters."

"Did she get a restraining order against Bernardo?"

"No. Her parents talked to Bernardo's parents and it all just stopped."

"I understand Bernardo pays child support."

"From what Patricia told me, Bernardo's parents had to force him to do it."

"Has Patrida had any problems with Bernardo since her move to Denver?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Would Patricia tell you if Bernardo was giving her grief?"

"Sure. She's my oldest friend. We talk on the phone a couple times a month, and she comes home to visit at least twice a year. If Bernardo was acting like a jerk, I'm sure I'd know about it."

"Do you know of any other women Bernardo has bothered?"

Melissa inclined her head and thought about the question for a moment.

"It may be nothing, but talk to Jimmy Wooten."

The name wasn't familiar to Kerney.

"Why should I speak to him?"

"Jimmy's home on leave from the air force. He and my husband were good friends in high school. He told my husband that he ran into Bernardo at a bar recently, and that Bernardo acted like a real creep toward some cocktail -waitress. I don't know anything more than that."

Kerney got an address for Jimmy Wooten and smiled at Melissa.

"I appreciate your time."

"Why are you investigating Bernardo?"

"It's a small matter," Kerney said as he walked to the office door.

Jimmy Wooten, dressed in jeans and an air force sweatshirt, stood outside his parents' ranch-style subdivision house. He ran a hand through his short, light blond hair and gave Kerney a puzzled look.

"I didn't know that hustling a barmaid was against the law," he said in response to Kerney's question about Bernardo.

"Did she file a complaint, or something?"

"No," Kerney replied.

"Then what's the problem?" Jimmy asked.

"There might not be one," Kerney said.

"I understand you told Melissa's husband that Bernardo acted like a creep toward the barmaid. I'd like to hear what happened."

Jimmy shook his head.

"Melissa has never liked Bernardo."

"Is he your friend?"

"Not really. I knew him in high school." Jimmy's eyes narrowed.

"You still haven't told me what's up."

"I'm interested in Bernardo's attitude toward women."

"That's all you're going to tell me?"

Kerney nodded.

"For now. Did Bernardo come on to the waitress?"

"He tried, but she just blew him off. That got him pretty angry."

"In what way?"

"He started calling her names."

"To her face?"

"Nah, behind her back."

"What did he say to you about her?"

"That she was probably nothing but a slut who put out for anybody with a six-pack of beer and a hard dick."

"Did you think that was true?"

"From what I could tell, he was way off base."

"How so?"

"When Bernardo hit on her, she handled it real well.

She showed him her wedding ring and made like a joke out of it-said her husband didn't let her date other men."

"The barmaid didn't play up to Bernardo or lead him on?"

"Not at all."

"How did Bernardo handle her rejection?"

"It pissed him off. He didn't believe she was married.

He wanted to bet me he could get in her pants."

"Did you take him up on the bet?"

"No way. I told him he was full of shit and to leave her alone."

"Did anything else happen between Bernardo and the barmaid?"

"Not while I was there."

"Did you leave the bar with Bernardo?"

Wooten shook his head.

"Nope. Bernardo said he was going to stay until the place closed. I don't do that kind of drinking."

"Do you remember the barmaid's name?"

"Kerri something."

"What bar does she work at?"

"The Rough Rider."

Thanks," Kerney said.

"Enjoy your leave time at home."

"You still haven't told me what this is all about."

Kerney smiled.

"No, I haven't."

Kerney made a quick stop at the Rough Rider Bar and spoke with the owner, who told him that Kerri Crombie had worked all her regular shifts, including last night, and was due back at six o'clock in the evening.

He found out Crombie was married, had a little girl, and lived in a subdivision near a post secondary vocational school just outside of the city limits.

The working-class neighborhood sat on a small bluff overlooking the Gallinas River on a parcel of land that had once been part of a National Guard training encampment. Members of the 200th Coast Artillery Battalion had trained at the camp prior to the start of World War II Many of them died during the infamous Bataan death march after th e Japanese invasion of the Philippines.

