Serpent Gate

Kevin Kerney sat in an unmarked state police car across the street from the Shafier Hotel in Mountainair, New Mexico, waiting for Robert Cordova to show up. Kerney had tracked Cordova to the state mental hospital in Las Vegas, only to discover that he had run off two days earlier. Cordova was a schizophrenic with a history of disappearing from the state hospital as soon as he was stabilized on medication.

A hospital psychiatrist had told Kerney that Cordova had no permanent residence and usually went back to his hometown of Mountainair after running off.

Eventually he'd show up at the health clinic in town, looking for cigarette or coffee money, or he'd be found wandering the streets in a full-blown psychotic episode.

Kerney had already checked for Cordova at the clinic. The secretary hadn't seen Robert, nor had the other locals Kerney spoke with, but everybody he questioned noted Cordova liked to hang out in front of the Shaffer Hotel.

Twenty minutes into Kerney's wait, the information proved to be right on the money. A scruffy-looking man with an untamed beard and tangled dark hair came scurrying down the street around the corner from the state highway that ran next to the hotel. Filthy high-top sneakers with no laces slapped against his bare ankles as he hurried to a low fence in front of a small park and gazebo adjacent to the hotel. He stopped dead in his tracks and wheeled to face the fence.

Before the man turned, Kerney got a good look, consulted a mug shot, and made a positive ID. A runt of a man in his mid-thirties, no more than five foot four without an ounce of fat, Cordova wore tattered jeans that hung low on his hips and a soiled plaid shirt, too large for his skinny frame, that ballooned around his waist. It was a chilly early November day and Cordova wasn't wearing a coat.

Cordova interlaced his fingers at the back of his head, stuck both thumbs in his ears, did an abrupt about-face, and started marching from one end of the fence to the other in a rigid measured cadence, as though he were a sentry on patrol.

The fence bordering the park was a stunning piece of folk art. The railings, posts, and two gates were fashioned out of hand-formed concrete imbedded with an amazing array of icons depicting two-headed animals, fanciful birds, stylized fish, and human figures, all made with odd-shaped colorful stones. Smack in the center of the fence, a long serpent with an arrowhead tail writhed and coiled, its head sporting a sharklike fin, the base of its neck sprouting incongruous insect legs.

On the railing above the serpent, the artist had signed and dated his work, using pebbles and hand-cut fragments of shale to spell out built by pop shah pbr 1931. Shafier had also built the hotel he'd named after himself.

Kerney stayed in his unit with the motor off and the window open watching Cordova parade up and down, his thumbs jammed in his ears, shaking his head vigorously.

Cordova's bizarre behavior made Kerney hold back from making an approach. He didn't know much about Cordova's mental condition other than that the man heard voices and talked to Jesus Christ a lot. Kerney didn't want to fight his way through Cordova's delusions; he needed Cordova to be rational when he questioned him.

Six months ago, Cordova had been interviewed about the murder of Patrolman Paul Gillespie. He'd been completely incoherent at the time, in the middle of a psychotic break. After the interview, Cordova disappeared and could not be found again for further questioning.

Kerney hoped he could learn something from Cordova that might help him get a handle on the case.

He was running out of leads on an investigation going nowhere.

The murder had stymied the state police and the FBI. Officer Gillespie had been found shot once in the head with his own handgun at the Mountainair police station on the opening night of the annual town rodeo.

Virtually every resident of Mountainair and the surrounding area had attended the event, including Gillespie, who was on duty at the time.

He was seen leaving the rodeo grounds during the calf-roping finals.

An hour later his body was discovered by Neil Ordway, chief of the two-man force.

A month after Kerney's friend Andy Baca had been appointed chief of the New Mexico State Police, he had reached out for Kerney, given him a badge, and sent him down to Mountainair to find Gillespie's killer. For almost four weeks Kerney had been making the eighty mile drive from Santa Pc to Mountainair, spending his days running down every possible lead. So far, he had nothing to show for the effort.

Cordova suddenly stopped marching, pulled his thumbs out of his ears, and ran a hand over the serpent icon in the fence. To Kerney it seemed almost like a caress. Cordova turned, looked in Kerney's direction, raised his face toward the weak November sun, and smiled. His body relaxed and his face lost some of its tightness.

Kerney thought maybe the time was right to approach Cordova. He got out of the car, and as he crossed the street Cordova extended his hand like a pistol, sighted with one eye, and pulled off an imaginary round.

"Are you a cop?" Cordova called out as he walked toward Kerney in a tough-guy strut.

Kerney stopped and nodded.

Cordova smiled broadly. His teeth were chipped and badly stained. His beard had dried gobs in it, but Kerney couldn't even guess what the substance might be.

Cordova put his wrists together at his waist.

"Cuff me and take me to jail. I'm hungry."

Cordova gave off a ripe odor of vomit and urine, and his bream reeked of stale cigarette smoke. Kerney forced down a gag reflex. At six feet one inch, he loomed over me man. He stepped back in an attempt to get away from Cordova's rankness.

"How about I buy you a pack of smokes and a meal?" he countered, nodding in the direction of the hotel.

"I said I want to go to jail," Cordova said crankily, craning his neck to look at Kerney.

"I'm a fucking mental patient. You're supposed to take me to jail."

"Maybe later, if you cooperate."

Cordova stared in disgust at Kerney.

Behind the dirt, the beard, the unruly hair, and the chipped stained teeth, Cordova's eyes looked dear.

"How come you limp?" Cordova asked.

"I got shot," Kerney answered, thinking back to the incident that had ended his career as chief of detectives with the Santa Pc PD. An old friend and fellow officer had failed to back him up on a stakeout. The end result was one dead drug dealer, permanent damage to Kerney's right knee, and a partially destroyed gut.

"Were you a cop when it happened?"

"Yeah, I was."

Cordova threw a couple of jabs in the air at an imaginary opponent.

"I'd never let that happen to me. I'd fuck somebody up if they tried mat shit."

"I bet you would," Kerney replied.

"Do you want that meal and pack of smokes?" He inclined his head toward the hotel.

"What do you want?" Cordova asked.

"Just to talk."

"They won't let me in there."

"They will if you're with me."

Cordova grunted and looked Kerney up and down. Kerney's jacket was open, and Robert didn't see a gun.

"What kind of cop are you, anyway? You're not even wearing a pis tola "Do you think I need it?"

"Of course you do."

Kerney nodded, stepped to the car, unlocked it, got his bolstered sidearm, and strapped it on his belt.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Now maybe they'll let me in the restaurant.

Can I order anything I want?"

"Anything. I'm buying."

Robert held up two fingers, both stained nicotine yellow.

"Two packs of smokes."

"Name your brand," Kerney replied as he walked Robert to the hotel entrance.

It was mid-morning and the hotel dining room was empty except for a young, round waitress who sat reading the newspaper at the lunch counter along the back wall. Kerney got Cordova settled at a table by the window that gave a view across the street of an empty single-story building and vacant lot.

"What about my cigarettes?" he asked, as he grabbed a menu, crossed his legs, and started wiggling his foot.

The loose, filthy sneaker slapped against his heel with a dull smacking sound.

"After we eat," Kerney replied.

Robert grunted in dissatisfaction.

Kerney waited for the waitress to notice them. The ceiling was another folk art masterpiece by Pop Shaffer.

Dark wooden beams and handmade chandeliers were painted with an intricate tapestry of Native American symbols and mythical figures, some of which looked like they came strictly from Pop Shaffer's imagination. Kerney's gaze jumped from image to image; it was almost too much to take in at one sitting.

Tired of waiting, Kerney cleared his throat. The waitress turned, glanced at Robert, nodded to Kerney, slipped off the lunch counter seat, and walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

"She's calling the cops," Robert predicted.

"Why would she do that?"

"Because the last time I was in here, I threw an ashtray at her."

"Did you hit her?"

"Nope, she ducked. Aren't you going to ask me why I did it?" His foot wiggle accelerated a bit.

"Do you want to tell me?"

Cordova smiled wickedly.

"Nope."

The waitress reappeared and walked to the table. She stood as far away from Cordova as she could, using Kerney as a shield.

"I can't serve you," she said to Kerney.

"Yes, you can." He held out his open badge case.

"This is police business."

"I know who you are," the woman said, looking over the top of her eyeglasses. Her watery brown eyes blinked rapidly. She had stringy brown hair pinned back in a bun, most of which had unraveled against her neck. Her testy expression made her double chin more noticeable.

"I still can't serve you."

Kerney smiled pleasantly.

"Tell your boss if we don't get served, I'll have every state health-and-safety inspector I can think of down here tomorrow morning, crawling all over the place looking for violations."

Cordova grinned in delight as the woman turned and walked stiffly back to the kitchen.

"That was bad," he said to Kerney.

"You put her down, man. I never had a cop do anything like that for me before. They usually treat me like shit."

"No sweat, Robert. What do you want to eat?"

The waitress returned and grudgingly took Robert's order of two cheeseburgers, a double order of french fries, and coffee.

Robert didn't talk while he waited for his meal to arrive. His gaze stayed locked on the pass-through window from the kitchen. He licked his lips and tapped a finger anxiously on the table. Kerney wondered when Robert had last eaten.

When the food came, Robert wolfed down the meal, hamburger juice dribbling into his beard. His foot didn't wiggle when he ate.

Finished, Robert picked at his broken teeth with a long fingernail, belched, and smiled.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome."

Robert rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

"Now I need a smoke."

"In a minute. I need to ask you a few questions."

"What about?"

"How well did you know Paul Gillespie?"

"He was a motherfucker. I'm glad he's dead."

"Why do you say that?"

Robert's brown eyes turned angry.

"I went to high school with him. He was always hassling me. Pushing me around, picking rights, teasing me-stuff like that.

It got worse when he became a cop."

"How did it get worse?"

Robert started to respond, glanced out the window, and clamped his mouth shut. Neil Ordway was walking toward the hotel entrance.

"How did Gillespie mistreat you?"

"He didn't do nothing," Cordova said, sneering in the direction of Ordway as the cop entered the dining room.

A middle-aged man with a square face, thinning blond hair, and a pinched nose, Ordway stood over the table and looked at Kerney and Robert. He grinned without showing his teeth. It made his cheeks puff out.

"What can I do for you. Chief?" Kerney asked.

"I came for Cordova. Seems he's run away from the Las Vegas funny farm again."

"Fuck you," Robert said, his eyes hooded.

"I'm not going back there. I'm never going back there."

"Don't make this hard on yourself, Cordova," Ordway said, wrinkling his nose.

"Jesus, you smell like shit."

Til take care of the situation with Cordova," Kerney interjected before Robert could reply.

Ordway pulled out a chair and sat.

"Are you going to drive him back to Las Vegas?"

"I said I'll take care of it," Kerney repeated, holding Ordway's gaze.

Ordway didn't flinch.

Robert leaned across the table, cleared his throat, and spat in Ordway's face.

Ordway blinked, rubbed a sleeve across his face, and grabbed a fistful of Robert's shirt.

"You're going to jail for that, shithead."

Robert grinned and nodded in agreement.

Kerney clamped down on Ordway's arm.

"Let him go," he ordered.

Ordway locked his gaze on Kerney.

"Whatever you say," he said with a grin, releasing Cordova.

Free of Ordway's grip, Robert tipped over his chair and scampered out the door.

Ordway laughed as Robert disappeared from sight.

"Well, it seems like he's run away. Isn't that a damn shame."

"Maybe you can tell me where to look," Kerney said calmly.

"Your guess is as good as mine. But if you think Cordova can help you, you're way off base."

"I'd still like to talk to him."

"He'll turn up again. He always does."

Kerney changed his tack.

"I know you gave Gillespie excellent performance reviews, but did you ever have to discipline him for failure to perform his duties?"

"No."

"He was never late for work? He never had to be corrected about policies and procedures?"

"Sure, occasionally. It wasn't a big enough deal to require any official action."

"There was no evidence of conduct unbecoming an officer? No citizen complaints lodged against him?"

"No."

"Did Gillespie show signs of having a drinking problem?

Was he close mouthed about what he did on his free time? Did he have a pattern of calling in sick after his days off?"

"I never saw him under the influence, either on duty or off" "Did he have money problems?"

"You've seen his financial records. He lived within his means." Ordway shook his head and stood up.

"You know what? I think this case has got you stumped, and you're looking for a way to save face. Questioning Paul's character isn't going to get you spit or make you any friends in this town."

Kerney got to his feet.

"It sounds like Gillespie was a perfect cop."

"He did his job."

"I've heard that the town council isn't very happy with your performance."

"The hometown hero, who took their high school football team to the state finals way back when, was murdered. They think I should have made an arrest the day he got shot. They don't give a tinker's damn about the lack of a suspect."

"That puts you under a lot of pressure, I bet."

"Not anymore. I've resigned. I'm out of here at the end of the week."

He turned on his heel to leave.

"Chief Ordway," Kerney called out.

Ordway stopped at the door and looked back at Kerney. "What?"

The waitress stood anchored behind the counter at the far end of the dining room, tilted slightly forward, intent on every word.

"If you find Robert Cordova, don't mess with him.

Tell me where he is and I'll pick him up."

"Sure thing, hotshot."

Kerney watched him leave, thinking Ordway had been a cop long enough to know that without a suspect, the victim became the prime focus of attention. But politics in small towns were played based on blood ties, and Ordway was the outsider, imported because Gillespie hadn't met me state training and experience qualifications for the chief's position. What if Gillespie had been a bad apple and Ordway had turned a blind eye to it, not wanting to fire the hometown ex-hero of the high school gridiron? It would be really stupid to admit that he let an unethical or crooked officer remain on the job in order to keep the town council placated.

Such an admission would end Ordway's career in law enforcement.

From what Kerney had seen of Ordway during the past four weeks, he would be no great loss to the profession.

He dropped some bills on the table to cover Robert's meal and the tip, and smiled at the waitress. She lowered her gaze and got busy wiping down the immaculate countertop.

A railroad town established in the early part of the century, Mountainair sat among the foothills to the Manzano Mountains. A state highway dissected Main Street, curved in front of the local elementary school, and continued past a gas station, motel, and some abandoned commercial buildings before making a straight run west toward the mountains. Main Street, a two- block-long strip with some retail stores, a post office, and a National Park Service building, boasted no trees, no traffic lights, and no pedestrians. Some of the buildings were vacant, and barren display shelves behind plate-glass windows created a rhythm of continual decline.

Kerney drove the strip several times looking for Robert, who was nowhere to be found. He stopped next to the post office and spotted Neil Ordway's police car parked in front of the town hall and police station.

The police station, which housed the police dispatch office and the magistrate court, had a concrete front with a thunderbird design perched above an ornamental pillar that separated two entry doors.

Ordway's office took up the second floor of the adjacent town hall.

Kerney wondered if Ordway had snagged Robert in spite of his warning to leave the man alone. He switched his police radio to Ordway's frequency. If Robert was in custody, Kerney would know it when Ordway left to take him back to Las Vegas. He would keep looking until then.

Mountainair had no distinct neighborhoods to speak of, except for a string of middle-class, ranch-style houses and a few restored Victorian cottages near the high school. Even there, scattered between neat yards and tidy homes, an occasional empty lot with an old foundation or a sagging, weather-beaten house open to the elements broke any impression of a well-defined neighborhood.

Kerney did a slow patrol and checked each empty house before heading across the main drag, where the pavement quickly turned to dirt, and a string of houses, several churches, some shacks, sheds, and uninhabited cabins sputtered to a stop at a fence to an unused pasture.

Kerney kept looking, found nothing, returned to the main drag, and stopped at the grocery store to buy two packs of cigarettes. Ordway's cruiser was still parked outside city hall when he came out. He headed east on the state highway in the hope that Robert might be hitchhiking out of town. He drove to the Estanda cutoff before giving up and turning around to scout the road west of town. He shut down the hunt near the Abo Ruins National Monument and made his way back to the village.

He topped out at the hill on the outskirts of Mountainair just as a small herd of pinto horses swooped up a shallow arroyo and trotted along the highway fence. It was a pretty sight, and Kerney slowed to watch until the horses disappeared into a draw.

Mountainair had faded with the demise of dry land farming and the decline of railroad traffic. But its beautiful setting pulled tourists in and kept the place alive. It was a gateway to the wilderness that spread over the southern end of the Manzano Mountains, which were brushed at the summits with the first dusting of snow.

To the south a heavily forested mesa sheared off half of the horizon, and thick, slow-moving clouds in me blue gray November sky rolled toward the village. Kerney had been taught by his ranching father to read the weather, and the day promised moisture sometime soon.

Mountainair was not completely unfamiliar to Kerney. After finishing a brief stint as the interim sheriff of Catron County in the southwest part of the state, Kerney had looked at a section of land for sale in the high country outside Mountainair. It was summer grazing pasture infested with cocklebur, hound's-tongue, and prickly pear cactus-sure signs of overgrazing. It would take years to bring it back, and Kerney needed land that he could put to use immediately to produce income and make the mortgage payments, if he was ever going to get back into ranching.

With only enough money for a modest down payment, everything else he'd looked at was either way out of his price range or too small in size for raising cattle.

Kerney's parents had lost their ranch in the Tularosa Basin when White Sands Missile Range, a top-secret testing facility in the heart of south-central New Mexico, had expanded. The day they moved, military policemen and federal agents escorted the family oS the spread to the Rocking J Ranch, where Kerney's father had taken a job as foreman.

That was the day Kerney's dream of owning a ranch was born. He had kept his hopes alive for almost forty years. While living on the Rocking J, during his college years, in "Vietnam as a platoon leader near the end of the war, and throughout his career in law enforcement, Kerney had never let go of the dream.

He wondered if he would ever be able to achieve it.

It didn't look promising.

He pulled up in front of Pop Shatter's hotel to find Ordway using a side-handle baton in a wrist lock on Robert to force him toward the squad car. The waitress watched the action through the plate-glass window of the dining room.

"Let him go," Kerney ordered, slamming his car door to get Ordway's attention.

"Butt out, Kerney," Ordway said.

"This is my business."

Kerney quickly closed the distance to Ordway.

"Move, Cordova," Ordway commanded. He applied more force to the hold.

Robert gasped in pain and lurched toward the police car.

"I said, let him go," Kerney repeated, grabbing Ordway's shoulder.

"Sure thing, hotshot," Ordway said as he pulled free, released Robert, and swung at Kerney with the baton.

Kerney kicked Ordway in the nuts. He dropped the baton, fell to his knees, and grabbed his groin.

After disarming Ordway, Kerney looked for Robert, who stood next to him, bouncing on his toes in delight.

"Kick him again," Robert said, as he threw uppercuts into the air.

"Wait for me by the fence."

"Fuck you," Robert replied, still punching the air.

"You lied to me."

"What?"

"You promised me some smokes, man."

"They're in my car, on the passenger seat. Go get them. Then wait by the fence."

"Okay," Robert grumbled, moving away.

Kerney moved behind Ordway, stood him up, put the baton against his throat, and applied some pressure.

"You're not a man who takes advice easily," he said.

"Fuck you," Ordway gurgled.

"I could file charges against you," Kerney said.

