Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Fifteen

Walt Shaw wasn’t talking, so Kerney decided to take a crack at the pilot of the airplane, Craig Gilmore. He walked Gilmore to Leo’s unit in handcuffs and sat with him in the backseat.

A man in his fifties, soft in the face with a dimpled chin, Gilmore looked like the arrest had hit him hard.

“Is that your airplane?” Kerney asked.

Gilmore looked out the window at the disabled aircraft. “Yeah, I bought it ten years ago when business was good.”

“What kind of business is that?” Kerney asked.

“I own a regional wholesale cigarette and tobacco company in El Paso. But I almost lost everything when the tech stock bubble burst in 2000. I took a real beating.”

“How do you know Shaw?”

“We were in the navy together and stayed in touch over the years. I brought him in on the deal.”

“When did you partner up with Shaw?”

“Four years ago. It was either that or declare bankruptcy.”

“Tell me how your scheme works,” Kerney asked.

“It’s real simple,” Gilmore replied. “I forge documents showing that American-made cigarettes have been exported, and then sell them at cut-rate prices to several distributors in New Mexico and Arizona. Because custom and state taxes aren’t levied, we make a substantial profit on each pack.”

“How much profit?”

“It depends on the state, and we split it sixty-forty with the distributors. In New Mexico our cut is fifty-five cents a pack, and in Arizona it’s seventy cents.”

“How many packs have you sold?”

“Eight million, more or less.”

Kerney did a quick mental calculation. Gilmore and Shaw had each cleared seven figures from the scheme. “Domestic cigarettes are sold with state excise stamps,” Kerney said. “How do you get around that?”

Gilmore leaned forward to ease the pressure of the handcuffs that ground into his wrists against the seat back. “The local distributors mix the unstamped stock in with the taxed goods and charge full price to the retailer. Nobody pays any attention to the stamp when they buy smokes.”

“Where do the goods wind up for sale to the public?” Kerney asked.

“Convenience stores, gas stations, smoke shops, small grocery chains, mom-and-pop stores.”

Because Gilmore and Shaw weren’t bringing counterfeit cigarettes into the country, legally it wasn’t smuggling. It was a theft, fraud, and contraband operation. “Who are your distributors?” Kerney asked.

Gilmore named them.

“Why run the risk of flying the goods here yourself?”

Gilmore snorted. “Until now there wasn’t any risk. Customs doesn’t give a damn about general aviation planes that stay north of the border. It’s a hell of a lot safer to use a plane than to try to truck the product through the highway checkpoints around El Paso.”

“Do you warehouse your inventory in Virden?”

Gilmore nodded. “Yeah. We keep fresh stock of the most popular brands on hand there for the Arizona run. It’s our biggest moneymaker.”

Kerney opened the door. “Okay, you’ll need to make a complete statement to the sheriff.”

“What will I be charged with?”

“Murder one.”

Gilmore looked shocked. “I didn’t kill anybody. Can you help me out here? I’ll tell you everything.”

“Then tell me this,” Kerney said. “What were you going to do with Martinez’s body?”

Gilmore flinched at the question.

“Well?” Kerney prodded.

“Fly to San Diego and dump it in the ocean.”

“In my book that’s murder one.”

“I swear I’ll cooperate.”

“Take it up with the prosecutor.”

“Can you loosen the handcuffs? They’re hurting my wrists.”

“Sorry, I can’t do that.” Kerney got out and looked at Gilmore through the open door. “Try to relax. It will be a while before you go to jail.”

He locked Gilmore in the backseat cage and joined Leo at the airplane, where he was watching a deputy take photos of Buster Martinez’s body.

“Who’s doing the Q and A with Shaw?” he asked.

Leo nodded toward a sheriff’s unit. “Fowler, but Shaw’s still not talking, except to say unkind things about you. The ME and an ambulance are on the way. I’m releasing the state police officers.”

“I’ll catch a ride with them back to Lordsburg,” Kerney said. “Gilmore is going to tell you about their contraband cigarette scheme.”

“It’s not smuggling?” Leo asked.

“Nope. They’ve been stealing name-brand domestic cigarettes and selling them cut rate to distributors.”

Leo’s forehead wrinkled. “Who would have guessed?”

“They keep their inventory at the Virden barn.”