The neighborhood consisted of older flat-roof frame and stucco houses on small, rectangular lots. Over the years, some of the homeowners had converted the attached single-car garages into living spaces, added carports, and enclosed the front porches to create sun-rooms. Their front yards were neat and tidy.

Other dwellings were in disrepair. Blistered paint peeled off trim work, porches sagged, and yards were littered with discarded auto parts, motor oil cans, old water heaters, and broken lawn mowers.

Two large evergreen trees towered over the Crombie house. Planting beds bordered the walkway to the house, and a carpet of Bermuda grass stretched from the porch to the sidewalk. On the porch was a child-size plastic play table, with a miniature tea service neatly arranged for two.

Kerney knocked, got no answer, and found a woman in the backyard hanging laundry. A little girl, no more than five years old, stood at her side.

The girl saw Kerney as he walked through the backyard gate and skipped to him. She wore bib overalls, sneakers, and a ribbon in her hair. She clutched a doll in her hand.

"Who are you?" the girl asked. She had bright red hair, just like her mother's.

"I'm Kerney. What's your name?"

"Sherry."

The woman stopped what she was doing and came toward Kerney.

"Is your last name Crombie?" he asked the girl.

"Uh huh."

"Don't talk to strangers, honey," Kerri Crombie said, as she pulled the girl away by the hand.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so, Mrs. Crombie." Kerney showed his ID and studied the woman. Of medium build and about thirty years old, Kerri Crombie had a narrow head, curly red hair, a pale complexion, and tired eyes.

"Have you had any problems with prowlers?" he asked.

"Prowlers? No. Has somebody reported prowlers?"

"Have you seen any strange vehicles in the neighborhood?"

"No."

"Have you received any hang-up phone calls recently?"

"No."

"Have any cars followed you home from work in the last week or so?"

"No. What's this all about?"

Kerney held out Bernardo Barela's driver's license photograph.

"Do you know this person?"

Kerri Crombie took the photograph and looked at it.

"I know who he is. He drinks at the bar where I work."

"Has he given you any trouble?"

"No more than any other drunk who thinks barmaids are easy targets."

"Do you know him by name?"

"I think it's Bernard. No, it's Bernardo. He comes into the bar a couple of times a week."

"How long has he been drinking at the Rough Rider?"

"Ever since he turned twenty-one."

"Has he shown any unusual interest in you?"

"Mister, I've been working in bars and nightclubs for seven years. To me he's just another horny drunk with a foul mouth and wandering hands."

"You haven't seen him around your house?"

Kerri Crombie pulled her head back and the expression on her face turned serious.

"Do you dunk he might be a stalker?"

"It's possible. I understand that you're married. Is your husband usually here when you get home from work?"

"Always. He works days and I work nights."

Kerri Crombie gave the photograph back to Kerney.

He knelt down and showed it to the little girl.

"Have you seen this man, Sherry?"

Sherry inspected the photograph and nodded.

"Are you sure?"

"Uh huh," Sherry said.

"Take a real close look to make sure it's not just somebody who looks like this man."

Very seriously. Sherry studied the photograph. " I saw him," she finally said.

"When?" Kerney asked.

"When I was on the front porch playing with my dolls."

"Today?" Kerney asked.

"The other day before we went to the movies."

"Did he say anything to you?" Kerney asked.

"Nope. He just walked by the house."

"Just once?"

"More than that."

"Did you see him get into a car?" Kerney asked.

"Nope."

"If you see him again when you're outside the house, I want you to go and tell your mother right away," Kerney said as he stood up.

"Will you do that for me?"

"Yeah."

"Is this guy a child molester?" Kerri Crombie asked as she pulled Sherry close.

"I think he could be dangerous."

"Are you going to arrest him?"

Kerney took out a business card and wrote a note on the back.

"I'll let you know if and when I do. In the meantime, be careful when you're out alone at night, and keep a close eye on Sherry. I wrote the make, model, and license number of his vehicle on the back of my card.

Call me, if you see him or his car anywhere outside of work. It doesn't matter where or when.

When he comes into the bar, act natural and don't say anything to raise his suspidons."