"Unlawful arrest. Use of excessive force. Do you want that kind of grief?"

Ordway thought about it and shook his head.

"I didn't think so." Kerney released the pressure, pushed Ordway out of kicking distance, and circled around to look the man in the eyes.

"Take my advice, Ordway. Find a civilian job. I don't think you're cut out to be a cop."

Ordway's expression turned ugly when Kerney locked his handgun, baton, and car keys inside the police cruiser.

"That should slow you down," Kerney said to Ordway.

"Get in my car, Robert."

"Why?"

"I thought you wanted to go to jail."

Robert beamed.

"Can I smoke in your car?"

"No, but I'll stop along the way so you can have a cigarette or two."

"That sucks."

"Humor me," Kerney replied. kerney let Robert sit up front weaning no cuffs. He fought off Cordova's bad smell by running the air conditioner with the window cracked, even though the cloudy late afternoon had dropped the temperature into the low forties.

"You're supposed to cuff me and lock me in the back. I'm an escaped mental patient."

"You don't like sitting up front?" Kerney asked.

"Yeah, I do. I need a cigarette."

They had just passed the Mountainair town limit sign. Kerney pulled off the road next to a cottonwood tree and got out with Robert, who quickly lit up. The cloud cover broke, and for a moment the high mesa south of the village shimmered in pale yellow sunlight.

"You were in town the night Paul Gillespie was killed," Kerney said.

Robert exhaled.

"Who?"

"Paul Gillespie, the police officer."

Robert tugged at his beard.

"I don't know him."

"You went to high school with him."

Robert shrugged indifferently and looked away.

" I don't remember."

"Did you see Gillespie get killed?"

"I've never seen anybody get killed. But I'd like to.

That would be neat."

"Do you know who killed him?"

The wind picked up and Robert started to shiver.

"I'm cold," he whined, grinding out his cigarette with his sneaker.

"Am I going to jail or not?"

"You're going. Get in," Kerney answered, gesturing at the car.

Kerney drove for a time without talking, keeping one eye on Robert, whose foot beat a steady tattoo on the floorboard. Kerney wondered if the habit signaled anxiety. He decided to test the theory.

"Did you see Gillespie the night he was killed?"

Robert's foot started bouncing off the floorboard.

"I saw Satan."

"What was Satan doing?"

Robert's foot jiggled wildly.

"Raping my daughter."

"Where did it happen?"

"Serpent Gate."

Kerney remembered the peculiar stone snake on Pop Shaffer's fence.

"Do you mean by the fence next to the hotel?"

"Yeah." Robert changed his mind.

"No, not there."

"Where?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," Kerney said gently.

"Tell me about your daughter." As far as he knew, Robert was childless.

"She's in heaven with Jesus," Robert replied flatly, as he gripped the back of his skull with his fingers and stuck his thumbs in his ears.

"Is that where Satan rapes her?" Kerney asked loudly, trying to get through to Robert.

Robert grunted and shut his eyes. The conversation was over.

When Kerney pulled into the sally port at the Torrance County jail, Cordova removed his thumbs from his ears, popped out of the car, and waited at the door to the booking alcove while Kerney locked his handgun in a weapon box.

"Hurry up," Robert barked, snapping his fingers.

Kerney pressed the button to the booking alcove, and the electronic door latch snapped open. Inside, Robert immediately relaxed. He smiled at the female guard behind the glassed-in booking counter and began emptying his pockets.

The guard, a sturdy-looking woman with broad shoulders and a close-cropped haircut, welcomed Robert back with a greeting and a grin.

"What's the charge?" the guard asked, eyeing Kerney skeptically.

"Protective custody," Kerney answered.

"Twentyfour-hour hold."

She nodded knowingly and pushed a form through the slot at the bottom of the glass.

"Fill this out. Has he had anything to eat?"

"Lunch," Kerney replied, as he completed the paperwork.

"But he's probably hungry again."

"Did you search him?"

"Pat down only."

The woman nodded.

Robert tapped Kerney on the shoulder.

"I left my cigarettes in your car."

"I'll get them for you." Kerney took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and pushed it through the slot along with the booking form.

"Put the ten bucks in his canteen account. He may need a few things while he's here."

The woman smiled at him as he left to get Robert's smokes. When he returned, Robert was inside the secure area sitting calmly in a chair.

Kerney passed the cigarettes through to the guard.

"Are you taking him back to Las Vegas?" she asked.

"He doesn't seem to want to go."

"Then why are you holding him?"

"He may be a witness to a crime. I'm hoping he'll talk to me. So far, I haven't gotten very much out of him."

The woman nodded.

"Give him the night to settle in.

Robert does real well here. He likes the structure. We'll clean him up, give him a meal or two, and he'll be a new man by morning."

"I hope you're right," Kerney said.

"He just told me you were his friend," the guard said.

"I've never heard him say that about a police officer before. You might get lucky."

"I could use some luck."

Robert waved gaily at Kerney as the guard buzzed him out the door to the sally port. sixty melbs east of Mountainair, Kerney waited in the gathering night outside the old Vaughn train station for the arrival of a westbound freight out of Amarillo.

On it, he hoped, was Floyd Wilson, a crew chief for the Southern Pacific, who had left Mountainair the morning after the Gillespie shooting. Wilson had been transferred off a track-replacement job west of Mountainair and reassigned to a spur-line construction project in Texas.

As far as Kerney knew, Wilson had never been interviewed during the initial investigation.

Parked next to the dark station house, Kerney sat in the car with the engine running, the heater on, and the window rolled down. Robert's odor still permeated the vehicle.

At die end of a siding, barely visible in the gloom, a warning sign where the tracks ended read derail. It neatly summarized Kerney's sense of futility about the case.

An occasional car rolled down the highway that paralleled the train tracks, rubber singing on the pavement.

But the dominant sound came from the wind that cut across the Staked Plains, a vast, high desert plateau that encompassed thousands of square miles of eastern New Mexico.

The wind drove a light rain against Kerney's cheek, and he turned on the car wipers so he could see down the line. The flash of light from the lead locomotive showed long before the sound of the engine reached Kerney's ears. If the train blew through town without stopping, it meant Kerney would have to make the long drive to Amarillo sometime soon. On the phone, Wilson had told him he knew nothing about the case, and didn't want to lose time away from his job, Kerney had called Wilson's boss, who agreed to let Wilson make the trip to meet with Kerney on company time.

He hoped Wilson was on the train.

The train stopped and a man of average height, carrying an overnight bag, climbed out of the locomotive and walked wearily toward the car.

Kerney got out to greet him.

Floyd Wilson offered Kerney his hand with little enthusiasm. A man pushing sixty, Wilson had a full head of gray hair, a deeply lined face, thick, droopy eyebrows, and a condition on his neck that bleached out the pigment of his skin.

"I don't see how I can help you, Mr. Kerney."

"I'm glad you're willing to try, Mr. Wilson. Thanks for coming."

"No sweat," Floyd said.

"Let me buy you dinner."

"In this town that means the cholesterol plate."

At the only open diner in town, a cheerless establishment with Formica tables, tattered chairs, a cracked linoleum floor, and faded posters tacked on the walls, Kerney and Floyd Wilson sat by a window streaked with smoke and grease. Outside, the wind had diminished and fat snowflakes drifted against the glass, melting instantly.

"I was at the Shaffer Hotel the night that policeman got shot," Floyd said.

"Me and my crew were in the game room on the second floor, drinking beer and playing pool."

"You didn't go out?" Kerney asked.

"Nope. I had a late dinner in the dining room and turned in early. I didn't even hear about the shooting until the next day, just before I left."

"Did you know Gillespie, or have any dealings with him?"

Floyd scratched his head.

"Not really. I knew who he was, but that was about it. I didn't spend much time in town. Replacing track and ties on a main line is a sunup to-sundown job."

"Did you ever see him act inappropriately?"

"You mean tough-guy stuff?"

"Yes."

"Not personally, but some of my crew said he acted like a badass when we first got to town. He settled down after we'd been there for a while."

"Did any of your crew spend time with Gillespie?

Socialize with him?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you know Robert Cordova?"

"The name doesn't ring a bell."

"He's a skinny guy, about five-four. He likes to hang out by the fence next to the hotel."

Floyd nodded.

"You mean the crazy guy? The one that walks around with his fingers in his ears talking to himself?"

"That's him."

"Sure, I know him. Hell, I think everybody in Mountainair knows who he is. He really gets around."

"Gets around?" Kerney repeated.

"Sometimes I'd see him when I was on the job. He liked to walk along me railroad right-of-way. I kept telling him he was trespassing, but it never seemed to sink in."

"Did you see him anywhere else?"

"Once I saw him walking up a ridge about a half mile from the tracks, west of town."

"You're sure it was Cordova?"

"Yeah. After a while, he came back and caught a ride into town with one of my people."

"When did you see him there?" Kerney asked.

"A couple of days before that policeman was killed.

Do you think Cordova killed the cop?"

"I don't know what to think about Robert. Did you see him on the day of the murder?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. I was coming down the main drag after work and I saw him talking to some woman in front of the grocery store."

"Did you recognize her?"

"No. She was in a pickup truck. Cordova was standing by the driver's door, so I didn't get a good look at her."

"Did you notice anything else?"

"I think the woman was a veterinarian, or she works for one. She was pulling a horse trailer, and it had the name of a veterinary service painted on the side panel."

"Do you remember the name?"

"No. It said something about specializing in large animals. That's all I recall."

The waitress brought dinner, and Kerney picked at an overcooked ham steak and some soggy vegetables.

With part of his stomach shot away, Kerney found eating in greasy spoons to be a real chore; die food usually didn't sit well. He gave up on trying to force down the meal and made small talk until Wilson was ready to check in at the motel.

He paid for dinner, took Floyd to the motel, paid for the room, thanked Wilson for his time, and started the drive back to Mountainair. It was well into the night, and the brewing snowstorm looked like it could turn nasty, but he wanted to talk to one more person before heading back home to Santa Fe. marcia year wood the physician's assistant who ran the rural health clinic in Mountainair, promptly answered Kerney's knock at her front door.

"Yes, what is it?"

She was a pleasant-looking woman in her thirties, with big, perfectly round brown eyes accentuated by eyeglasses, and a wide mouth that hinted at an easy smile. She wore sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and slippers.

Kerney showed her his badge.

"May I have a few minutes of your time?"

"It's not a medical emergency, I take it?"

"Not at all."

"Come in."

Yearwood's home, a single-story stone structure near the high school, sat well back on a heavily treed lot. The front room contained a couch with two matching chairs and a coffee table, grouped in front of a fireplace. There were some tasteful fine art posters on the walls, including a Georgia O'Keeffe print and several Gustave Baumann reproductions. Books and magazines were scattered about within easy reach, and on the floor next to the couch was a canvas bag filled with embroidery yarn. The fireplace had a crackling cedar fire going that warmed the room nicely. From the feel of the place, Kerney guessed Yearwood was unattached.

"What can I do for you, Officer?" Marcia asked, as she gestured for Kerney to join her on the couch.

Kerney obliged.

"I understand that Robert Cordova gets his medication from you when he's in Mountainair."

Marcia sat at the end of the couch and turned to face Kerney directly.

"Yes. I dispense it through an arrangement with the psychiatrist at the state mental hospital.

Is Robert in some sort of trouble?"

She brushed a strand of long dark hair away from her face and looked at Kerney more closely.

"You're the investigator looking into Paul Gillespie's murder." She stiffened a bit and crossed her legs.

"Surely you don't think Robert is a suspect."

"He doesn't strike me as a killer."

Marcia answered with an agreeing smile.

"He's not.

Robert's normal behavior-if you can call it that-is all bravado and posturing. The onset of his illness came during adolescence. Besides being schizophrenic, he's fixated at a juvenile stage of development."

"You seem to know him well."

"Well enough. But that doesn't mean I can tell you more about him. His medical records are confidential.

I've been told that he's eloped from Las Vegas."

"Eloped?"

Marcia laughed quickly.

"It's a polite way of saying he escaped. After all, we don't want people to think mental hospitals are prisons."

"Aren't they?"

"Not all. Have you seen him?"

"I have him in protective custody at the Torrance County jail."

Marda sighed.

"That's a relief. Each time he disappears I'm sure he's going to be found beaten to a pulp and left to die along some roadside."

"He doesn't want to go back to Las Vegas. I thought you could help."

She nodded her head in agreement.

"He never wants to go back, but once he gets there and settles in to a routine, it's beneficial. Of course I'll help. I can see him in the morning."

"I'd like to be there when you see him."

Marda's voice became guarded.

"I don't intend to help you conduct an interrogation."

"I don't plan to interrogate him, Ms. Yearwood.

There's a remote chance Robert may have seen something, or may know something about what happened the night Gillespie was shot. I need him to talk about it."

"That may not be easy."

"I know."

Marda tapped her finger against her lip.

"Normally, I'd say no, but I think this time it will be okay. However, be warned: if you try to intimidate him, I'll stop you dead in your tracks."

"Pair enough."

"He doesn't like cops, you know."

Kerney smiled.

"That's what I've heard. Is there some reason for it?"

"I don't know," Marda replied with a slight shrug.

"He said he went to high school with Paul Gillespie."

"I believe he did."

"How would you characterize Gillespie?"

"He was a bit of a bully who had an eye for the girls."

Kerney had heard the same comment from several other sources, but had been unable to locate anyone who could provide specifics.

"Did he come on to you?"

"He wouldn't dare. Besides, I wasn't his type. He liked younger women."

"Anyone in particular?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea. But I'd see him chatting with teenage girls a lot after school got out."

"What makes that stand out in your mind?"

"He was always talking to the girls," Marda answered.

"The teenage boys he seemed to ignore, unless they were speeding or drinking beer at the town park after dark."

"Do you know if he was sexually or romantically involved with any of the girls?"

"No, I don't."

"Any rumors?"

Marda waved off the question.

"There are rumors floating around about everybody who lives in this town.

I pay no attention to them."

Kerney tried again: "Any rumors specifically about Gillespie?"

"Rumors, no. I've made it very dear to people that I'm not part of the local gossip mill. But several years ago, one of the high school girls who came to the clinic told me she thought Gillespie was creepy."

"Creepy in what way?"

"She baby-sat for the same family on a regular basis several times a month. Gillespie would always drive by the house three or four times a night whenever she was there. But only if her boyfriend wasn't with her."

"That's creepy enough," Kerney said.

"I'd like to talk to her."

"I had a fairly close relationship with the girl, and I'm sure she would have told me if anything more had happened."

"How can I reach her?"

"Not easily. She's a medical technician serving in the navy on a hospital ship."

Kerney got the girl's name for the record. He could track her down through her parents or naval authorities, if necessary.

"What can you tell me about Robert's family history?"

"He was born and raised in Mountainair. The family was very dysfunctional. Robert started getting in trouble with the police when he was fairly young. He spent some time in a foster home."

"Was he sent away?"

"No. He was placed with a family here in town."

"Who were the foster parents?"

"An older couple. I never met them. I believe they're both deceased."

"Does Robert have any siblings?"

"An older sister, but she moved to Texas years ago after her parents divorced and left the state. Robert says he has no contact with her."

"Does he stay in touch with his biological parents?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Does he have any children?"

Marda made a face and shook her head.

"No. You're asking about Satan raping his daughter, aren't you?

That has been Robert's predominant delusion since the onset of his illness."

"I wonder what it means."

"I have no idea." Marcia rose from the couch, signaling that the discussion had ended.

Kerney stood up with her.

"Do you know any of the local veterinarians?"

"I don't think there is one. Maybe in Estanda, but not here."

"Do you know a female veterinarian, or a woman who works for a vet?"

Marcia shook her head.

"Sorry, I don't. But I'm sure one of the ranchers can tell you."

After making arrangements to meet Marda Yearwood at the jail at mid-morning, Kerney started the long drive back to Santa Pc in a snowstorm that kept pushing drifts across the highway. He wondered if he was simply spinning his wheels. He dedded to give it one more day before telling Andy Baca the investigation wasn't getting anywhere. He hated the idea that the case might go unsolved.

In the morning, Kerney got an early start and drove the sixty miles from Santa Fe to the Torrance County jail in Estancia. The road had been plowed and a bright sun made the snow-coated range grass glisten like a sea of silver stems rolling across the Estancia Valley. At the jail, he had Robert brought to the staff conference room.

He wanted time alone with him before Marcia Yearwood showed up.

Robert was brought in by a guard. He wore an orange jumpsuit with torrancb county jail stendled on the back, a pair of plastic shower sandals, and a shit eating grin. His hair was combed, his beard trimmed, and he looked freshly scrubbed. He sat next to Kerney at the end of the long conference table and lit a cigarette.

Kerney adjusted his position so he could look squarely at Robert, and took a whiff. Robert didn't smell bad at all.

"Are you going to let me stay in jail?" Robert asked hopefully.

"I don't see how I can do that."

"Charge me with something." His foot wasn't wiggling at all, and he seemed calm.

"What would you suggest?"

Robert smiled widely.

"Rape."

"Did you rape someone?"

"Of course I did. I already told you about it."

"No, you told me that Satan raped your daughter."

Robert poked himself in the chest with a finger.

"I'm Satan."

"If that's the case, you'd better tell me who you raped."

Robert shook his head.

"I can't. It's a secret."

"Well, it can't be your daughter. You don't have one."

"It was my sister. I raped my sister."

"The one that lives in Texas."

"Not that one," Robert said with a scowl.

"Tell me about this other sister."

"What I did to her was bad."

"Where did you rape her?"

"At Serpent Gate."

"Where is that?"

Robert waved the question away.

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Did Paul Gillespie know about Serpent Gate?"

"I don't want to talk about that motherfucker."

"Okay, we won't. When did you rape your sister?"

"A long time ago."

"What's your sister's name?"

Robert put a finger to his lips.

"It's a secret."

Before Kerney could ask another question, Marda Yearwood burst into the conference room. She stood at the end of the long table, glaring at him.

"I see you started without me."

"We were just chatting," Kerney answered.

Marda forced a smile in Robert's direction and moved down the table behind a row of neatly arranged conference chairs. She wore a dark blue turtleneck sweater and wool slacks under a long charcoal gray winter coat. She composed herself as she removed her coat, and sat down next to Robert.

"It's good to see you looking so well, Robert. What were you two talking about?"

Robert gave Kerney a conspiratorial look.

"Rape."

"Really?" Marda replied, unable to mask a hint of surprise in her voice.

"I'd like to hear about it."

"No way. Women aren't supposed to hear about shit like that."

"That's not fair," Marda responded gently.

"I can't talk about it," Robert said.

"Besides, Addie doesn't want me to."

"Who is Addie?" Kerney asked as he moved to a chair across from Robert and Marda. He wanted a dear view of Robert. He could hear Robert's heel slapping against the shower sandal.

Robert hesitated.

"Somebody who talks to me."

"Is Addie short for Adele or Adelaide?" Kerney asked.

"Addie's not short for nothing."

"And you talk to her?" Kerney prodded.

"Sometimes."

"Do you talk to her in your head?" Marda suggested.