“I’ll get a warrant. Was Martinez a smoker?”

“I don’t think so.”

Leo glanced at Buster’s body. “Well, cigarettes turned out to be hazardous to his health anyway.” Leo laughed at his joke. “I’m really going to enjoy making phone calls to ATF and Customs.”

“Rub their noses in it, Leo.”

Leo grinned. “You don’t get many chances to do that to the feds.”

Kerney didn’t see Leo for several days, until the filming of the finale to the chase sequence at the smelter. He showed up in time to see a stunt driver roll out of a squad car just before it went airborne and landed on the flatbed railroad car.

When the car exploded into flames, Leo nodded in approval. “Now that’s more like it,” he said. “I told you they needed to blow something up.”

Kerney laughed. “It’s a realistic slice of police work, Hollywood style.”

They watched the crane camera shoot a crash between two cop cars before Leo launched into an update on the investigation. Over a half-million dollars’ worth of cigarettes had been recovered in the barn in Virden, along with almost a million dollars in cash. Shaw had been charged with murder one and denied bail. He’d lawyered up and still wasn’t talking. Craig Gilmore was also being held without bond on the same charge.

“I don’t think the DA is going to let Gilmore cop a plea,” Leo said. “We’ve got enough eyewitness testimony to sink them both. If it goes to trial, you’ll be called as a witness for the prosecution.”

“That’s not a problem,” Kerney said. “What are the feds up to?”

“They’re shutting down the network and arresting the distributors. Then they’ll take their evidence to a federal grand jury. I’m guessing Shaw and Gilmore will get hit with multiple federal felony counts.”

“Good deal.”

“This case is going to get me reelected by a landslide next year.”

“You deserve to be reelected. But do you really think, in spite of your good work, that the citizens of Virden are going to vote for you?” Kerney asked.

Leo guffawed. “Hell, no, but I’ll win anyway.”

The two men watched moviemaking magic for a while more before Leo shook Kerney’s hand, thanked him, and left. Kerney hung around until the police-related shots were done and then headed back to Playas. Sara had e-mailed him last night. In two hours she would be calling from Iraq. He couldn’t take the chance that the call would be dropped because of poor reception. He’d pick up Patrick, drive to Deming, and take her call there.

Although the conversation with Sara was long and upbeat, talking to her only served to drive home her absence. It gut-wrenched Kerney, and Patrick took it no better.

“I want to go home to the ranch, Daddy,” he said tearfully after the call ended.

“You know Mommy won’t be there, sport.”

“I know. But I don’t like it here anymore.”

“Let’s see what we can do about it.”

That evening after dinner, with Patrick at his side, Kerney approached Susan Berman and asked if he could be released from the remainder of his contract.

“I thought coming down here would be a good distraction for Patrick and me,” he added. “But I think it’s time for us to go home and try to get back to a normal life.”

Susan nodded sympathetically. “Of course. Can you stay on until we shoot the mob scene in front of the police station tomorrow? Malcolm wants the police reaction to be as realistic as possible.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Kerney said.

“Good,” Susan said. She paused as if to say more, thought better of it, smiled down at Patrick, and walked toward the production office.

“We go home tomorrow, champ,” Kerney said to Patrick as he hoisted him into his arms.

Patrick lit up. “When do I get my pony?” he asked.

“Very soon.”

The script called for the mob sequence at the police station to be shot in the evening, after the rancher and his cohorts had been arrested at the smelter. Kerney, who had no intention of staying in Playas another night, packed up and loaded the luggage in the truck before rehearsals began. He dropped Patrick at the nanny’s with a promise get him as soon as he finished, so they could leave immediately for Santa Fe.

At the set a hundred extras who played angry citizens, reporters, and bystanders milled around. The script called for all the lead actors and the supporting cast who’d participated in the cattle drive to be perp-walked to the police station. The mob would rush the cops in an attempt to gain the prisoners’ release. Once the prisoners were inside, the crowd would overturn a squad car and break the police-station windows before order could be restored.

Kerney spent an hour with Usher as he blocked the sequence, and answered his questions about how the police would react to protect the prisoners and quell the mob. When Usher was satisfied with the blocking, he went to the bank of TV monitors and called for a run-through of each shot. Kerney stood next to him and watched the screens.