Eyes wide with worry, Kerri Crombie took the offered card.

"This is spooky."

"I know. But I'd rather have you spooked than hurt."

The repair work to the ranch road was finished and the washouts, cuts, and ruts had been smoothed out and packed down. At the line camp that served as the Barela ranch headquarters, the bulldozer idled near the cattle guard. Kerney rattled over the rails and coasted to a stop in front of the trailer. Bernardo came outside and met him as he crossed to the trailer.

He lit a dgarette and gave Kerney a flat look.

"My grandfather said you were looking for me."

Kerney smiled pleasantly.

"We haven't been able to identify the human remains that were found on the mesa. I thought you should know."

"You mean it wasn't Luiza, like you thought?"

"I don't think I ever said that I thought it was Luiza."

"I can put two and two together."

"I'm sure you can. We have no idea who the victim was. We can't assume it was Luiza or anyone else at this point."

"That's all you wanted to tell me?"

"Pretty much," Kerney replied.

"We'll keep the case open, but unless we get lucky, it will probably remain unsolved. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"You didn't bother me."

"Well, I leaned on you a bit the other day."

Bernardo smiled.

"You were just doing your job."

"Nobody likes to think they might be a suspect."

"Hey, I told you what I knew."

Kerney nodded in agreement.

"And I appreciate it."

"How come you couldn't identify the victim?"

"We can't find the complete skeleton. It could have been scattered by coyotes."

Bernardo ground out his cigarette under his boot.

"That's too bad."

"Personally, I think the woman was raped before she was murdered. But you never know."

"Sounds like a tough case."

"It isn't an easy one," Kerney said with a shrug as he stepped toward Bernardo and held out his hand.

"No hard feelings?"

Bernardo shook Kerney's hand and smiled.

"Everything's cool."

"Good enough."

Bernardo looked pleased, which was just the way Kerney wanted him to feel. He waved good-bye as he drove away and Bernardo waved back.

Kerney had no doubt Bernardo was a budding rapist and murderer.

Everything he'd learned about him fit the profile. But proving it wasn't going to be easy. If his ploy with Bernardo worked, he might let his guard down and make a mistake.

What that mistake might be Kerney couldn't predict.

But Kerney had a strong hunch that, with the pressure off, Bernardo might feel free to make a move on Kerri Crombie. He decided to put a surveillance team in place to watch Bernardo.

Gabe Gonzales felt damn good about the way his day had gone. Lenny Aland's confession had generated major busts in West Texas and New Mexico. In Albuquerque, agents had raided a damaged freight appliance store, confiscated a warehouse full of stolen goodies, and arrested the owner and several employees, in Lubbock, Midland, Amarillo, and El Paso, key members of various burglary rings had been rounded up and were undergoing interrogations. Large quantities of merchandise taken in recent West Texas heists had been seized, and three fencing operations peddling items taken in New Mexico burglaries were about to be shut down.

It was, without a doubt, one of the biggest cases Gabe had cleared in his twenty year career.

He signed the last report as Captain Garduno walked in the conference room.

"The arrest warrant for Sannstevan just came in," Garduno said.

"Good deal."

"And the grand jury delivered a true bill of justified homicide on the Espinoza shooting. You can go back to work now."

Gabe couldn't tell if Garduno's remark was snide or joking. He said nothing as Garduno eased into a chair and put a department memorandum on the table. He pulled the document close and read it. Art Garda had been bumped up to sergeant and Gabe's promotion to lieutenant had come through. He was assigned as Garduno's assistant district commander.

He damped his jaw tight to keep from smiling and looked at Garduno.

"Are you okay with this. Cap?"

Gabe asked.

Garduno nodded and smiled.

"Hell, I wouldn't have it any other way. You've earned it."

Gabe's smile turned into a grin.

"Thanks, Cap."

"When are we going to celebrate?"

Gabe knew he'd have to invite all the troops to a promotion party, and spring for the booze and eats.

Maybe he and Art Garda could go in together on a joint bash to keep the costs down. But celebrating was the last thing on his mind. Joaquin Santistevan needed to have his ass busted and thrown into jail. Gabe was looking forward to the arrest.