"Yeah," Robert said, relief showing on his face. The foot wiggling stopped.

"Okay," Marcia said.

"Addie is a voice you hear."

"That's right."

Marcia nodded and switched gears.

"Mr. Kerney needs to ask you some questions."

"Sure." Robert glanced at Kerney.

"What about?"

"Addie isn't a real person?" Kerney asked.

Robert tensed.

"I don't want to talk about her. It makes me nervous."

"Okay, we won't. On the day Officer Gillespie was shot, you were seen talking to a woman in a pickup truck with a stock trailer," Kerney said.

"Is she someone you know?"

"What did she look like?" Robert asked.

"I thought you could tell me. The trailer may have belonged to a veterinarian."

"I don't know anybody like that," Robert said. His foot wiggle started again. He lit another cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Do you remember talking to the woman?"

"No." He blew smoke in Kerney's direction and flicked a cigarette ash on the carpet.

"Sometimes I ask people to give me a smoke or some money."

"So, it was no one you knew?"

"I don't think so." Robert swallowed hard and looked away.

Robert was lying. Kerney changed the subject again.

"Several days before Gillespie was shot, you were seen outside of town on the railroad tracks."

"I like to walk along the tracks sometimes," Robert said.

"Do you go to any particular place?"

"Sometimes."

"Does the place have a name?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you call it?"

"I don't call it nothing." He turned and spoke to Marcia.

"Do I have to go back to the hospital?"

"Are you hearing voices?" Marcia replied.

"Not now. Not since yesterday."

"When yesterday?" Marcia asked.

"Before lunch."

"Maybe I can get you in a hallway house in Albuquerque," Marda said.

Robert grinned at the prospect.

Marda turned to Kerney.

"Do you have any more questions for Robert?"

"Just one. Were you near the police station around the time Gillespie was shot?"

Robert stuck his thumb out in a hitchhiker motion.

"Does that mean no?"

Robert nodded in agreement.

"I hitched a ride to Estanda."

"Did you see anyone near the police station before you left town?"

Robert shook his head and looked away, avoiding Kerney's gaze.

"Thanks, Robert," Kerney said, thinking that maybe Robert had seen someone-someone he knew. But pushing Robert didn't seem to be the best way to get answers.

"We're done?" Robert asked, and stood up quickly.

"We're done," Kerney said.

Robert leaned in Kerney's direction and gave him a high five and a smile.

"Later," he said.

"Take care, Robert."

After escorting him out of the room, Marda returned and sat with Kerney.

"I expected you to wait for me before meeting with Robert."

"It was a bit sneaky on my part."

Marda nodded.

"Just so you know why I jumped on you when I came in."

In another context, Kerney wouldn't have minded the possibility of Marda jumping on him at all.

"No problem. I deserved it."

She drummed her fingers on the table.

"Did he talk much about rape?"

"He had just started talking about it. He said a long time ago he raped his sister-not the one who lives in Texas."

"He doesn't have another sister. It's unusual for Robert to say anything at all about rape, other than the delusional stuff about Satan, Jesus, and his imaginary daughter."

"Do you think there's some factual basis to what he said?" Kerney asked.

"Don't count on it." Marda took her glasses off and smiled-an amused half smile that seemed to show some personal interest in Kerney.

"Robert says he likes you. That's high praise from him for a police officer."

"I'm glad to hear it."

She offered her hand to him across the table. It was warm and soft.

"I hope you catch your killer, Mr. Kerney." Kerney let go of her hand slowly. It had been a while since he'd felt a woman's touch.

"Thanks. Will you be able to keep Robert out of the hospital?"

"It's possible. I'll do a mental status exam. If he's dear enough, I should be able to swing it." after marcia left to evaluate Robert, Kerney stayed behind to think things through. If, as Marcia indicated, Robert never talked about rape except when he was hallucinating or delusional, why did he raise the topic in the absence of any psychotic symptoms? While Kerney was no expert in mental illness, he believed Robert had something specific on his mind.

Robert had flat-out lied about the woman in the pickup truck, with all the clumsiness of a twelve-year old caught red-handed. And he had lied again about not seeing anyone outside the police station.

The only new bit of information Robert had provided was a name: Addie.

Was she real or imaginary?

Marda thought it was part of Robert's delusion, but Kerney wasn't so sure. He stared at me freshly polished tabletop. There were smeared, sweaty palm prints where Robert had been sitting. Until Marda suggested that Addie was only a voice in his head, Robert had nervously rubbed his hand on the table. The hand rubbing and foot wiggling started up again when Kerney pushed the issue about Addie a little harder.

Kerney smiled. Maybe Addie was real. Maybe the case wasn't as dead as a doornail yet.

Using the jail administrator's phone, Kerney called around until he connected with the state agency responsible for foster care. He had to smooth-talk a handful of bureaucrats and record clerks before he could get the names of Robert Cordova's former foster parents. An attempt to get the names of the children living with the couple during Robert's placement was unsuccessful-the juvenile records were confidential and sealed.

After confirming that Robert's foster parents. Burl and Thelma Jackson, were deceased, he got their last known Mountainair address and headed down the road.

The day had warmed up and the rangeland had shed the previous night's snow. As he drove, Kerney pondered the facts of the Gillespie murder.

Gillespie's sidearm had been used to blow the top of his head off, and the gun had been wiped clean of prints. There was no sign of a struggle, and no incriminating evidence had been found at the crime scene.

How could the killer have gotten control of Gillespie's weapon? That fact alone made it highly likely that the killer was known to Gillespie. Which meant Kerney needed to find a precipitating event that could lead to a motive. The crime could have been fueled by jealousy, rage, or revenge. But was it a premeditated crime or one of passion? Either way, what did Gillespie do to make somebody want to kill him? Kerney still didn't have a hint.

Burl and Thelma Jackson's last address turned out to be a rambling adobe house with a pitched roof on several fenced acres near a Forest Service building. East of the house an old Santa Pc Railroad boxcar sat on masonry piers next to a working windmill. A picket fence at the front of the house enclosed a sandbox and swing set. Near a freestanding garage with a sagging roof, a rusted Ford Fairlane slumped on blocks with the hood open, yawning at the sky.

Kerney knocked at the door, which was opened by an overweight woman of about forty. Dressed in a bulky sweater that covered a thick stomach, she had a harried expression and full lips that curved downward.

In the background, Kerney heard the voices of young children.

"Yes?" the woman asked, looking Kerney up and down. She was holding a baby's bib in one hand. It was splattered with what looked like applesauce or vomit.

Kerney showed his shield and introduced himself.

"I'm trying to locate someone who knew Burl and Thelma Jackson."

They were my parents," the woman replied. A child yelled and the woman turned her head toward the sound.

"Come in. I'll be with you in a minute." She pointed at an overstufied easy chair in the front room and left hurriedly through a side doorway, latching a childproof accordion gate behind her.

Kerney sat, listened to the children's chatter, and looked around. The room was meagerly furnished with a well-worn couch, the easy chair Kerney sat in with a floor lamp next to it, two side tables, each holding a glass vase filled with plastic flowers, and a hand-hooked oval throw rug in the center of the pine floor. Framed family photographs hung on one wall above a largescreen television set, and plain white cotton curtains covered the front windows.

The largest photograph was a color portrait of a smiling elderly couple dressed in their Sunday best. The man, wearing a cowboy hat, sat behind the woman, his arms wrapped around her waist, both turned at an angle to face the camera. Kerney guessed the couple to be Burl and Thelma. On either side of the portrait were high school graduation pictures of two girls. One was obviously of the woman who had greeted Kerney at the door. He could see the tendency toward heaviness in her torso and upper arms, and a hint of petulance in the smile. The other girl, a slender, pretty brunette with a faraway gaze in her eyes, had a tough little smile and a birthmark on her chin.

The noise subsided and the woman returned, closing the gate behind her.

She sat on the sofa and looked quizzically at Kerney.

"Why are you asking about my parents?"

"I didn't get your name," Kerney replied with a smile.

"Lurline Toler."

"I'm really interested in learning about Robert Cordova, Mrs. Toler,"

Kerney explained.

"He was your parents' foster child."

"I know Robert. I was still living at home when he came to stay with us." A child's delighted screech followed by another child's laugh interrupted Lurline.

"I do child care for some working mothers," she explained with a weary smile. She waited several beats before speaking again. All was quiet at the back of the house.

"What do you want to know about Robert?"

"What other foster children were placed here while Robert lived with the family?"

Lurline shook her head.

"I couldn't even begin to remember, there were so many of them. Robert was one of those who stayed the longest. Most of the others were here and gone in a matter of a few months."

"Were they all teenagers?"

"Yes. My parents only took in older children."

"Do you remember a girl named Addie that Robert was friendly with?"

Lurline blinked and hesitated.

"There were no foster children staying here by that name, as I recall."

"Perhaps it was a school friend."

Lurline nodded her head.

"That's possible, but Robert was pretty much a loner. I don't think he had any friends."

"Who would know?"

Lurline thought for a moment before answering.

"I really can't tell you. Robert is quite a bit younger than me-about six years, I think. We didn't run with the same crowd. Is he in trouble?"

"No, he's not."

"Poor thing," Lurline said.

"He's had a hard time of it."

"Haven't we all?"

"Is that your high school graduation picture?" Kerney asked.

"Yes. I should take it down. I'll never look like that again."

"Is the other girl your sister?"

"Yes. My younger sister, Nita. Dad always wanted a boy, but he got two girls instead."

"Could she tell me more about Robert?"

"She was never close to him."

"How can I contact her?"

A child's angry shriek kept Luriine from answering.

She got to her feet.

"I can't talk now. Call me this evening." kerney sat in his car by the Mountainair High School and watched a group of students dressed in sweats running around a track that bordered the football field.

Growing up in the Tularosa Basin, Kerney had gone to a small-town high school where the school nurse knew every student, and was the unofficial counselor, confidante, and friend to any kid with a bloody nose, scraped knee, or troubles at home. In the years that had passed, he doubted much had changed in small-town schools.

He got out of the car and found his way to the health office.

Henrietta Swope, the school nurse, looked like a grandmother who brooked no silliness and expected everybody to tell the truth. She wore her gray hair pulled straight back, and her blue-gray eyes were inquisitive and lively. She had the lyrical voice of a much younger woman.

Kerney sat in her office, a small room furnished with a cot, a first aid locker, a desk with a chair, and a row of locked file cabinets. The walls were plastered with public health posters announcing the pitfalls of unsafe sex, teenage pregnancy, poor nutrition, and drug abuse. He showed his identification, told her what case he was working on, and asked about Robert Cordova.

"Of course I know him," Henrietta replied.

"He haunts my memory."

"Why do you say that?"

Henrietta sighed.

"Whenever I see him around town, I remember what a lonely, miserable boy he was.

He acted like a whipped puppy. He would snarl when he got angry and run away when he got upset. He was such a sad child."

"Did he have any friends?"

"At best, he was always on the fringes of the social cliques. He was barely tolerated and always teased a great deal."

"Did he hang around with any of the other foster children when he lived with the jacksons Henrietta's expression brightened.

"I wish Robert could have stayed with Thelma and Buri. It was the only time I saw him settle down and get comfortable with himself." Her eyes flickered and turned serious.

"I think Robert has always been truly alone in the world. Isn't that enough to make a person go crazy?"

"Sometimes," Kerney conceded.

"He didn't connect with anybody? Another foster child? A classmate? A teacher?"

"No. That says something about all of us, I suppose.

We should have tried harder to reach him."

"Did he have a schoolmate named Addie?"

"Not that I remember."

"Someone nicknamed Addie? Short for Adele or Adelaide?"

"No, but we had a girl here until last year whose given name was Addie."

"Who is that?"

"Addie Randall."

"Tell me about her."

"Oh, I'm sure Robert doesn't know her. She would have been a senior now if she'd stayed with us."

"She moved away?"

"She's living in Socorro. I transferred her health records to the high school there during the middle of the spring semester."

"When was that, exactly?" Kerney asked.

"Sometime in March. Late March, I would say."

"Did the family move?"

"No. Her parents still live here with two younger children. Her mother works at the grocery store as a checker. I believe Addie's father is unemployed."

"Do you have any idea why Addie left?"

"Family troubles, I suspect. Addie was a popular girl at school-very pretty and outgoing-and the transfer happened quite unexpectedly."

"What kind of family troubles?"

Henrietta bit her lower lip before replying.

"Confidentially, I think it's possible she may be pregnant.

I've seen the pattern too many times not to have my suspicions."

"Do you know who Addie is living with in Socorro?"

"A relative, I believe." Henrietta consulted her card file.

"I don't have a name. Addie's mother can tell you. I can't see how any of this has the least bearing on Paul Gillespie's murder," she added.

"It probably doesn't."

"If you see Addie, give her my best. She's a sweet girl."

Til be glad to." kernht pushed the car hard through Abo Pass at the north edge of the Los Pinos Mountains. It was a sixty mile drive to Socorro, and a large part of the trip bordered the Sevilleta National Wildlife Refuge, which straddled both sides of the Rio Grande. With the mountains behind him, the rangeland-so vast the river was a hazy promise in the distance-opened into miles of uninhabited space colored in sepia brown and dull gray against a creamy blue sky. The only interruptions to the emptiness were a few mobile homes and camper trailers parked on small fenced lots along the state highway, most of them abandoned. West, across the river, rose the remote Ladron Mountains, accessible only by horseback or on foot.

He got to Socorro High School and checked in at the administrative offices, where he learned that Addie Randall was enrolled in a special program for teenage mothers. Through the window of the closed classroom door, he saw a group of expectant and new mothers standing around a changing table. All of them looked much too young to be having babies and rearing children.

The teacher with the students looked suspiciously at Kerney when he entered the room. A tall woman with long arms and legs, she detached herself from the group and approached Kerney quickly.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

The chatter at the table stopped and the girls, some holding infants, withdrew to a circle of chairs at the back of the room.

"I'd like to speak to Addie Randall," Kerney said quietly, displaying his credentials.

The teacher's expression remained unfriendly.

"That's not possible. We're in the middle of class."

During his years as a detective, Kerney had found that teachers on their own turf were difficult to deal with. Most didn't like cops, and they jealously guarded their home ground and their students.

"I won't take much of her time," he said.

"And I do need to see her now." He emphasized the last word.

" I have the principal's permission."

Appealing to a higher authority, even if it was a lie, won the woman over. She nodded curtly and motioned for a girl to join her. Addie Randall moved slowly toward the teacher. She was a tall, slim girl made wide hipped and heavy by pregnancy. Her long-sleeved pullover top had baby emblazoned on it with an arrow pointing toward her belly. A pair of loose, floppy pants draped over the extra thirty pounds of her last trimester. No more than sixteen, she had wheat-colored hair, fair skin, brown eyes, and a worried look on her face.

"What is it?" Addie asked uneasily.

"This police officer needs to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to him," Addie said, avoiding Kerney's gaze.

"You can talk to me unofficially now, or officially with your parents present," Kerney replied.

"It's your decision to make."

Addie shifted her weight.

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"No, you haven't," Kerney said.

"I just need to ask you a few questions about somebody else."

"Who?" she asked suspiciously, drawing back.

"Can we talk outside? Or would you rather take a drive with me back to Mountainair?"

Addie acquiesced quickly.

"I'll talk to you."

In the empty corridor, Addie stood with her hands resting on the top of her belly. Her eyes had a frosty, wary look.

"When is the baby due?"

"Soon."

"Are you going to keep it?"

"Maybe," Addie answered halfheartedly. She looked behind her to see if the hallway was still empty. It was.

"What did you want to ask me?"

Kerney brushed off her question and continued, "If you keep the baby, how will you support it?"

Addie's expression tightened.

"It's none of your business what I do with my baby."

"The adoption agency will want to know about the baby's father."

She gave Kerney a fretful look that quickly disappeared.

"They can't make me do that if I don't know" "Were you raped?" Kerney asked.

Addie didn't flinch at the question.

"I'm going back to class now," she said, moving away.

Kerney touched her lightly on the shoulder to hold her back.

"Addie."

"What is it?"

"Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Let me help you."

She grimaced, her eyes empty of emotion.

"It's too late for that."

"Were you in Mountainair the night Paul Gillespie was murdered?"

"No. I've been living in Socorro since March and I haven't been back there since I left. I don't care if I never go back."

"Do you know Robert Cordova?"

"Sure. Everybody in Mountainair knows him. Why?"

"He told me you made him promise to keep a secret."

Addie shook her head.

"Not me. I don't think I've ever said anything to him in my entire life. He's too weird. What secret?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

She shook her head emphatically.

"Sorry. Can I go back to class now?"

"Sure. Thanks for talking to me."

Kerney watched Addie return to her class. In spite of her unhappy predicament, the girl had spunk. He had reviewed every felony case handled by the Mountainair Police Department during the six months preceding Gillespie's death and no rapes had been reported. Had the girl been sexually assaulted by a stranger? Was it a date rape that didn't get reported? Perhaps she hadn't been raped at all but was simply covering up to protect the unborn child's father.

Kerney didn't have a dear picture, but one thing was certain: Addie was holding something back.

The bell announcing the end of the period rang and he waded through a tide of noisy teenagers who burst out of the classrooms and filled the hallway. He went back to the administration office to find out where Addie lived. She was staying with Verdie Mae McNutt, her great-aunt.

He dedded to pay Verdie Mae a visit. therb was no answer to Kerney's knock at Verdie Mae's door, but a four-door older Plymouth, without a dent or ding, sat under the carport. A thick band of fast moving clouds covered the sun, and the cold afternoon air cut through Kerney's windbreaker. He zipped it up and walked to the backyard. The back porch had been converted into a greenhouse, and inside an elderly woman dressed in faded coveralls dug with a trowel in a raised planting bed.

Kerney knocked on a window and the woman glanced up with a startled look, got to her feet, stepped to the door, and opened it cautiously.

She was thin, with slightly stooped shoulders and a heavily lined face that showed the wear of a good eight decades.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Are you Mrs. McNutt?" Kerney asked, showing his badge.

"I am."

Kerney introduced himself.

"I'd like a few minutes of your time."

Verdie Mae let Kerney in and closed the door quickly behind him. She gestured at two Srickley oak chairs in the center of the greenhouse, positioned to look out at a birdbath, some feeders hanging in the trees, and birdhouses on posts that stood in the middle of me backyard.

"Have a seat," Verdie Mae said.

"I was just about to stop puttering. Is there some problem in the neighborhood?"

"I came to ask you about Addie," Kerney replied as he sat down. The greenhouse was uncomfortably warm. Verdie Mae didn't seem to mind it at all. He unzipped his jacket and looked around. The planting beds and pots on the brick floor were filled with herbs, flowers, and vegetables. Verdie Mae was a serious gardener.

Verdie Mae put the trowel in a basket, removed her gloves, and joined him.

"Is something wrong with Addie?" she asked.

"She's fine. I just spoke with her. I'd like to know a little more about her."

"For what purpose?" Verdie Mae asked, with the look of a woman not easily intimidated.

Kerney decided to see if he could get a reaction out of Verdie Mae.

"Was Addie raped?"