Usher made camera adjustments and lighting changes, and by watching the monitors Kerney got a director’s view of the complexities of moviemaking. It was all about point of view, capturing different perspectives, and heightening the tension.

When it was over, Kerney said good-bye to Susan Berman and went to his truck, where he found Agent Fidel waiting for him.

“Bratton tells me you’re leaving,” Fidel said.

Kerney nodded. “I’m heartbroken that I couldn’t be of any help to you.”

“You served your purpose.”

“Thanks for the kind words,” Kerney replied. “You’re a real piece of work, Fidel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kerney stepped around Fidel and opened the truck door. “Have you busted the smuggling ring?”

“We have a plan in the works.”

Kerney shook his head and got in the truck. “Another plan? Outstanding. I hope it succeeds. Did you come all the way from El Paso to tell me this?”

“And to thank you for your cooperation.”

“Check your dictionary, pal. I think you’ll find that cooperation means that people act together for a common purpose and with a common understanding.”

“Whatever,” Fidel said.

Kerney fired up the engine. “Gotta go.”

“Steve Hazen said you have something to say to me.”

Kerney laughed. “Forget it. You don’t strike me as a person who takes constructive criticism well.”

The morning after their late-night drive home to the ranch, Kerney and Patrick spent time with the horses and did a few barn chores before heading to town to stock up on blueberries and other essential groceries his son had requested. At Patrick’s insistence they had macaroni and cheese with ham bits for dinner and then went for a ride on Hondo.

Over the next several days they visited preschools and found one that Patrick really liked. The children were well behaved, the schedule was well organized, the teachers were kind and caring, and the activities consisted of a good mixture of cooperative play and cognitive-skill building. Convinced that Sara would approve, Kerney enrolled Patrick in the program, to start the day he went back to work.

One night, while Patrick slept, Kerney got on the Internet and researched ponies. He wanted a surefooted, intelligent animal that had a calm disposition and was sound of body. He settled on the Welsh pony. At twelve to thirteen hands tall it was big enough to be ridden by an adult, yet small enough for a child.

He surfed for breeders and eventually found one in northern New Mexico who had several animals for sale. A photograph of a six-year-old gelding caught his eye. It wasn’t a pinto like Pablito in Patrick’s favorite storybook, but it had four white stockings and a star on its forehead. That night Kerney called and made an appointment to see the animal the next day.

Kerney said nothing about the pony when Patrick got up in the morning. When the chores were done, he hitched the horse trailer to the truck and they drove to the Mora Valley, where the breeder had her ranch. Patrick spotted the ponies in a pasture off the highway and started bouncing up and down in his car seat.

“Look, Daddy!” he yelled. “Ponies. Lots of them.”

“Maybe there’s one here for you,” Kerney said as he turned onto the ranch road.

Patrick grinned and nodded his head.

The six-year-old gelding was all Kerney hoped for and more. It had sturdy, strong legs, a deep chest, a broad forehead, and well-defined withers. After a thorough inspection of the animal Kerney reviewed the breeder’s studbook and veterinary records. Then he put Patrick on the pony’s back and watched as the woman trotted it around the corral by the halter. The pony had excellent balance and a smooth gait.

Kerney bought it on the spot and got the woman to throw in a used child’s saddle and tack for an extra hundred dollars. He had to pry Patrick off the pony’s back in order to load it in the trailer.

“What are you going to name your pony?” Kerney asked as they left the ranch.

“Pablito,” Patrick said, grinning from ear to ear.

Kerney rubbed his son’s head and laughed. “That’s a great name.”

At home Kerney saddled Pablito and took digital pictures of Patrick astride his pony to send to Sara by e-mail. He knew the pictures would make her smile but also break her heart. A child’s first horse was a milestone not to be missed, a rite of passage every ranch family cherished and held firmly in memory.

“Mommy should see me,” Patrick said.

“You are wise beyond your years, sport,” Kerney said. He tied Pablito’s reins to the corral railing and saddled Hondo. Finally Kerney understood the ache Sara carried for all the events in Patrick’s life that he’d missed.

“Mommy should be here,” Patrick said.

“Yes, she should.” Kerney swung into the saddle and took Pablito’s reins. “And when she comes home, we’ll all go riding together.”

“She can’t go away again,” Patrick said sternly.

“Never again,” Kerney said as he reached out and opened the corral gate.