"I'll get back to you on that," Gabe said as he headed for the door.

To keep Santistevan from bolting, Gabe had threatened Bema with arrest if she tipped off Joaquin about the investigation. To counter the possibility that Joaquin might learn of the events in Anton Chico from some other source, Gabe had put him under constant surveillance.

No vehicles were parked outside Santfstevan's house when Gabe drove by.

He positioned the unmarked police unit at the end of the block and waited. For a twenty-seven-year-old, Joaquin wasn't doing badly at all. His house was a sweet little Victorian cottage in tiptop condition on a block lined with big shade trees.

Twenty minutes into the stake-out, Debbiejoaquin's wife, arrived home and parked her five-year-old subcompact hatchback in the driveway. If cars were an indication of Joaquin's affection for the women in his life, Bema won hands down with her new sport utility vehicle.

Debbie walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk. She looked decidedly pregnant. At least Joaquin wasn't playing favorites when it came to making babies. She lifted out a bag of groceries, walked slowly up the front porch, and went inside the house.

Ben Morfin, the officer tailing Joaquin, made radio contact.

Gabe acknowledged.

"Looks like he's heading to his happy home and loving wife," Ben said.

"ETA five minutes."

"Ten-four." Gabe checked his watch and settled back to wait.

According to Lenny Aland, Santistevan's method of targeting burglary victims was quite simple. When firewood orders came in from well-heeled customers, Joaquin would make the deliveries himself and take a look around. Did the customer have dogs or a security system?

What kind of cars did the customer drive?

What kind of score would a burglary yield? Were the neighbors too close by to risk a break-in?

Joaquin would ask a few innocent-sounding questions, like what the customer did for a living, or something about children and spouses, to get an idea of the family's daytime schedule.

If everything looked cool, Rudy would cruise the neighborhood for a couple of days peddling pickup loads of firewood. He would go door to door, sell a few loads here and there, and scope out the target some more. A month or so later, when no one remembered the friendly wood peddler, Rudy would pull the job.

In eighteen months, Rudy had pulled more than fifty burglaries, many of them in upscale rural Santa Fe areas, a short hour's drive from Las Vegas.

Rudy's break-ins at the weekend cabins and vacation homes around San Geronimo had also been Joaquin's idea. He'd used his time living with Uncle Isaac to scope out the best places to rob. When the firewood season ended, he sent Rudy out to rip off the second homes and mountain retreats of baby boomers who'd built expensive hideaways in the cool foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Santistevan's truck came into view, followed shortly by Ben's unmarked unit.

"Block him when he stops in the driveway," Gabe said into his microphone as he pulled away from the curb.

"Affirmative. There's a hunting rifle in his rear window gun rack."

"You know the drill," Gabe said.

"Here we go again," Ben replied.

When Santistevan made the turn into his driveway, Gabe accelerated, veered across the street, pointed the nose of the unit at the side of the truck, and hit the brakes. He stopped six feet short of the truck.

He was out of the unit with his handgun drawn and leveled just as Santistevan reacted with a look over his shoulder.

Joaquin's right hand reached back for the rifle.

"Don't do it," Gabe said.

Joaquin's hand froze in midair.

"Check your rearview mirror," Gabe said.

Joaquin turned his head and glanced in the mirror.

Another cop had a shotgun pointed at him through the rear window.

"Put born your arms out the driver's window," Gabe ordered.

Santistevan did as he was told.

"Use the outside latch to open the door."

The door opened.

"Step out slowly with your hands in view."

Ben moved to the front of the truck, his shotgun leveled on Joaquin's back.

"What's this all about?" Joaquin asked as he dismounted the truck.

"On the ground, facedown, hands locked at the back of your head," Gabe said.

Santistevan assumed the position just as Debbie came rushing out of the house and down the porch steps.

"What are you doing?" she screamed.

"Let him go."

"Stop her," Gabe said to Ben as he moved in on Santistevan.

He ground his knee hard on Joaquin's check, bolstered his weapon, cuffed him, and pulled him to his feet.