Verdie Mae responded with an exasperated sigh.

"That's why you're here. I don't know. She refuses to discuss it."

"What do you think?"

"I've known Addie all her life. She's a brainy girl with a lot of gumption and ambition. I don't think she would willingly put herself in this predicament."

"Does Addie stay in contact with her family and friends in Mountainair?"

"Not really. Her parents aren't coping very well with the situation, and Addie won't talk to them about it."

"Is she writing to anyone?"

"No."

"Has she had any visitors from back home?"

Verdie Mae hesitated.

"Just one. Nita Lassiter came to visit."

"When was that?"

"Two months ago."

"Tell me about Nita Lassiter."

Verdie Mac's expression turned guarded.

"What are you trying to discover?"

"The name of the man who raped Addie."

Verdie Mae nodded her head in agreement.

"I'd try to shake the name out of that girl if I thought it would do any good. Nita might know, if anyone does."

"Why do you say that?"

"During her visit, Nita stayed with Addie in her room for several hours. When she came out, she seemed upset. I asked if everything was all right. All she said was she had to leave right away."

"What did you make of it?"

"Something Addie said troubled Nita."

"Have you spoken to Nita since then?"

"No. Nor has Addie, as far as I know. I just pray she hasn't cut herself off from Addie. They've been as close as sisters."

"Is Ms. Lassiter a family relative?"

"She's not related by blood at all. She went to school with Addie's parents. Addie's mother was Nita's best friend."

"How does Ms. Lassiter make her living?" Kerney asked.

"She's a veterinarian. Her office is in Estancia."

"Is she married?"

"Divorced."

"What was her maiden name?"

"Jackson."

"She's Thelma and Burl's daughter?" he asked.

"That's right. Do you know the family?"

"I'm beginning to. How did Addie come by her name?"

"She was named for Nita. Anita Jackson was her maiden name."

" Addie' was Nita's nickname?"

"Only among the immediate family."

"You seem to know the family well," Kerney noted.

"Thelma and Buri were my dearest and oldest friends."

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" Verdie Mae clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at a planting bed.

"You seem to be a very smart man, Mr. Kerney. I may have said too much already." in kbrnet's mind, there really wasn't much of a difference between the towns of Estanda and Mountainair.

Both had faltering business districts along a main drag, hodgepodge residential areas of mixed housing in various states of repair, and the fast-fading feel of old-time ranching communities.

But Estanda had the edge in terms of survival. It was the county seat and within commuting distance of Albuquerque. The town had gained population as old farms and ranches were carved into mobile home parks and ranchettes with prefabricated houses that served the spillover growth of city workers who wanted inexpensive land and country living.

The sprawling new developments sprinkled on me high plains and the strip businesses along the highway that connected with the interstate depressed Kerney.

None of it belonged on the landscape.

On the main street of Estanda, Kerney found Nita Lassiter's office, a one-story white stucco building sandwiched between a movie theater and a boarded-up cafe.

A sign on the locked office door listed business hours and telephone numbers. In the alley behind the row of buildings, he found the trailer Floyd Wilson, the railroad crew chief, had described. A painted sign on the side panel read:

LASSITER VETERINARY CLINIC

specializing IN livestock amp; lab.gb animals estancia, new mexico From a pay phone at a convenience store, Kerney called Lassiter's office and got an answering service.

Lassiter was on a call at the Von Hewett Ranch. The operator gave him directions.

He climbed back in the car wondering what Andy Baca would say if he knew the only lead that had been developed in four weeks consisted of a crazy man who had been seen on the day of the murder talking to a lady horse doctor, who happened to share the same name with a pregnant teenage girl.

If nothing materialized with Lassiter, he would turn in his commission card, thank Andy for the work, and try to figure out what in the hell he would do next, while Gillespie's unsolved murder gnawed away at the back of his mind.

Ten miles out of town and a mile off the blacktop that ran from Estanda to the village of Manzano, Kerney found me Von Hewett Ranch, backed up on the far side of a knoll, hidden from sight, with the mountains rising to the west.

The clapboard house was a two-and-a-half-story affair with five columns running the length of a porch underneath a glassed-in sunroom.

Positioned between dormer windows at the roofline, two brick chimneys jutted out from the center of the house. In the front yard was an assortment of restored Depression-era farm machinery, including a spreader, cultivator, and mower, all with oversized metal wheels. The centerpiece of the display, a reconditioned backboard wagon, was filled with terra-cotta flowerpots.

Kerney walked toward a barn, where two pickup trucks were parked by the open door. The newer truck, an extended-cab, full-size Chevy 4x4, had a magnetic sign on the driver's door that read ntta lassitbr, dvm.

Through the open barn door, he heard two women speaking in anxious voices. He stepped inside. The women were working on a mare that was trying to foal.

The animal lay on a bed of straw in a stall, her front legs tucked under her chest, straining in discomfort. An older woman dressed in work boots, jeans, and a barn jacket held the mare's head and tried to keep it still.

The other woman, in her thirties with short brunette hair, lay on her side at the mare's rump with an arm inserted in the birth canal, trying to dislodge the foal.

She wore a sleeveless undershirt with no bra, blue jeans, and pair of leather work boots.

"What's the problem?" Kerney asked.

Nita Lassiter looked up from the mare and scanned the stranger. She saw a tall man somewhere in his forties, with blue eyes, square shoulders, gentle-looking hands, and an outwardly calm presence. He hunkered down next to her.

"Mama's having a hard time delivering her baby," Nita replied.

"The foal is hung up." Nita sized up the length of Kerney's arms.

"I can't reach in far enough to free it. Strip to the waist, slosh some antiseptic on your arm, and coat it with Vaseline. I'll walk you through what needs to be done."

"You got it," Kerney said as he hurried out of his windbreaker and shirt.

Nita tensed when she saw the badge clipped to his belt and the bolstered gun. He had an ugly scar on his belly. He cleaned his hands with the antiseptic before rubbing Vaseline on his arm.

"We don't want to damage the mare's womb," Nita said, removing her arm from the canal.

She gave up her position to Kerney and watched as he slowly inserted his arm into the mare's vagina.

"Find the foal's head. Have you got it?"

"Yes," Kerney replied.

"Push it gently back toward the mare's abdomen."

"Done."

"Lift the muzzle by the chin and position it toward the vaginal canal."

"Okay" "Now, find a hoof, cup it in your hand, and pull it forward.

Careful. Don't tear the womb."

"It's free," Kerney said.

"Do the same thing with the other hoof."

Kerney felt around but couldn't find it. Nita could see the frustration in his eyes as he searched.

"Push back on the foal's head a little more," she ordered.

Kerney nodded, pushed the head back, and located the hoof with his fingertips. With his arm inside the mare up to his shoulder, he strained for another fraction of an inch to reach the hoof. Slowly, he brought it forward and the foal, no longer hung up, entered the canal before Kerney could extract his arm. At that same instant, the mare dropped a load of horse shit that hit Kerney in the face and chest. He pulled free and moved out of the way as the foal and me afterbirth came into view.

The foal was out and struggling to stand on shaky legs as Kerney got to his feet. The mare snorted once and lowered her head in exhaustion.

Horseshit dripped down the front of Kerney's jeans.

"Don't say it," Kerney warned both women.

Nita tossed him a small towel.

"Say what?"

"That I look like shit."

"Well, now that you mention it…" She waved off the rest of her comment.

"Thank you for your help."

An attractive woman, Lassiter had a finely boned oval face that appeared to be almost symmetrical. Her eyebrows were straight and thick, and her lips were full.

She had a small birthmark on her chin.

"I was glad to oblige."

Kerney's thoughts turned to his visits with Lassiter's sister, Lurline Toler, and Verdie Mae McNutt. Had Lurline put him off about how to find Nita? What did Verdie Mae think he was smart enough to figure out?

Nita gestured at her companion.

"That's Uddy Hewett. I'm Nita Lassiter."

"Kevin Kerney."

Nita turned her attention to the foal.

"It's a girl," she announced.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Liddy Hewett said, as she retrieved Kerney's shirt and jacket.

"That would be nice," Kerney allowed, blinking through the manure, and dabbing the towel around his eyes.

"We don't usually have policemen come calling," Uddy said. She walked him to a utility sink outside the tack room and turned on me faucet.

"Is there a problem?"

"I came to see Dr. Lassiter," Kerney replied. Behind him, Nita Lassiter's stirring ceased and he thought he heard a sudden intake of breath.

"Well, I'm glad you came when you did," Liddy noted.

"We were having a hard time of it with the mare."

"Some births don't come easy." He scrubbed his hands clean, ran the basin full, and started washing the shit off his face and chest. He dirtied one large towel and Liddy handed him another.

"Can I offer you a cup of coffee after you've cleaned up?" Liddy asked.

"That sounds nice."

She handed him the last clean towel.

"I'll get the pot going. You and Nita come over to the house when you're ready."

Liddy walked off and Kerney turned to study Nita.

She was bent over the mare watching the horse lick the foal clean. She straightened up and forced a smile at Kerney.

"Thanks again. I think we would have lost the foal if you hadn't shown up."

"You're welcome," Kerney said as he tucked in his shirt and put on his jacket.

"So, you're a police officer."

"I'm an investigator with the state police."

"Why do you need to talk to me?" Stiffly, Nita walked to the sink and stood with her back to Kerney. A good five foot eight, she had a slender frame, much like Addie Randall's.

"I spoke with your sister earlier today."

She splashed water on her face, cleaned her arms, slipped on a plaid work shirt, and turned to face him.

"Really?"

"And Verdie Mae McNutt."

"I see."

"I also talked with Addie Randall. I understand you paid a visit to her in Socorro."

"Her mother and I have been friends since childhood Addie is someone I care about."

"Verdie Mae made that dear. You were seen talking to Robert Cordova in Mountainair on the day Paul Gillespie was murdered."

"I've known Robert for a long time."

"He was your foster brother."

"That's right."

"What secret do you want him to keep?"

Nita's eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me?"

"Where is Serpent Gate?"

"I've never heard of it."

"That's not what Robert said."

Nervously, Nita used her fingers to comb her hair.

"If you've talked to Robert, you know that he's not completely rational."

"Not always," Kerney agreed.

"But two thoughts seem to occupy his mind: a place called Serpent Gate and rape. Do you know why he spends so much time thinking about those two things?"

"I have no idea."

"Addie was raped, wasn't she?"

"I think that's a safe assumption."

"Did she tell you who did it?"

"Addie won't talk about it."

"Not with just anybody," Kerney said.

"But maybe she would tell someone close to her. Someone who would understand what happened."

"I don't know what you mean by that."

The more Kerney looked at Nita, the stronger her resemblance to Addle seemed. He dedded to roll the dice.

"Does Addie know you're her mother?"

"That's absurd." Nita's voice rose several notches.

"Why would Lurline lie to me about your friendship with Robert Cordova?"

"I have no idea."

"Then lie to me again about your family nickname?

It's Addie, isn't it?"

"I think I've heard enough." Nita walked to her medical bag and started repacking it. Her hands were shaking.

"I think it's more than a coinddence that you and Addie share the same name."

Nita snapped the bag closed.

"I have to go now." Her eyes blinked rapidly, filling with tears, and she walked quickly past Kerney into the biting late-afternoon wind.

"Did you kill Paul Gfflespie?"

"Why would I do that?" Nita opened the passenger door to her truck and put the bag on the seat, hiding her face from Kerney.

"Because he raped Addie."

Nita sagged against the door.

"Who told you that?"

"Addie," Kerney lied.

"Is she your daughter?"

"You'll have to figure that out by yourself." Nita closed the passenger door and walked to the driver's side of the truck. A sheen of perspiration showed on her upper lip.

Kerney followed and stopped at the front fender.

"You need to talk about this, Nita," he said softly.

"You can't keep carrying it around. It's eating you up. You're sweating and shaking."

"I don't want to talk to you," Nita responded, her voice drained. She opened the driver's door, got inside, and gave him a feeble smile.

"Good-bye, Mr. Kerney."

Kerney held the truck door open as she tried to pull it shut, and played his last card.

"Robert did tell me one thing that may interest you."

"What's that?"

"He saw you leaving the police station the night Gillespie was shot."

Nita sagged.

"Oh, poor Robert." The words came out in a whisper.

"Our friendship has cost him so much. Is he okay?"

"You saw him there, didn't you?"

Nita bit her lip and nodded.

"Tell me about your relationship with Paul Gillespie."

"Paul was my classmate in high school."

"Was he a friend?"

"Hardly that."

"You didn't like him?"

"I couldn't stand him."

"You wanted to confront him about Addie. I can understand that. He raped your daughter."

Nita laughed harshly.

"Addie was Paul's daughter, too, Mr. Kerney. I left town when I found out I was pregnant. He never knew about Addie and Addie doesn't know about him."

"You're leaving something out, Nita. Finish the story."

Nita's shoulders sagged further.

"Paul raped me during my senior year in high school. Robert saw it happen."

"When did you decide to kill him?"

"When Addie told me what Paul had done."

Kerney sidestepped around the door so he could have a dear view of Nita.

"Tell me how it happened."

"He was cleaning his pistol when I went to see him. I had a gun in my handbag. I was just going to kill him and leave. But I got scared. He grabbed me before I could walk out and gave me this hug-grinding himself against me. I felt like I was being raped all over again. I pushed him away, picked up his pistol from the desk, and pulled the trigger."

"Get out of the truck," Kerney said softly.

"Lurline called me right after you went to see her. I knew you would find me."

"Step out of the truck."

Nita shook her head. She turned her back to Kerney and her left hand disappeared into the center console between the bucket seats.

"Put your hands in plain view and get out of the truck." Kerney unholstered his weapon and leveled the nine-millimeter at Nita.

"I'm not a very good murderer," Nita said. As she turned to face Kerney, her hand came up holding a pistol.

She pressed the muzzle against her temple.

"Too much of a conscience, I guess."

"Drop the gun," Kerney said.

Nita shook her head and began to squeeze the trigger.

Too far away to make a grab, Kerney fired once. The bullet caught Nita below the shoulder and jarred her arm a fraction of a second before she squeezed the trigger.

The round went through the roof of the truck.

He was on her before she could recover. He yanked the gun away, pulled her out of the truck, stretched her on the ground, opened her shirt, and examined the wound. It was bleeding freely but was not life threatening. He had never shot a woman before and it wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.

"Why didn't you just kill me?" she asked.

"Too much of a conscience, I guess," he replied.

West of Santa Fe, in a subdivision exclusively for the very rich, Enrique De Leon waited in his expansive living room. Pinon logs crackling in a stone fireplace at the far end of the room provided the only light.

De Leon watched the reflection of the flames flickering in the large glass windows, which by day afforded a stunning view of the Sangre de Cristo foothills and mountains.

De Leon checked his wristwatch; it was twenty minutes to first light, and according to the timetable he had established, Carlos Ruiz should already have returned.

He was about to become annoyed when headlights came into view at the bottom of the private road and paused briefly at the security gate. He watched the vehicle travel up the hill and turn into the driveway.

When he heard the quiet whir of the garage door opener from the lower level of the house, he smiled and closed his eyes. carlos Ruiz hurried up the stairs. The job had gone well, but he was late. And the jefe expected his instructions to be followed exactly, no matter what got in the way. He walked through the kitchen and slowed his steps down the long gallery hall to the living room. The hand-carved doors stood open, and at the far end of the room a fireplace glow cast just enough illumination for Carlos to see De Leon shape in the chair.

"Shall I turn on a light, patron?" Carlos asked. He spoke in English as De Leon ordered during any visits to the United States.

"That would not be wise," De Leon replied.

Only two other houses had a line of sight to De Leon property. Both were million-dollar vacation homes staffed by full-time caretakers, who, if awake, might find it unusual to see lights on at such an odd time.

"All went well," Carlos said, stepping into the room.

His heels clacked on the polished flagstone floor.

"What delayed you?"

"The private elevator was small, patron. Extra trips were required to move the items out of the offices to the garage. The access code to the underground garage had not been changed, so we had no trouble gaining entry to the building."

"Unseen?"

"Yes, patron."

"No one was in the building?"

"Two janitors. Both were on the first floor, cleaning the rotunda.

They did not see or hear us. I had Palazzi watch them throughout the operation, with orders to kill them should they become suspicious."

Carlos took a deep breath before continuing. If he left out details, De Leon would become displeased. The patron frequently complained about the slowness of his mind.

"We wore gloves, hats, and masks as you ordered," Carlos noted.

"No lights were on, and we disabled the security cameras in the reception area without detection."

"Did you get everything?"

"Yes, patron," Carlos replied.

"The walls are bare."

"Store everything in the wine cellar," De Leon ordered as he stood up.

"It is being done as we speak. The men will leave for Juarez as soon as they are finished."

"Have them wait."

"Yes, patron. And the woman?"

"In a few minutes," De Leon answered as he walked past Carlos.

The curtains in the master bedroom were closed and die track lights dimmed low. De Leon looked down at the beautiful, heavily drugged face of Amanda Talley.

He would remember Amanda fondly for a very long time. Her hunger had matched his own, up to a point.

He lifted a strand of blond hair away from her cheek and stroked her face. Amanda did not respond.

De Leon had promised Amanda a vacation in Belize.

A pity she'd never know what she was missing. Her luggage and passport were in Belize right now, at the hotel where one of De Leon most trusted currency couriers-a woman of theatrical temperament who enjoyed playing roles and living well-had registered in Amanda's name. The woman would establish a fleeting presence in the midst of a great many witnesses, and then fake a drowning on a boating excursion, the body never to be found.

It was Amanda who had told De Leon how easy it would be to steal millions of dollars of American art.

Not from a museum, but from the executive suite of the governor of New Mexico, who by tradition could select any pieces he desired from the state museums to decorate his offices. She had been bubbling over with the scheme, high on coke and champagne in this very bedroom, fantasizing about a great art theft. She'd miss all the headlines, too, unfortunately for her.

Amanda had offered De Leon good sex and a great opportunity to steal from the wrteamericanos. Enrique took full advantage of both. He turned on the lamp next to the bed. Amanda wore only a pair of panties. In her late twenties, her body was exactly the type that appealed most to Enrique; slender legs with just a hint of roundness to the stomach, full breasts that were not out of proportion to her frame, a face with a somewhat haughty, aristocratic cast to it. And this lovely blond hair. There was no need for her to suffer.

"Thank you, my dear," De Leon whispered to the unconscious woman.

He found Carlos waiting for him in the dark living room.

"Kill her quickly and cleanly," he ordered.

"Yes, patron. And the body?"

"Have the men take it to Mexico. Dispose of it at the ranch. No trace of her is to be found."

"As you wish." de leon waited until the van left and Carlos was occupied with removing all traces of Amanda's presence from the house before he went to the wine cellar. The room, which was next to the garage, contained a wet bar, built-in wine racks, recessed lighting, and a table and chairs for wine tasting. Stacked neatly against the walls were almost three dozen framed paintings and prints, but what attracted De Leon immediate attention were the objects on the table.

De Leon knew what the glass display cases in the governor's office contained, yet seeing the bounty firsthand was still impressive. Among the items were two large pottery storytellers by the renowned Pueblo Indian artist Helen Cordero, a small bronze by Alien Houser, the famous Apache sculptor, a Western Apache storage basket, a Tesuque Pueblo buffalo-head shield from the mid-eighteenth century, an old retablo of Saint Rita, and an exquisite hand-carved wooden bulto of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Immediately De Leon knew which piece would remain in his possession; the Guadalupe bulto would go in the private chapel at his hacienda outside ofjuarez.

He turned to the paintings. As the museum curator assigned to select the art for the governor's office, Amanda had chosen well: three Georgia O'Keeffe oils, a Joseph Henry Sharp Indian portrait, a Maynard Dixon cowboy scene, a Henriette Wyeth still life, a Peter Hurd landscape, a Gerald Cassidy portrait of a cowgirl sitting on a fence post, and twenty-five Gustave Baumann color woodcut prints, taken from the gallery space behind the reception area to the governor's offices.

The O'Keeffes were seven-figure treasures, and the rest would fetch in the six-figure range, with the exception of the woodcuts, which were significantly less valuable but expensive nonetheless.

De Leon did some quick mental calculations; it was an eight-million-dollar haul at the very least, and since it would eventually be sold to foreign buyers on the black market, De Leon would add a 30 percent commission.

Everything but the bulto of the Virgin of Guadalupe would remain in the wine cellar for six months. When the investigation into the theft cooled, De Leon would move the collection to Mexico.

He studied the O'Keeffe paintings carefully, thinking that he might keep one, perhaps to replace the U.S.

Army cavalry saber and scabbard that hung over the fireplace in the billiard room of his hacienda.

He wanted to move the sword to his library. It was the only item De Leon possessed from a trove of priceless American military and historical artifacts he had arranged to buy and resell on the Asian market. The cache, taken by Apaches during the Indian Wars, had been discovered in a secret cave on White Sands Missile Range and smuggled off the base. But the shipment had been intercepted by a gringo cop named Kevin Kerney before it could be delivered to De Leon De Leon had bartered with the U.S. Army for the sword, two hundred thousand dollars in diamonds, and the release of Carlos from custody in exchange for a quantity of letters written by members of the pth US.

Cavalry during the Indian Wars. The smugglers had given the letters to De Leon as proof that the cache was authentic before he agreed to broker the deal.

Putting the sword in the library, where he spent the majority of his time at the hacienda, would serve as a reminder that not every venture succeeded as planned.

He adjusted the climate and humidity controls, turned out the light, and entered the security code to the door. Carlos and the team had done well. andy baca, chief of the state police for two months and counting, stood in the governor's private office on the fourth floor of the Roundhouse, the colloquial name for the state capitol. A circular structure modeled on Pueblo Indian kivas, the building had been nicknamed by political pundits while it was still under construction, and the label had stuck.

The governor's cherry-wood desk, matching sideboard, and executive chair sat in front of the only windows in me office, which were flanked by two empty, expensive brass-and-glass display cases. On me side walls were two private entrances: one connected to the chief of staff's office and me other to a large conference room.

In one corner was a leather couch, coffee table, and several oversize learner chairs. The rest of the space was taken over by two straight-backed chairs in front of the governor's desk, a small conference table with chairs, and a credenza that stood against the wall to the private bathroom.

Unhappily, Andy stared at the empty walls, fully aware the theft would draw intense public scrutiny and criticism. Failure to solve the case could damage the department and probably cost Andy his job.

Andy wasn't about to let that happen. He had retired from the state police some time ago when he realized his chances of becoming chief were nil, and moved to Las Cruces with his wife. Bored with retirement, he ran for county sheriff, won the election, served one term in on ice and was asked to return to the state police as chief. It was a dream come true, the capstone to his career that he had always wanted. But not for the prestige the appointment brought. Under his calm demeanor, Andy was a reformer, and he wanted to modernize and improve the department.

In uniform, Andy wore a light gray shirt with his rank on the collars and badge over the left pocket, a black tie, black pants with a gray stripe, and highly polished black shoes. On his belt was a high-rise holster containing a.357 revolver with a four-inch barrel. It was the one personal touch he had allowed himself since taking over the job.

Every other officer under his command carried the required standard-issue nine millimeter semiautomatic.

Captain Vance Howell, the officer in charge of security for the governor, stood silently next to Andy, waiting to get his butt chewed.

He had come up through the ranks junior to Andy and served under him briefly just prior to Andy's retirement as a captain. Now Baca was back as chief.

Howell knew exactly why Baca had been tapped for the job-it was politics, pure and simple. The governor, a Republican, wanted more money from the legislature to build new prisons, and the Democrats, who controlled the legislature, wanted their man sitting in the chief's chair.

Howell had hoped to get the appointment himself, but now he would have to wait until Baca stepped down. He had the governor's promise on it, which was good enough for him. And if Baca failed on this case, Vance might get a crack at the chief's job sooner than he had anticipated.

Andy scanned the paper in his hand and turned to Howell.

"Is this the complete inventory of the stolen property?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Howell replied.

"The cultural affairs office verified it."

Technically, Howell's sole responsibility was the safety of the governor and his immediate family, but that didn't mean Baca wouldn't try to lay the blame for the theft at Vance's feet, if the need arose.

Vance decided to test Baca's intentions.

"I guess you could say it was my henhouse that got robbed."

Andy shook his head and looked up. At six foot four, Howell towered over Andy's five-ten frame.

"That's not the way I see it. Captain. But I think we need to get you out of the henhouse for a while. I'm placing you and your staff on administrative leave."

Stunned, Howell reacted quickly.

"Is that necessary, Chief?"

"This job required inside knowledge. Until we get a handle on the case, everybody who works in this building is suspect."

"My people won't like it."

"And I don't like doing it," Andy replied, checking his watch. He needed to get this investigation under way pronto.

"I want you and your entire unit at headquarters in an hour to meet with Internal Affairs. A temporary plaindothes detail is on the way to relieve you until the IA investigation is concluded."

"I know my people, Chief. Nobody in my unit had anything to do with this."

"We're going to cover all the bases anyway. Captain.

You know the drill."

Howell nodded glumly.

"Who's running the investigation?"

"Kevin Kerney" Howell stifled a surprised expression.

"Is that wise, Chief? Kerney's new to the department and he has no command authority."

"He does now," Andy replied.

"When you meet with him, you'll be talking to the new deputy chief."

"Is the posting temporary?"

"No, it's not. Captain."

"You've jumped him over a lot of senior commanders."

Tm sure I'll get an earful from all of them," Andy replied.

"When the bitching is over, Captain-and it better be kept to a minimum-I expect everyone to cooperate with Chief Kerney."

Howell swallowed hard.

"I'll be glad to."

"I know you will, Captain."

Vance Howell left Andy alone in the office and walked down the hall thinking that there were going to be a number of rightly puckered assholes, including his own, tiptoeing around Andy and his new deputy chief. dog-tired and not in a good mood to begin with, Kerney crawled through the early morning rush-hour traffic on St. Francis Drive, pissed off with the congestion and the yuppies in their leather-lined, air-conditioned, four-wheel-drive sport utility vehicles used for fetching children from school, shopping excursions to Albuquerque malls, and getting up to Taos for skiing.

The changes in Santa Pc had turned the city into a seemingly endless array of strip malls, bedroom subdivisions, and gated communities for the rich.

The folks in places like Mountainair referred to the state capital as Santa Fake, and it rang true enough to make Kerney realize that the chamber of commerce growth mentality had won the war over those who wanted to preserve the tradition of the an dent city.

Nothing had stopped the greed.

After dealing with the crime scene unit at the Von Hewett Ranch and undergoing an interrogation about me shooting, Kerney had driven to the Albuquerque hospital where Nita had been transported. Although he had a brief confession in hand, he wanted to get a complete statement from Lassiter before the lawyers showed up to circle their wagons.

He had waited until she was out of the recovery room, in her hospital bed, and fully consdous before reading Nita her rights and tape-recording her confession.

She retold her story in greater detail and with such candor that Kerney found it hard to suspend judgment about the possibility of Gillespie's guilt. He had left the hospital feeling slightly sickened by the ugliness of the man's actions, and not at all happy about busting Nita Lassiter.

He got out of the traffic flow and drove into the south capitol neighborhood, an older residential area within walking distance of the downtown plaza and the seat of state government. At the end of a paved street, a private dirt lane led to two houses. He turned into the driveway of an adobe house almost completely hidden by a small rise at the front of the lot.

He parked at the side of the house by the door to the attached guest quarters, dragged himself inside, stripped off his boots, and fell across the bed, still smelling like horse shit. in kern by dream, a soft voice told him to wake up.

It sounded remarkably like Fletcher Hartley, his host and old friend, who had offered Kerney the use of the guest quarters.

The soft voice changed as Fletcher Hartley raised his easy baritone several notches in volume.

"Kevin, you must wake up."

Kerney opened an eye to find Pletcher standing over him. The door from the guest addition to the main house stood open. Fletcher wore a black silk kimono with brilliant orange, blue, and yellow hand-stitched flowers and butterflies. The kimono hung open to reveal a pair of boxer shorts and Fletcher's spindly but well-muscled legs.

Using the services of the best plastic surgeon in the state, Pletcher had removed a good twenty years from his seventy-five-year-old face. He was eccentric, vain, and one of the most interesting people Kerney knew.

Kerney sat up, stared groggily at Fletcher, and looked at his wristwatch. He'd been asleep for an hour.

"What is it?" he asked grumpily.

"There's a very impressive looking policeman sitting in my living room demanding to see you."

"Who is it?"

"Andy Baca. You don't smell very nice, Kevin. What in the world have you been doing?"

"Delivering a foal," Kerney grumbled as he reached for his boots.

"It was a difficult birth. Both mother and child are doing fine."

"I'm glad to hear it. Policemen do such interesting work." Fletcher put his hand on Kerney's shoulder to stop him.

"Shower and change first. I will not have you trailing that barnyard smell into the house."

"Don't be so picky, Fletcher. You made your reputation as an artist painting barnyard animals."

"How they look on canvas and how they smell are entirely different matters. Go shower. I'll keep the good Chief Baca entertained. Do you think he likes gay old men?"

"Andy's straight."

"Pity," Fletcher said.

"Give him your best pitch, anyway," Kerney replied as he walked to the small bathroom.

"Maybe you'll change his point of view on the subject."

"I may just do that," Pletcher said, closing the door on his way out. kern by entered the living room to find Andy Baca sitting in a Mexican colonial chair while Fletcher stood in front of the corner kiva fireplace explaining the history of the twelve framed nineteenth-century Japanese fans that climbed the wall above the franco. On the other side of the fireplace was Fletcher's large portrait of a Holstein dairy cow bordered by hand-stenciled hearts.

Andy looked a bit nonplussed and uneasy, which made Kerney feel a little better about being yanked out of a dead sleep.

"What's up?" he asked Andy when Fletcher finished his discourse on the history and rarity of the fans.

Andy stood.

"I'll tell you outside."

Kerney sank onto the Mexican colonial couch opposite Andy's chair.

"Whatever it is, tell me here so I can go back to bed when you're finished."

"You don't have time to sleep, Kerney. The art collection at the governor's office was ripped off early this morning. I need you at work, now."

Kerney sat up on the couch.

"The entire collection?"

"Everything."

"Any leads?"

"Not yet," Andy answered.

"I figure it to be an inside job."

"What makes you say that?" Fletcher asked.

Andy eyed Pletcher uncomfortably.

"By the way it was done, Mr. Hartley."

"I see," Fletcher said.

"I certainly wouldn't want you to divulge confidential information.

Chief Baca, but as I recall, Governor Springer had a very valuable collection of art in his offices."

"You're familiar with the collection?" Andy asked.

"Partially," Fletcher replied" Do you have a complete list of what was taken?"

Andy glanced at Kerney, who nodded in Fletcher's direction. He got up and gave the list to Fletcher, who read it quickly and handed it back.

"The Dixon and the Sharp paintings, I arranged to have purchased by the museum when I was director. The O'Keefie paintings were donated to the museum by Georgia herself. Everything that was taken must be recovered. They are treasures much too valuable to lose."

"You were director of the fine arts museum?" Andy asked.

"For many years."

"Fletcher may be able to help," Kerney suggested.

"I insist upon it," Pletcher said.

"First, I must contact the International Foundation for Art Research in New York and the Art Loss Register in Great Britain. I'll need photographs along with a copy of the list. I can send the information to them by computer."

"How does that help?" Andy asked.

"It alerts the international art establishment worldwide.

If any queries are made to a reputable dealer offering to sell one of the pieces, it will be reported immediately."

"That could make a difference," Andy said.

"But there's no time to waste on our investigation," Fletcher added.

"After the first forty-eight hours, ninety percent of stolen art is never recovered."

"That's not what I want to hear," Andy said.

"Nevertheless, it's true. Do you have an officer who specializes in art thefts? Preferably someone who knows the local dealer network and has a background in art?"

"Kerney is about as close as I can come to an expert," Andy answered.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Kerney said.

"That will have to do," Fletcher said.

"Kevin has a good general knowledge of art." He turned to Kerney.

"And I know the dealers. I will contact them on your behalf. It will save a good deal of time."

Before Kerney could reply, Andy got to his feet.

"I'll draw up a consultant contract. We'll pay you for your services."

Fletcher waved off the offer.

"I don't need the money, Chief Baca. Let's just say I'll assist the departent in making some inquiries."

"This is real life, Mr. Hartley, not a cozy British mystery."

"I view this crime with great seriousness, Chief Baca, and have no intention of treating it lightly."

"What do you need to get started, Pletcher?" Kerney asked.

"As I said, a copy of the list and photographs as soon as possible.

I'll contact the research foundation and the Brits as soon as I have it. I'll start talking to local gallery owners to see if any have been approached to buy art from suspicious characters, or have been asked for off the-cuff appraisals on works by the artists in question."

"I'll get a packet to you right away," Kerney said as he stood up.

"Send it over with one of those handsome gay officers," Fletcher said.

"I don't think we have any," Andy replied.

"Oh, you are very much mistaken. Chief Baca." kerney got in Andy's unmarked police cruiser and closed the door.

"Do I really have gay cops working for me?" Andy asked.

"Why shouldn't you?" Kerney replied.

"Besides, this is Santa Fe, the city different."

Andy shook his head in disbelief.

"I don't even want to think about it. How did you meet Fletcher?"

"Outrageous, isn't he? But he's sharp, talented, and a sweet guy.

When I was with the Santa Fe PD, Fletcher had a California boyfriend-one of those dumb, good-looking muscle boys. Fletcher wouldn't increase his spending allowance, so he ripped off Fletcher's Japanese fan collection. It's worth a small fortune.

"I caught up with the perp when he tried to sell the fans to an Albuquerque antique dealer. The dealer sent him away, tipped me, and I picked up the suspect when he went back to close the deal. It was an easy bust.

Fletcher has always been grateful."

"How grateful?" Andy asked with a grin.

Kerney grinned back.

"Don't try to be funny, Andy.

You know my taste in women."

Andy groaned in response.

"Yeah, the type that always seems to leave you."

Kerney thought about Karen Cox, the ADA he had worked with in Catron County.

"That's not true. They just don't seem to be interested in long-term relationships."

"Whatever. By the way, you did a damn fine job on the Gillespie case."

"Thanks. But it doesn't feel real good."

"Why do you say that?"

Kerney put the cassette tape of Nita Lassiter's confession on the dashboard.

"Listen to the tape. I think you'll find it interesting."

"I can't wait to hear it," Andy said, reaching into his shirt pocket.

"Your efforts deserve special recognition."

He laid the deputy chief shield in Kerney's hand.

"Put this beauty in your badge case."

Kerney stared dumbly at the shield for a minute.

"What the hell is this for?"

"You've been promoted. Chief," Andy said, breaking into a grin.

"I want my best man reporting directly to me on this case, with full authority to act without the bureaucracy getting in the way."

"I don't need to be a deputy chief to do this job."

"Maybe not, but I need a second-in-command I can trust to run this investigation. Most of my senior commanders were vying for my job, and they're still pissed off that they didn't get it. I can't risk the possibility of sabotage."

"Why turn over the reins to me?" Kerney said.

"Handle the case yourself. I'll work with you on it."

"I don't have the time. I've got a whole department to run and two months before the next legislative session to convince the joint budget committee to give me the money I need to upgrade equipment. I want a computerized fingerprint system, a new dispatch system, onboard laptops for every patrol car, and better firepower for the field officers."

"Making me chief deputy isn't going to win you any popularity contests," Kerney said.

"Your appointment has the governor's blessing, and that's all I care about. Harper Springer knew your parents when they served together on the New Mexico Cattle Growers Association, and he knows you by reputation.

Besides, he likes the idea of having a shit-kicking cowboy working for him. Said it was the one minority group he hadn't hired enough of in his administration."

"So who do I work for? You or the governor?"

Kerney prodded.

"For me." Andy cranked the engine and slid into a Harper Springer twang.

"But, hell, son, we all work for the people of this great state. So let's recover the goodies and catch the bad guys before the governor's opposition starts slinging mud at him." since Andy's information on the robbery was preliminary and sketchy, Kerney was up to speed in the three minutes it took to reach the Roundhouse.

"What kind of vehicle would it take to move the artwork out of the city?" Kerney asked as he opened the passenger door of the cruiser.

Andy handed him the list of the stolen items.

"Nothing big; a panel truck, van, or small rental trailer would do it."

"Any idea when the break-in occurred?" Kerney asked as he scanned the inventory.

"Not more than three or four hours ago. What do you have in mind?"

"If the stuff's not airborne it's either stashed somewhere or on the road. How about telling the district commanders to have their patrol officers do some selective traffic stops? Give them a profile of what kind of vehicle to look for. We might get lucky."

"I should have thought of that," Andy said, reaching for the microphone as he drove away.

Kerney was braced for an ID by a uniformed female officer on duty in the reception area of the governor's suite. Her black uniform with gray piping had no chevrons on the sleeves and the collar insignias were silver, which identified her as a junior patrol officer.

He showed her his badge while he read the brass nameplate over her right shirt pocket. Patrol Officer Yvonne Rasmussen stiffened and pulled in her chin. No more than five-four, about twenty-five years old, with short brown hair and light gray eyes, everything about Rasmussen's bearing told Kerney that the young woman was ex-military.

"Chief," the officer said.

In spite of himself, Kerney liked the way his new title sounded.

"How soon can you get someone to relieve you?"

"Ten minutes, sir."

Sending Yvonne Rasmussen to Fletcher's door would probably bring a chuckle from the old man the next time Kerney saw him. He handed the officer the list of stolen merchandise, and asked her to make a copy as soon as she was relieved, get photographs from the museum of all the items, and take everything to Fletcher's house. He gave her the address.

"I'll take care of it, sir," Rasmussen said as she folded the list and slipped it in her pocket.

"Can you have my vehicle picked up and brought to me?" he asked as an afterthought, fishing for his car keys.

"It's at the same address."

"Can do, sir."

"Great," Kerney said, handing over the keys.

"Thanks."

"No problem, sir."

"Who is in command of the crime scene investigation?" he asked.

"Lieutenant Marcella Pacheco, sir."

"Where is she?"

"Meeting with the governor's chief of staff."

"Have her report to me in Captain Howell's office when she's finished."

"Yes, sir."

Kerney gave Officer Rasmussen a smile and limped away, thinking his blown-out knee needed rest.

Vance Howell's office was a small room right off the reception area.

Yellow crime scene tape blocked passage down the corridor that led to the governor's suite. Kerney could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner and the voices of the crime scene technicians as they worked the area.

He toured the crime scene before heading to Howell's office, where he found Lieutenant Pacheco waiting for him.

A blowout on the interstate just north of the Truth or Consequences exit slowed down De Leon men.

With the Border Patrol checkpoint station only a mile up the road, it was a bad place to get a flat tire. Custom agents, state cops, and Border Patrol officers were thick as flies along this stretch of highway, and Nick Palazzi flinched every time a patrol unit cruised by.

He watched Emilio and Facundo change the tire while he stood guard at the back of the van, next to the green-and-white highway sign that announced the Truth or Consequences exit. Nick had spent many nights in local motels waiting for the Border Patrol checkpoint to shut down so he could move De Leon drugs safely up the pipeline, and he knew the town had been named for an old television show from the fifties. To Palazzi's way of thinking, it was a stupid name for a town.

Emilio had been the driver, Pacundo the muscle, and Nick the trigger-man on the Santa Fe job. De Leon information and planning had been good, so nobody had gotten hurt except for the dead woman in the back of the vehicle.

Nick was nervous about the body, and he had his hand wrapped about the grip of the handgun inside his windbreaker pocket just in case a curious cop decided to stop and check them out.

He knew better than to try to hurry along the two men. An American, Nick had spent four years rotting in a Mexican prison and the past two years working for De Leon Both experiences had only hardened his prejudice against Mexicans, especially the mixed bloods, who were about one baby step out of the fucking Stone Age.

He stamped his feet against the cold. An Arctic low pressure system had entered the state, and the morning was dismal under a dreary sky.

Creosote bushes sprinkled over the desert sand hills fluttered in a stiff breeze that swirled and lifted small dust plumes into the sky.

Just as Emilio tightened the last lug nut on the spare, a state police cruiser rolled into view at the top of the hill.

Nick told Facundo and Emilio to stay put as he watched the black-and-white patrol car coast to a stop ten feet behind the van. He waved with his free hand and smiled at the officer, who waved back, keyed the handset to his radio, and started talking. Nick figured the cop was calling in the license number, which was cool since the van wasn't stolen and had valid Texas plates.

Nick started to move toward the cop car, but the officer motioned him to stop. He shrugged and complied, watching as the pig waited for a response to his radio inquiry on the van. Finally, the cop opened the driver's door and stood behind it for cover. Not a friendly sign, Nick thought as his finger found the trigger of the weapon concealed in his windbreaker.

"Just a flat, Officer," Nick called out in a friendly voice.

"We've got it fixed and we're ready to roll."

Officer Jerry Rogoff kept all three men in view.

There were no wants or warrants on the vehicle.

"Heading home?" Rogoff asked.

"Trying to," Nick replied with a smile.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary to Rogoff, but the special bulletin on the Santa Pc art theft made a closer inspection necessary. He nodded, stepped around the open cruiser door, and walked toward the three men. The Anglo man stood near the rear door to the van, while the two Hispanics waited quietly at the rear left fender, a tire and jack at their feet.

"Mind opening the rear door?" Rogoff asked the Anglo man, stopping six paces away, out of striking distance.

Nick smiled.

"Not at all." He pulled on the latch and swung the door up.

As the cop switched his gaze to the van. Nick shot him twice through the pocket of his windbreaker, the rounds punching into Rogoff's bulletproof vest.

Slammed back by the impact, Rogoff pulled at his sidearm.

Nick put a bullet in the cop's forehead before he could free the weapon. pa lazzi studied the road map while Emilio pushed the van to its maximum down the highway. Facundo was in the backseat clutching an Mi6 loaded with a thirty round banana clip. They had to get off the highway before a wolf pack of cops swarmed all over them. The best possible plan was to cut through the old mining towns of Hillsboro and Kingston, climb the mountain road through the Black Range, and swing down to Silver City. There they could lose the van, steal a car, and make a straight run to the border. After that, if they punched it hard, they could be in Mexico in an hour.

The problem was the dead woman. They had to lose the body before switching vehicles. Emory Pass at the top of the mountain range west of Kingston looked like a good place to stop. A ten-minute hike off the road should do it. Nick thought. With any luck, it could be years before the remains were found, if ever.

"Take the next exit," Nick ordered Emilio.

At the state police headquarters on the old Albuquerque Highway, Kerney turned Andy's conference room into a temporary office. The room had exposed brick walls, a large wall-mounted chalkboard, and three long tables pushed together to form a U. Windows provided a view of the parking lot, the highway, and a new car dealership across the road.

The word of his promotion had spread quickly throughout the building, and the range of staff reaction ran from polite congratulations to studied indifference. Kerney expected as much; cop shops were paramilitary societies, and any promotion outside of the traditional practice of rank and seniority always sent shock waves through the system.

Andy had gone back to the Roundhouse to meet with a legislative finance committee on his proposed budget, so Kerney was on his own. He selected several agents to assist him, met with the criminal investigations commander, and got busy pulling together a team. The report of Officer Rogoff's murder came in as he completed making initial assignments. He took two agents off the theft case and sent them down to T or C to take charge of the homicide investigation, and ordered field commanders in the southern part of the state to swarm their districts with patrols in an attempt to locate the vehicle and suspects.

Rogoff's murder put everyone in a foul, tight-lipped mood. By the end of the morning, all that could be done at the command level was under way. Kerney tapped more agents for field assignments to supplement the team. Almost every criminal investigator on duty was working the case one way or another.

He pushed the paperwork to one side and walked stiffly to the window.

Bone tired, he stared at the traffic on the highway, trying to clean out the cobwebs in his head. As he turned back, Andy came into the conference room through his office door, dumped his briefcase on the table, and sank into a chair. Kerney joined him at the table.

"Where do things stand?" Andy asked.

"We're working from a list of all the people with access to the underground garage at the state capitol," Kerney replied.

"It includes everybody on the governor's staff, the lieutenant governor and his staff, cabinet officers, legislators, and some of the state employees who work in the building."

"I hope you told our people to be diplomatic."

"Of course," Kerney replied.

"We're running fresh background checks on everybody, looking for shady relationships, money problems, or indiscretions that might be suspect.

I've got the two night janitors in interrogation, but neither of them seems to know a damn thing."

"Has anybody with access to the garage or private elevator turned up missing?" Andy inquired.

"No such luck," Kerney answered.

"What's the status on the Rogoff shooting?"

"No breaks yet. We've got a license number and description of the vehicle. Every law enforcement agency in southern New Mexico is looking for the van.

The one bit of good news is that Rogoff had his video camera on. We've got the shooting on tape, with good pictures of the killer and his cohorts. A copy of the video has been sent to the FBI to see if they can make a match." Kerney paused.

"What else?"

"The killer opened the rear gate of the van before he shot Rogoff.

There was no artwork inside, but something wrapped in a sheet was behind the backseat. Our lab people think it might have been a body.

They're analyzing the videotape now."

"Do you think the shooting and the robbery are connected?"

"That's the way I read it."

Andy nodded in agreement, stood up, and reached for his briefcase.

"How are the budget hearings going?" Kerney asked.

"I'm due back tomorrow morning. The committee wants me to cut ten percent from my request for new money for equipment."

"Will that ding the department?"

"Not really," Andy said, walking toward his office.

"I padded the budget by twenty percent, figuring I'd have to take a cut somewhere down the line." He stopped at the door.

"Catch Rogoff's killer, Kerney."

"That's the plan."

During the remainder of the day, Kerney kept in touch with the field investigators as they worked their lists and conducted initial interviews. He didn't expect anything interesting to pop up at the information gathering stage, and nothing surfaced. Likewise, the background checks were raising no red flags.

Night had settled over the city by the time Kerney left headquarters and walked to his car. Going thirty-six hours on an hour's sleep had drained him, but his day wasn't finished. Nita was about to be discharged by the doctors, and she'd have to be booked into the Torrance County jail. nita had been moved by the deputy sheriff guarding her from the hospital room to an office in the administrative wing, which got her away from family and friends who had congregated throughout the day.

Grateful for the deputy's good sense, Kerney thanked the officer.

"She doesn't act like a cold-blooded cop killer," Deputy Henry Delgado said as he nodded at the open door to the office where Nita waited.

"In fact, she's been so damn easy to guard, I've had a hard time believing she killed a cop."

"She had her reasons for doing it," Kerney replied.

"They better be damn good ones," Delgado noted.

An older officer, probably near retirement, Delgado still looked like he could mix it up with the bad guys and come out on top. He had short-cropped hair, a high forehead, and a chunky face with deep-set brown eyes. Kerney liked the man immediately.

"Has she spoken with an attorney?" Kerney asked.

"Yeah. A lawyer was in to see her. He wasn't anybody I knew."

"Did you get a name?"

"He gave me his card." He passed it to Kerney and smiled apologetically.

"I don't mean to rush you, but am I done here? My grandson is the point guard on his junior high school basketball team. He's got a game tonight. I try not to miss any of them."

"Take off. And thanks again."

Kerney entered the office to find Nita Lassiter sitting on a small couch. She stood up quickly. She wore a black tailored jacket that broke just below her hips, a pair of double-pleated gray trousers, and square-toed black pumps with low heels. The sophisticated outfit favored her good looks. Her right arm was secured against her side by a sling.

"Ms. Lassiter," Kerney said, waiting for a reaction.

Nita nodded silently in response.

"I understand from the doctor that there is no permanent damage."

"That's what I've been told. My lawyer tells me that I'm probably going to spend die night in jail."

"That's true," Kerney said.

Nita glanced at the door.

"Let's get it over with."

"I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

"My lawyer told me not to say anything more to the police unless he was present."

"That's wise advice. But I wasn't planning to interrogate you, just ask a question or two that you may find helpful."

Nita looked Kerney up and down.

"What are your questions?"

"Has your lawyer discussed the possibility of bail?"

A worried look crossed Nita's face.

"We didn't talk about that."

"Has he ever practiced criminal law?"

"I don't think so. Just real estate and tax law."

Kerney shook his head.

"You'll need a criminal defense lawyer. I'm going to book you on a murder-one charge, Ms. Lassiter, and with your confession, a judge or grand jury will most likely find there is sufficient probable cause to go to trial. You'll be facing a pretty stiff bond for your release, if the court agrees to let you make bail at all. Do you have property to put up as security?"

"My home and my practice," Nita replied.

"I should talk to my lawyer. Is that possible?"

"Of course. You'll be allowed to call him from the jail." Kerney took out a business card, wrote quickly on the back of it, and held it out.

"But in case he doesn't know who to use as a bail bondsman, the name of this gentleman might do. He's honest and reliable."

Nita took the card.

"I'll pass the information along."

"Have your lawyer call me if he wants the name of a good attorney."

"Do you have any more helpful questions to ask?"

There was a challenge in Nita's voice.

Kerney sensed that Nita's mistrust of police officers ran deep. He let the question go unanswered.

"There are some reporters at the front of the building. To avoid them, we'll leave by way of the rear loading dock." He stood to one side of the door to let Nita pass.

"Shouldn't I be handcuffed?"

"Are you planning to escape?"

"No."

"Handcuffs won't be necessary until we get to my unit. Then regulations take over."

A thin smile crossed her lips.

"How very thoughtful."

Without giving Kerney the opportunity to respond, Nita Lassiter walked into the hallway. kerney ushered Nita into the booking area of the jail. When the electronic lock of the security door clicked shut behind them, Nita stiffened. Kerney could see panic building in her eyes, so he stayed after the booking process and waited until she returned from a strip search and change-out into a jail uniform. Even with a stiflF upper lip, she looked frightened.

He arranged for Nita to be kept in a seclusion cell away from the general population. She gave him what may have been a weak, thankful smile when he left.

He called the on-duty assistant DA and told him that Lassiter was in jail. Wesley Marshall, the ADA-a man Kerney didn't know-asked Kerney to meet him at the county courthouse. m Marshall's office, Kerney sat quietly while the ADA read the criminal complaint, the transcribed copy of Lassiter's tape-recorded confession, and Kerney's case report on the events leading up to the shooting incident.

A young man in his late twenties, Marshall had dark curly hair, thick eyebrows, and a bushy mustache. He looked up from the documents and stared intently at Kerney.

"You didn't read her rights to her prior to her first confession,"

Wesley noted.

"She wasn't in custody at that point," Kerney answered.

"Did you have the intent to arrest her at that time?"

"No. She was in her truck when she confessed to killing Gillespie. I arrested her after she attempted suicide.

I read her the Miranda rights, placed her in custody, and explained the charges against her."

"Was she coherent at the time?"

"She was."

"Was shooting her necessary?"

"It was. I had no other option. If I hadn't fired, she would have killed herself."

"The level of force may have been excessive."

Marshall thumbed through the paperwork.

"Did you perceive a risk to yourself?"

"Facing a loaded weapon is always a risk."

"When you taped her confession at the hospital, was she in full possession of her faculties?" Marshall asked.

"She was."

"Who made that determination?"

"The attending physician," Kerney replied, flipping over a page in the notebook. He read the doctor's name.

The ADA nodded, wrote down the name, scrawled his signature on the documents, and glanced up at Kerney.

"That should do it. It looks like a solid, legal bust to me."

"Are you taking Lassiter before the grand jury?"

Marshall shook his head.

"Nope. We'll do a probable cause hearing before Judge Ross-Gorden sometime tomorrow. My boss wants to move fast on this one."

"Has the DA told you to go for no bail?"

"Damn right he has. A murder-one defendant has never made bail since he took office. I doubt we'll have a problem with the request."

Marshall stuffed the paperwork into a folder and stood.

"We're going to push to go to trial as soon as possible. The defense will probably want to depose you in a day or two. I'll let you know when the request comes through."

"Good enough," Kerney said as he pushed himself out of the chair. The bum leg had locked up on him again.

Marshall's office was near the sheriff's department at the back of the building. Kerney knew Judge Willene Ross-Gorden, who had served on the bench for over twenty years. He called her at home from the receptionist's desk in the sheriff's office. After an exchange of pleasantries, he asked the judge if she would have her clerk notify him when Lassiter's hearing had been set.

"Of course," Ross-Gorden replied.

"I was surprised when I learned that you were the arresting officer in this case, Mr. Kerney. I thought you were retired."

"I can't seem to stay that way. Judge."

Ross-Gorden chuckled.

"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. My clerk will call you."

A hand shook Kerney awake.

"Get up," Fletcher commanded.

"It's time for our morning run."

"Hump," Kerney said into his pillow.

Pletcher shook him a little harder and Kerney turned to see Hartley standing over him, dressed in sweats and running shoes. In the few weeks Kerney had been bunking with Fletcher, he had joined him on an early morning two-mile jog around the quiet streets when his schedule allowed.

Kerney enjoyed Pletcher's company on the morning runs. Before returning to Santa Fe, he'd lived alone in a borrowed house in Reserve, New Mexico, while serving as the interim sheriff. Breaking up the local militia's plans to assassinate Forest Service employees hadn't won him any popularity contests among many of the residents of Catron County.

"If you want to become an ageless beauty like me, you must remain fit,"

Fletcher said.

"What time is it?"

"Six."

"It's too early."

"Then I simply won't tell you what the very nice art theft investigator I spoke to in London told me."

"I'll get up," Kerney said.

"Give me a few minutes to get dressed."

Kerney dressed, met Fletcher outside, and the two men ran together in silence, trotting past Victorian cottages, sprawling flat-roofed adobes, and two-story homes reminiscent of Midwestern farmhouses.

Halfway into the run Kerney broke the silence.

"What have you learned?"

"It's mostly a rehash of what I mentioned yesterday.

We should be talking to gallery owners who deal in the works of the artists on the list," Fletcher explained.

"Particular attention should be paid to recent new clients looking to either buy or sell. Some of the more intelligent thieves will approach dealers before they pull the job to get a feel for what the market will bear once the objects are in hand. Others, who have no idea what they have stolen, will do the same after the fact."

"I'll put somebody on it," Kerney said, slowing down a bit to accommodate Fletcher's pace. In the cold morning air, his breath turned to frost.

"No need," Fletcher said.

"I've been doing it myself.

I've spoken to a. number of dealers by phone, and left messages for others to call me."

"Has anything interesting come up?"

"Not as it pertains to the investigation. This morning I plan to visit a number of galleries. Fortunately, whoever chose the collection for the governor's office had good taste. I won't have to go into those vile places on the plaza and Canyon Road that sell romanticized cowboy and Western sleaze art."

"You don't like cowboys?"

"I love cowboys," Hetcher responded as he turned the corner, keeping a steady, slow pace.

"But I hate bad taste. By the way, you need to be more attentive to my wishes."

"How so?"

"That young officer you sent over with the inventory and photographs had the right sexual orientation, but she was the wrong gender."

"I'll keep that in mind next time. Did you get any additional feedback from the research foundation and the Art Loss. Register?"

"Yes, indeed. It could be that the works were stolen to fill an order, but that's considered unlikely. Most thefts are done by uneducated crooks who have no appreciation of what they've stolen. In other situations, it may be a curator who can't resist an opportunity to steal, an art lover who is obsessed with a certain work, or a professional criminal who knows how to sell the item."

"That's not much help."

Pletcher shrugged a shoulder as he ran comfortably at Kerney's side.

For a man in his mid-seventies, he was in remarkably good physical shape.

"Over two hundred and fifty works by Picasso are listed as stolen.

Signed paintings, prints, etchings, and lithographs-worth a fortune.

Art theft is not an easy crime to solve."

"Anything else?" Kerney asked, thoroughly discouraged by Fletcher's report.

"The market in stolen fine art is global. What was taken from a church in Spain might wind up in a Brussels gallery five years later. Georgia O'Keefie's work is admired worldwide, and much in demand.

Certain collectors are not terribly concerned about the legality of the purchases they make."

"Did you get any names of potential local buyers?"

"Not yet," Fletcher answered, slowing to a walk. His face was rosy from the exertion of the run. They were within sight of the dirt lane at the end of the street that led to the house.

"However, people who buy high quality stolen art are typically rich, influential, and usually avoid prosecution."

"We need something to break soon," Kerney said.

"According to the newspaper, this mischief has put some egg on the governor's face. Is it trickling down to you?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure he'll pass it on soon enough," Kerney predicted. captain Vance Howell slouched down in the chair across from Kerney, reached for a coffee cup on the conference table, picked it up, and took a sip. The call to meet with Kerney early in the morning forced Howell to dress hurriedly and miss his second cup of coffee. In civilian clothes while on administrative leave, he wore a pullover crew neck sweater that made him look big and beefy, a pair of blue jeans, and work boots. His long legs were stretched out under the table.

Howell studied Kerney as he took another sip.

Kerney's congenial expression gave nothing away.

Howell smiled back at the new deputy chief, took one last sip, and put his cup down.

"Has Internal Affairs finished their investigation on my team?" he asked. For ten fucking hours yesterday, he had been put through the wringer by two hotshot, button-down IA agents, and he didn't relish undergoing a repeat performance with Kerney.

"Not yet," Kerney answered.

"Is there a problem?"

"None that I know of. I'm more interested in some crime scene evidence I'd like to ask you about."

"Ask away," Howell said.

"The technicians discovered female pubic hairs in the governor's suite.

Would you consider that unusual?"

"I don't think so. A lot of staff members use the governor's bathroom when he's out of the office. The door stays unlocked most of the time.

It could be the first lady, for all I know."

"The first lady isn't a blonde," Kerney replied.

"That's right, she isn't," Howell said.

"But blond pubic hairs found in the bathroom don't seem like substantial crime scene evidence to me."

"Evidence is evidence," Kerney said, wondering why Howell seemed to think that pubic hairs were only found in bathrooms.

"Governor Springer was out of the office for a week until yesterday."

"That's correct."

"How frequently are his offices cleaned when he's away?"

"When he leaves town, the janitors will shampoo the rugs, wash the walls, and clean the place top to bottom.

After that, it's just a quick wipe down until he gets back."

"Was that done last week?"

"Yeah, the day after the governor left. Why all the cleaning questions. Chief?"

"The pubic hairs we found were from the carpet in front of Governor Springer's desk."

Howell tried to stifle his reaction, but grinned anyway.

"I'll be damned. Somebody's been getting their rocks off in the old man's office."

"Possibly," Kerney said.

"Work up a list of names for me, Captain. I want to know the identity of every blond female who might have had access to the governor's office last week. That includes staff members, any visitors, girlfriends, wives, or friends. Everybody."

"I'll do what I can, but it won't be inclusive," Howell said.

"I have no idea who comes and goes when he's not there."

"Ask people," Kerney said flatly, thinking Howell needed to stop worrying about covering his ass and get with the program.

Howell nodded and got up from his chair.

"Am I back in harness. Chief?"

"This is a special assignment, nothing more. I'll let you know when you're cleared to return to regular duty."

The conference room telephone rang as Howell made his exit. Kerney picked up the receiver to find Judge Ross-Gorden's clerk on the line.

Nita Lassiter's arraignment had been set for one o'clock. He hung up and went into Andy's office.

"What's happening?" Andy asked hopefully.

"Nothing. I'm grasping at straws, or pubic hairs, to be more exact."

"Is this a Clarence Thomas joke?" Andy asked.

Kerney explained his comment.

"This could create a bad news day for the governor if word of it leaked out," Andy said.

"It won't. But I'll bet even money Springer will hear about the pubic hairs from Captain Howell."

"Why do you say that?"

"I put a tail on Howell yesterday evening after IA finished interviewing him. He went straight to the governor's ranch. I believe the captain may have divided loyal des Andy pressed his lips together tightly before responding.

"Let's see what plays out before we jump to conclusions.

But if Howell does tell the governor, Springer won't like it. He's a conservative Republican who beats the family values drum every chance he gets. He may want me to put the brakes on the inquiry."

"What do you want me to do?" Kerney asked.

"Keep at it. I'll take the heat, if it comes." de leon was not an early riser, nor did he have a sunny disposition upon awakening. At ten o'clock in the morning, Carlos waited in the library for De Leon to appear.

The room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the centerpiece was a reproduction of the last Mexican viceroy's desk positioned to take full advantage of the view of the mountains. There were whitecaps of snow on the peaks, which Carlos found uninviting; he didn't like snow.

He sat in a reading chair next to a wall of first editions and rare books, with the morning newspaper in his lap. In spite of the fact that his upper false teeth fit perfectly, Carlos adjusted the plate with his thumb. It was an old habit hard to break. His new plate had been provided by the U.S. Army after he'd been beaten by Kerney in the El Paso rail yards, dragged along the tracks tied to the bumper of the gringo's truck, and stripped naked, bound, and left in the dirt to be arrested by military police.

It had happened eighteen months ago, but Carlos would never forget it.

Kerney had come thundering back into his mind as soon as he saw the newspaper article announcing the gringo's appointment as deputy chief of the state police. Carlos wanted the patron to wake up, read the paper^ and order him to kill the motherfucker.

De Leon came into the room just as the telephone rang. Carlos started to rise but vSa amp;jefe waved him back down, picked up the receiver, and sat in the high-backed antique Spanish Colonial chair behind the desk.

"What is it?" De Leon asked in Spanish, not waiting for the caller to identify himself. Anyone with access to the phone number was an employee.

Carlos watched De Leon eyes harden as he listened to the caller. When he finally spoke his voice was cordial but his jaw tightened.

"You did what was necessary considering the circumstances," De Leon said, switching to English.

De Leon listened some more.

"Is the body well hidden?" he asked.

Carlos immediately became more attentive.

"No, stay where you are," De Leon ordered.

"I'll get back to you."

He replaced the receiver and glared at Carlos.

"Patron?" Carlos asked.

"It seems that Nick Palazzi decided it was necessary to kill a state policeman on his way to Mexico. He was reluctant to tell me about it until today. He also felt it necessary to bury Amanda Talley's body and steal a car before he crossed the border."

"What do you wish done?" Carlos said, remembering to respond in English.

"Visit with Nick, Carlos. Have him tell you exactly how to locate Amanda's remains, and when he's told you everything, kill him. Make all traces of Amanda vanish, and get the vehicle safely across the border.

Take the Range Rover. You may need it in the mountains."

"Emilio and Facundo?" Carlos inquired as he stood.

"They are blameless in the matter." Enrique waited for Carlos to depart. Instead the man stood rooted to me floor.

"Are my instructions unclear?"

"No, patron." Carlos stepped to the desk and placed the newspaper on it.

"There is news which might interest you."

"What is it?"

"An article on the inside page announcing an appointment to the state police."

"Why would that hold any interest for me!" De Leon inquired, opening the paper to find the article.

Carlos held back a smile. When De Leon finished reading, his eyes flashed at Carlos.

"Go now," De Leon said.

"We will deal with Senor Kerney when you return."

De Leon reread the article after Carlos departed.

Kevin Kerney, the man who had thwarted the sale of the military artifacts smuggled from White Sands Missile Range, was in Santa Fe.

Enrique pushed the paper aside and looked at the sweeping view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Northern New Mexico was one of the few places in the United States where he felt completely at home. With a rich Hispanic heritage, flourishing Spanish arts, and a culture tied closely to his own, the area deeply appealed to him.

He switched his thoughts back to Kerney and smiled as he contemplated the police officer's death.

"this is a preliminary hearing to determine if there is probable cause to believe that the crime of murder may have been committed by Anita Lassiter," Judge Ross-Gorden announced.

She had delayed the hearing ten minutes waiting for Kerney to arrive.

He was still a no-show. She looked out over the top of her reading glasses at the nearly empty courtroom. In her late fifties, Ross-Gorden had a high forehead, narrow cheeks, and a slightly pointed chin.

She wore her gray hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. The occupants in the courtroom included the defendant, her attorney, the ADA, Wesley Marshall, a court stenographer, and the deputy sheriff guarding Lassiter.

Anita Lassiter was an attractive, well-dressed woman with an intelligent face who looked frightened. Judge Ross-Gorden wondered if the defense counsel had taken the time to prepare her for the hearing.

"Does your client understand the purpose of these proceedings?"

Ross-Gorden asked Lassiter's attorney, a pudgy man the judge knew only in passing. He was not a criminal trial attorney, and Ross-Gorden wanted to make sure Lassiter had been adequately advised by counsel.

Bradley Pullings stood next to Nita Lassiter at the defendant's table.

"She does. Your Honor."

"Very well," Ross-Gorden said, deciding to be a bit more explicit for Lassiter's sake.

"I have reviewed the arresting officer's written report, and the transcript of Ms. Lassiter's tape-recorded confession. I find that there is sufficient evidence to proceed to trial on the charges of first-degree murder. How does your client plead?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor," Pullings said.

"Do you plan to engage a co-counsel with criminal defense experience?"

Ross-Gorden asked Pullings.

Bradley blushed.

"Yes, Judge."

"That would be wise." Ross-Gorden inclined her head at ADA Marshall, who took the cue and stood.

"We ask the court that Ms. Lassiter be held without bail, Your Honor.

She has confessed to the premeditated murder of a police officer, which is a crime punishable by death if the defendant is found guilty. We believe, based on the serious consequences to the crime, she might be a flight risk."

"Mr. Pullings?" Judge Ross-Gorden asked.

"Ms. Lassiter is a doctor of veterinary medicine, a professional woman of excellent reputation, a businesswoman, and a property owner,"

Pullings replied.

"Moreover, this is the first time Dr. Lassiter has ever appeared before a court of law as a defendant in either a criminal or civil matter. She is not a flight risk, nor is she a danger to society. I ask the court to release Dr. Lassiter on her own recognizance."

The door at the rear of the courtroom opened and Kerney slipped inside.

Ross-Gorden nodded slightly in his direction and spoke directly to Pullings.

"You are new to my court, Mr. Pullings. I have made it a practice since assuming the bench to allow investigating and arresting officers to make a statement at preliminary hearings, if they so choose."

"May I ask for what purpose. Your Honor?"

"Frequently their impression of the defendant is helpful to me."

"I have no objection, Your Honor."

"It is not a decision you can object to, Mr. Pullings," Ross-Gorden replied gently.

Pullings blushed again.

"Sorry, Your Honor."

Ross-Gorden turned her attention to the back of the room.

"Mr. Kerney, you are the investigating officer in this case. Do you have something to say for the record?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Come forward."

Nita Lassiter swung her head around as Kerney moved to the railing. She bit her Up and dropped her gaze when he looked at her.

"What is it you would like to say to the court?" RossGorden asked.

"I don't think Ms. Lassiter will flee your jurisdiction, Your Honor," he said.

"I believe she is a woman with a strong sense of right and wrong who feels a great deal of guilt about what she did. If I may. Your Honor, I suggest that reasonable bail be set."

"That recommendation will not make you very popular with your fellow officers," Ross-Gorden noted as she watched Wesley Marshall glare at Kerney.

"Or with the prosecutor, for that matter," she added.

"I realize that. Judge."

Before Marshall had a chance to react, Ross-Gorden swung her attention back to Pullings.

"Your client's attempted suidde troubles me, Counselor. Therefore, I order that she be held in custody pending the results of a psychiatric evaluation. Should the evaluation show that Ms. Lassiter is not a danger to herself, bail is set in the amount of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, cash or property. This hearing is closed."

Kerney turned to leave.

"Mr. Kerney," Judge Ross-Gorden called out.

"Ma'am?"

Willene Ross-Gorden smiled.

"The morning newspaper noted your promotion. Congratulations, Chief."

"Thank you. Judge." He watched Nita, Pullings, and the deputy sheriff move to a side door. Before Lassiter stepped through the doorway, she stopped and looked back at him. Kerney couldn't read her expression. the district courtroom ate up the center core of the courthouse. Prom the main lobby, two hallways ran along both sides of the courtroom, leading to various county offices. In the lobby, a large plate-glass window separated two entrances at the front of the building.

Through the window, Kerney could see Wesley Marshall surrounded by a group of reporters and camera crews, eager for the prosecutor's latest pronouncement.

Three television station vans equipped with satellite antennas were parked in the lot, sending live feeds back to the studios in Albuquerque.

Without being noticed, Kerney walked to his car parked on the side of the building. Robert Cordova leaned against the driver's door, wearing clean jeans, running shoes without laces, and a worn but serviceable navy pea coat.

Kerney was surprised to see him. Marda Yearwood had supposedly arranged for Robert to stay at a halfway house in Albuquerque. Before he could ask Robert what he was doing back in Torrance County, Cordova stood on his tiptoes and punched Kerney in the jaw.

Kerney picked Robert up by both arms and held him against the side of the car. Robert's feet flailed at Kerney's shins.

"What are you doing here, Robert?" Cordova's punch had a sting to it, and Kerney held him tight to avoid another blow.

"Why aren't you at the halfway house?"

"I ran away. I came back to kick the shit out of you."

"Why?"

"Because the television said you shot Nita," Robert answered, trying to butt his head against Kerney's face.

Kerney kept him pinned against the car at arm's length.

"Calm down."

"Tuck you, calm down. Put me down, dammit."

"Will you behave if I do?"

"Did you shoot Nita?"

"I had to," Kerney explained.

"She was trying to kill herself."

"Nita would never do that."

"I swear it," Kerney said solemnly.

"She's going to need your help, Robert."

Cordova squinted at Kerney with one eye and stopped thrashing his feet.

"What do you mean?"

"You know why she killed Paul Gillespie. You need to tell me what happened."

"I saw the asshole rape her, man."

"Will you tell me exactly what you saw?"

"What good would that do?"

"You're a witness, Robert. What you say can help Nita."

"You're just trying to fuck her over some more."

"No, I'm not. But you'll fuck her over if you don't help," Kerney shot back.

"Nobody's gonna believe a crazy fucking mental patient."

"I thought you were a stand-up guy, Robert.

Somebody who would take the heat for his friends.

Maybe I was wrong." Kerney dropped Robert on his feet and pushed him away from the car.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving."

"Wait a minute," Robert said anxiously.

"Will you help Nita? Yes or no?"

Robert struggled with the decision, shifting his weight back and forth on each foot.

"I'll tell you," he finally said.

"But just you."

"Get in the car and we'll tape-record it," Kerney replied, opening the car door.

Robert balked.

"I want to see Nita first."

"You can't see her now. She's going back to jail."

Robert stuck his chin out defiantly.

"That's where I want to go."

"It's a deal," Kerney said.

"I'll put you in protective custody as soon as you tell me what you saw Gillespie do to Nita. Just don't try to hit me again. Okay?"

"Did it hurt?"

"Damn right it hurt."

Robert swaggered around the front of the car, looked at Kerney over the roof, and cocked his head.

"I told you I could fight, man."

"You're one hell of a tough dude," Kerney agreed.

"Now, get in the car." ^ Kerney tape-recorded Robert's statement, put him in protective custody at the county jail, and headed back to Santa Pc. He called in his ETA to headquarters and was asked to report to Governor Springer at his ranch.

Harper Springer rarely stayed at the governor's mansion in Santa Fe, instead favoring his ranch thirty miles outside of the city near the small village of Pecos.

Nestled behind the mesas and foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the ranch headquarters was several miles down a dirt road from the interstate highway.

Kerney parked in front of a hundred-year-old double adobe hacienda surrounded by a stand of mature cottonwood trees. At the edge of a wide acreage of fenced pasture were a duster of buildings consisting of equipment sheds, barns, corrals, and staff living quarters, all painted white. Thick stands of evergreens along the base of the hills confined and sheltered the ranch, giving it a sedate feeling of isolation. The east slope of the mountains, snowcapped and charcoal gray, towered above a mesa shaped like the prow of a sailing ship.

An unmarked state police unit was parked next to the governor's Cadillac. A thin, middle-aged woman answered Kerney's knock and ushered him into a vast living room that could easily accommodate a dance band and a hundred party guests. Large hand-carved beams spanned the high ceiling, and long windows ran down two lateral walls. On the walls were oil paintings of ranching scenes and Western panoramas. None of them paintings Hetcher would approve of, Kerney decided.

On the back wall above a fireplace was a portrait of the governor's father, the man who had bought scrub rangeland in southeastern New Mexico that eventually yielded a fortune in gas and oil royalties, m the center of the room, oversize leather chairs and couches were grouped around a massive coffee table. Governor Harper Springer sat on a couch with his jacket off and his cowboy boots propped up on the coffee table. Vance Howell slouched in a nearby chair, looking relaxed and perfectly at home.

Kerney sized up the governor as he moved across the room. In his late sixties. Springer was a stocky man of average height with a large head and a full mane of gray hair. He had round cheeks that sagged a bit, and close-set eyes beneath a high forehead.

While Springer fancied himself a rancher, he was mostly a politician who had worked hard over the years to gain the governor's office. He had a down-home style that put just about everybody at ease, and a shrewd mind for cutting political deals.

"Chief Kerney," Governor Springer said as he rose and extended his hand across the coffee table with an amiable smile.

Howell grudgingly got to his feet.

"Thanks for stopping by," Springer said.

"Governor," Kerney replied. Springer's grip was firm.

"Take a seat. You know Captain Howell."

"I do." Kerney settled on the couch opposite the governor and smiled at Howell, who nodded stiffly and quickly sat.

Springer continued to smile, resumed his seat, and plopped his boots back on the coffee table. Handmade, they probably cost no less than a thousand dollars.

"I knew your parents," Springer said.

"Served with your daddy on the state cattle growers board. They were fine people."

"I'm glad you feel that way about them, Governor," Kerney replied.

"I do," Springer said somberly.

"The fact is, I talked to your father just before you came back from Vietnam. He was proud of you, and damn happy you were coming home alive and in one piece. It about broke my heart when they got killed in that traffic accident on their way to meet you at the airport. It was a terrible thing." Springer shook his head and smiled sadly.

"Yes, sir, it was," Kerney replied, waiting for more.

"And a terrible loss for you."

Kerney nodded in agreement, but he doubted that Springer knew the depth of his loss. His parents had been his best friends.

"My foreman tells me you helped out on a couple of our roundups when you were caretaking a spread down in Galisteo. You should have stopped by and introduced yourself."

"I didn't have the opportunity, Governor."

"Roundup is a busy time," Springer agreed.

"Well, no matter. Here you are now, and I'm glad to have you on my team. Andy Baca said he had to strong-arm you into taking the job as his deputy."

"I didn't put up that much of a fight," Kerney said.

Springer chuckled.

"That's good to hear. Where do we stand with the investigation?"

"It's just getting under way," Kerney answered.

"We've made contact with organizations that track stolen art on the international markets, and have conducted a series of interviews with your staff and others who work at the Roundhouse. So far we have no suspects."

"Andy Baca said it had the look of an inside job."

"I'm inclined to agree. But if we don't develop a suspect fairly soon, we'll have to rethink that hypothesis."

"It doesn't sound promising," Governor Springer said.

"It's going to take a lot of legwork. We might get a break if we can find the man who killed Officer Rogoff."

Springer stroked his chin.

"You think the two crimes are related?"

"I do. Based on an analysis of the videotape from the camera in Officer Rogoff's unit, there's a good chance the vehicle contained a corpse wrapped in a blanket."

"That doesn't tie the crimes together," Springer said, still smiling warmly.

"I'm hoping that the vehicle and the corpse will provide that link, once we find them. According to our analysis, the van could have been used in the heist. It fits the profile exactly."

"Aren't you dismissing the possibility that Officer Rogoff's murder occurred because he stumbled upon a completely separate crime?"

"You're right. Governor, except for one additional fact. Rogoff's killer is a man named Nick Palazzi. He's got a long rap sheet that includes arrests for contract killings, armed robbery, and drug smuggling. Palazzi is a hired hand and a career criminal. He's not stupid, but on the other hand, he's not a master crook either. Our thinking is that Palazzi, along with the two men who were with him, were operating under orders."

"That sounds like pure speculation."

"Our profile analysis of Palazzi should be fairly accurate.

We have a good deal of background information on him."

"We need an arrest here. Chief, not an analysis."

"Every available officer is working the case, Governor. We'll chase down any leads that surface."

"That's what I want to hear. I understand you've asked Captain Howell to find out who left female pubic hairs on my office carpet."

Springer's friendly smile turned icy.

"Captain Howell may have misunderstood my request."

Howell shook his head in disagreement.

"I don't think I did, Chief. When the governor asked me what you wanted me to do, I told him exactly what the assignment was."

"That's good to know," Kerney repUed, turning back to Springer.

"But just to keep the issue dearly understood, I asked Captain Howell to identify any blond females who had access to your office last week while you were out of town."

Springer shook his head in disagreement.

"I don't see the sense to it."

"We have physical evidence that may or may not lead us to a suspect or a witness. Governor."

"I don't want anybody playing up some nonsense of sexual indiscretion among my staff."

"I'm confident Captain Howell has been discreet in his interviews,"

Kerney replied.

"I asked Vance to hold up until I had a chance to talk with you,"

Springer said, studying Kerney's face. Kerney didn't react "I don't want this investigation sidetracked into an imbroglio that could damage my administration."

"That is not the intent."

"That's what I want to make sure of. I expect the matter to be handled sensitively."

"May Captain Howell proceed?" Kerney asked.

Springer nodded.

"But if Vance does find that somebody on my staff has been getting their meat where they get their potatoes, I don't want to read about it in the newspapers."

"I'm sure Captain Howell will share that information strictly on a need-to-know basis, so that you can deal with the matter confidentially, as you see fit," Kerney answered.

Harper Springer eyed Kerney for any hint of sarcasm, but all he got was a strong feeling that the man didn't intimidate easily. He didn't like too much of that trait in the people who worked for him.

"I want daily progress reports sent to my chief of staff. Tell Andy Baca if he needs money to pay for any overtime to let me know."

"I'll pass your message along." Kerney stood.

Harper Springer got to his feet. His friendly smile came back as he looked up at Kerney.

"Keep up me good work, Chief."

"It was a pleasure to meet you. Governor. When can I expect your report. Captain Howell?"

"I'll get right on it. Chief." for his role as a detective, Fletcher Hartley had dressed carefully. He wore a blue oxford shirt over a white turtleneck, a black wool sport coat, and gray slacks. As a concession to the unpredictable November weather, he carried an umbrella.

In the window of the two-hundred-year-old building on Canyon Road that housed the Prank Bailey Gallery, Fletcher inspected his reflection. All in all, it was an ensemble that would have made Noel Coward proud.

To complete the picture he needed a cigarette to hold carelessly in his hand. For a moment, Fletcher regretted that he'd stopped smoking.

He made his entrance, breezed past the gallery manager and the nicely hung, perfectly lit art, and walked to the office at the rear of the building.

Bailey's office had a wall of windows that looked out on a remnant of vacant land that two hundred years ago had been part of a sheep pasture.

Frank Bailey stood behind a tall antique clerk's desk that had been salvaged from the basement of a nineteenth-century New England textile factory Stacked against the walls were shipping crates, framed paintings, and piles of art books.

Bailey nodded at Fletcher and kept talking on the telephone as he scribbled notes to himself on the slanted desktop. Bailey sold high-end Western artists, specializing in Charles Russell, Frederic Remington, Joseph Henry Sharp, and Maynard Dixon. Most of his business came from wealthy out-of-state collectors.

There simply wasn't any other way to run a successful gallery in Santa Pc.

Content to wait for Bailey, Pletcher settled into one of the two overstufied chairs positioned to give the most pleasing view of the pasture. He unbuttoned his jacket and adjusted his cufis. So far, Fletcher's efforts had yielded nothing, but gossiping with old friends had been entertaining nonetheless.

Bailey hung up the receiver and joined Fletcher. He had long, prematurely gray hair that he wore in a ponytail, green eyes, high cheekbones, and an angular face. In his early forties, he was considered very attractive by the ladies from Dallas and Houston who shopped Santa Pc. His appeal had cost him two marriages.

"It's been a wasted day, Pletcher," he said.

"The rich just don't seem to be practicing trickle-down economics right now. What brings you out to see me?"

"I'm assisting the police with their inquiries," Fletcher replied.

"Really?"

"Yes. The art rip-off at the governor's suite." Quite pleased with his use of the correct slang word, Hetcher decided he had to learn more cop jargon from Kerney.

"Wasn't that something?" Prank said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Have you had any recent inquiries to buy or sell a Sharp or a Dixon?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Has anybody asked for a market appraisal of either artist's work?"

"Not recently" "Have you had any walk-in browsers who seemed a little peculiar or out of place?"

"This is Santa Fe, Hetcher. Everybody's peculiar."

"Have you heard any gossip?"

"I've heard a rumor that you have a cop living with you. Have you snagged a hunk to comfort you in your old age?"

"If only that were true." Fletcher sighed.

"He's a friend, not a lover, and he's staying with me, not living with me. He's very straight and not at all homophobic.

"Now," Pletcher continued, "no matter how interesting I might be, I am not the subject of this conversation.

Have you heard any chitchat about the robbery?"

"No."

"It's not the response I was hoping for," Fletcher said as he started to rise from the chair.

"But I can't wait to tell Amanda Talley that she was right," Bailey added.

Fletcher settled back.

"Isn't she that leggy young woman who works at the fine arts museum?"

"That's her. She predicted the robbery would happen," Prank replied.

"She went on and on about how easy it would be to walk off with the collection."

"When was this?"

"During the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum fund-raiser last month at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. I fully expected to see you there."

"I was hanging a show in Seattle. Mostly my smaller pieces. It did very well. What exactly did Amanda Talley say?"

"Just that she had misgivings about the lack of security.

She didn't think the works were properly protected."

"Did she share her concerns with others besides you?" Fletcher asked.

"The subject came up while a small group of us were having a drink in the bar."

"Who was there?"

"Bucky Watson, Henry and Carol Jergerson, Roger Springer, and a couple of Rancho Caballo homeowners.

I don't recall their names. Bucky knew this one guy who hung out with us. A Spanish or Mexican fellow who seemed interested in Amanda."

"Anyone else?" Fletcher asked.

"Not that I recall. We had one drink together and then everybody went their separate ways."

"How well do you know Amanda?"

"We dated briefly when she first came to town. She's a knockout. She has brains, a great body, and likes to party. I mink she's looking for a rich husband so she can quit her day job and be a trophy wife. She'll do it with style, too."

"Would you say she has a criminal mind?"

Frank laughed.

"Amanda? I don't think she weighs herself down with scruples, but I don't think she'd go that far, either."

"Is she your garden-variety gold digger?"

"Not at all. Amanda's hard to pigeonhole. She's tough-minded, very dear about who she is, and doesn't play any dumb games. Whoever corrals her gets a prize."

"You sound smitten."

"I'm just one of many strewn in her path."

"Would you mind writing down the people you just mentioned?" Fletcher asked, holding out pen and paper.

"I'm terrible with names."

"You're such a damn princess, Fletcher," Bailey said, taking the proffered items.

Pletcher smiled broadly.

"Someone has to set the standards for the common folk to emulate." caklos Ruiz was glad to be back in Mexico. Santa Pc's wintry November weather didn't suit him, and the late-afternoon Juarez sun warmed his bones. Little more than three hundred miles separated the two cities, but they were worlds apart in climate.

There was no answer when he knocked at the door of the Juarez apartment Nick Palazzi shared with his Mexican girlfriend. That suited Carlos just fine. Inside the apartment he could hear the two chattering monkeys Palazzi's whore kept as pets. He hated those fucking monkeys; they were always climbing all over him and sitting in his lap whenever he had to stop by on business for De Leon Before he turned away, he thought about breaking in to shoot the ugly little fuckers just for the hell of it.

At the Little Turtle, De Leon nightclub and gaming establishment, Carlos scanned the room looking for Palazzi. The crystal chandeliers above the gambling tables were dimmed low and a full house of players spilled over to the long antique bar and the nearby dining tables under the mezzanine. Carlos looked up at the mezzanine. Palazzi and his whore sat at a table near the railing, engrossed in conversation.

Before Carlos could move to the staircase, he was stopped by three of De Leon friends, who wanted to know if Enrique was back in town. He answered politely, keeping an eye on Nick, who caught sight of him, waved, and came down the mezzanine stairs to meet him.

"What's up, Carlos?" Palazzi asked, studying Ruiz carefully. Even with De Leon reassurance on the phone that everything was all right, Ruiz's unexpected appearance made him uneasy.

"The patron wants the body moved to Mexico and the van recovered, if possible."

"No problem," Nick said.

"I can take you to both."

"Don Enrique wants you to stay put," Carlos said.

"It would be too much of a risk for you to go back right now. Tell me where they are and I will do it."

"Is De Leon pissed?"

"No," Carlos answered.

"He understands that you had no choice in the matter."

"You'll need a driver for the van," Nick said hopefully "I can't take you with me. Nick," Carlos said with a smile as he led Palazzi through the back door to the old stone warehouse at the rear of the Little Turtle.

"You killed a gringo cop. You have to stay in Mexico. Just tell me where I need to go, and enjoy yourself with your chic ha He closed the soundproof door and walked Nick to the loading dock.

"The van is parked at a Wal-Mart in Silver City, on the side of the building," Nick said.

"And the body?"

"In the Black Range on State Road 152 there's a big sign that says Emory Pass. You can't miss it. Walk straight behind the sign about a hundred yards. I stashed the body there and covered it with rocks.

Pacundo helped me carry it. He knows exactly where it is."

"I'll take Facundo with me," Carlos said.

"Gracias, Nick. Go have a good time."

When Palazzi turned to leave, Carlos reached out and broke his neck. at quitting time, Andy's secretary brought Kerney the typed transcript of Robert Cordova's statement. He stood by the conference room windows watching the last brush stroke in a red sky change to twilight, and thought about Robert's account of the rape of Nita Lassiter. Robert's recall, while disjointed, had been fresh and detailed, as though it had happened days instead of years ago. Kerney stayed at the window and read through the meat of Robert's statement.

KK: "Robert, tell me what happened on May is, 1980."

RC: "AddieandI-" KK: "Can you identify Addie more precisely? " RC:

"Anita Lassiter. Her nickname was Addie when I lived with her family.

That's what I call her."

KK: "Goon," RC: "It has a big head with round spots for the body. And ears and little fact."

KK: "Back up, Robert. What are you talking about?"

RC: "The snake, man."

KK; "Let's start over. Were you with Addie-Nita Lassiter-on May 18,1980?"

RC: "Yeah. After school, Addie and me went snake hunting.

I wasn't crazy then. I was pretty cool. Had a lot of friends.

Everybody liked me."

KK; "Where did you and Addie go?"

RC: "Serpent Gate."

KK; "Tell me about Serpent Gate."

RC: "I already told you. It has ears and little feet, just like the one on Pop Shaffer's fence."

KK: "Where is it?"

RC; "Out of town. Snakes live there. Addie says it's because of the gophers and mice. Snakes eat them."

KK: "And there's a serpent like the one on Pop Shaffer's fence?"

RC: "It's identical. Some Indian put it there hundreds of years ago.

It's on a big boulder. There's lots of other stuff scratched and painted in the rocks."

KK: "Rock art?"

RC: "Yeah."

KK: "What happened at Serpent Gate?"

RC: "He kept saying, "Do you like my snake, Addie? Tell me you like it." Stuff like that."

KK: "Slow down, Robert. Who are you talking about?"

RC: "Paul GUles pie He fucked her, man. Had her pinned to the ground.

Raped her, man. Her panties were down at her ankles. Kept saying,

"Jesus Christ, you have a tight pussy." He beat me up, man. Bad. I passed out for a minute or two."

KK: "Was he alone?"

RC: "Yeah. He had a rifle. I should have killed him.

Addie made me promise not to tell anybody."

KK: "Maybe Addie wanted to have sex with Gillespie."

RC: "Fuck you. Addie isn't like that."

KK: "How do you know?"

RC: "He held the rifle under her chin. Said she had to fuck him or he'd shoot both of us. Then he slapped her. He was drunk."

KK: "How drunk?"

RC: "Well, maybe not drunk. But he had a six-pack of beer with him."

KK: "Can you remember anything else?"

RC: "No. Will you take me to jail now like you promised?"

KK: "In a minute. Nita means a lot to you, doesn't she?"

RC: "She's my best friend. She doesn't let anyone but me caR her Addie."

KK: "Is that why you didn't want to tell me you saw Nita outside the police station the night GiUespie was killed?"

RC: "Who says I saw her?"

KK: "Nita does."

RC: "She's lying. I didn't see nothing."

KK: "You need to tell me the whole truth, Robert."

RC: "I want to go to jail now."

KK: "Nita wants you to tell the truth."

RC: "Satan killed Paul GiUespie."

KK: "Try to remember what you saw outside the police station."

RC: "Crazy people don't have to remember."

KK: "We're going to have to talk about this again."

RC: "Noway."

KK: "You're one tough customer, Robert."

RC: "That's right."

Kerney stared out the window, thinking about Nita Lassiter, her pregnant daughter, and Robert, wondering how many other victims Paul Gillespie had left behind. sergbant Gilbert Martinez, the lead agent on the art theft case, stood in the open doorway of the conference room waiting for the new deputy chief to nonce him.

Chief Kerney stared out the window with a sheaf of papers in his hand, apparently lost in thought.

For ten of his fifteen years on the force, Martinez had been assigned to the criminal investigations unit in Albuquerque with officers and supervisors he knew well. His promotion to sergeant and transfer to Santa Fe had come through two months ago. Now he had a new boss he didn't know, responsibility for a case that could turn into a political time bomb, and information that made him believe the bomb might be ticking.

Over the years, Gilbert had watched some damn fine agents and investigators get demoted back to patrol duties or dumped at a desk job because they pissed off a department bigwig or politician. And while the brass bragged about having the best cop shop in the state-which wasn't an exaggeration-it was still a bureaucracy, where people covered their asses and shit flowed downhill.

Two brief meetings with Kerney had not yet told Martinez what kind of cop the deputy chief would turn out to be when faced with the tough decisions. He was about to find out.

Tired of waiting to be noticed, Gilbert cleared his throat to get Kerney's attention.

"Come in, Sergeant," Kerney said as he turned, spotted Martinez, smiled, and walked to the conference table.

"Grab a seat."

The chief looked tired and his limp seemed more pronounced.

"Thank you, sir."

Tall, slender, with blue eyes and light brown hair graying at the temples, Martinez didn't fit the popular stereotype of a Hispanic. An unruffled man with a gentle way of speaking, Gilbert looked more like a college professor than a cop. He sat across from Kerney and opened a thick file.

"We've got a potential hot potato on our hands, Chief."

"What's the problem?"

"I talked to a journalist with some reliable sources.

He relayed some rumors floating around about Roger Springer, the governor's nephew, that may be of interest."

"What kind of rumors?" Kerney asked.

"Springer's marriage fell apart midway during the governor's first term. Springer is a lawyer. He was serving as deputy general counsel on the governor's staff at the time. Rumor has it that Springer was screwing around with some of the women in the governor's office.

Springer left his position to enter private practice with a firm here in town. According to my source, the governor called in a few favors to keep the situation hushed up."

"How did he do that?" Kerney asked.

"The two women in question got promoted into jobs at state agencies.

One now works in the health department and the other one has a position at the state library."

"Go on," Kerney said.

"From what I've been told, it's like Springer never left his uncle's staff. His law firm has a consultant contract with the governor's office. He's handling litigation with Texas over the apportionment of water rights in the Pecos River. He has free and unrestricted access to the governor's suite."

"Does that include underground parking and use of the private elevator in the Roundhouse?" Kerney asked.

"According to the night janitors, it does. Springer sometimes shows up late at night, with different women in tow. It has happened three or four times."

"Are any of them blondes?"

"I don't know," Martinez replied.

"Is he currently dating anybody on the governor's staff?"

"If I can believe what I've been told, he's not."

"What else have you learned about Springer?"

"He runs with a fast crowd of thirty-something yuppies.

He drinks at the best watering holes, gets invited to the most prestigious gallery openings, has opening night tickets to the opera, dates a lot of different women-that sort of thing. He lives high off the hog, but supposedly can afford it."

"Have you verified his financial status?"

"Not yet," Gilbert replied.

"One more thing. Chief.

Some of the people Springer hangs with are known recreational drug users. Mostly cocaine, hashish, and marijuana."

"Is Springer a user?"

"Not as far as I know."

"When is the last time Roger Springer was seen at the Roundhouse with a woman?" Kerney asked.

"I don't know."

"You've read the lab report on findings from the crime scene?"

"I have," Gilbert answered.

"Maybe we should find out if Springer's been dating any blondes."

Martinez nodded.

"Meet with Springer personally. Sergeant. Tell him we have reason to believe that he's been using the governor's office for late-night romantic rendezvous.

Reassure him that his conversation with you is strictly off the record, at this point. Let's see where it takes us."

"This could get me reamed. Chief."

"That's not going to happen," Kerney replied.

"If you catch any flak from Springer, bail out and dump it back in my lap. I'll take me heat. If he's sharp, he'll put up a smoke screen to protect his uncle, but you still might learn something."

Martinez studied Kerney, who looked him dead in the eye without flinching or fidgeting. Cops were no better than anybody else when it came to telegraphing lies, and Kerney was playing it straight with him.

That was good enough for Gilbert.

"You've got a deal. Chief."

"One more thing. Sergeant," Kerney said.

"I don't think the governor personally selected all the artwork for his office. From what I saw at his ranch, his taste doesn't include Georgia O'Keeffe. Her works were the most valuable of the lot. Worth almost half of the total haul. Send somebody to the fine arts museum in the morning. I want to know who put the collection together and when it was installed. Talk to that person."

"What are we looking for here. Chief?"

"Clues, Sergeant. I've been told that occasionally curators dedde to appropriate art for themselves. If that's the case, wouldn't it be smart to move the works you wanted to steal to a less secure setting before you swiped them?"

"I'll get on it." carlos sat in the Range Rover across the street and watched a tow truck back up to the van parked at the side of the Wal-Mart in Silver City.

Two city police units were stationed in the parking lot to keep curious people away, and a cop in civilian clothes stood next to the van directing the tow truck. His unmarked police car idled nearby.

"We got here too late," Facundo said indifferently.

Carlos shot him a dirty look, but in the darkness Pacundo missed it.

"Do you want to leave?" Pacundo asked.

"Not yet," Carlos answered. De Leon had told him to retrieve the van, which now appeared impossible. What would De Leon want him to do?

"We'll wait," Carlos added.

The van couldn't be traced back to De Leon of that Carlos was certain.

But the patron was a man of exacting standards, who viewed an inability to carry out orders as negligence, regardless of the circumstances.

Carlos stopped grappling with the problem. It was too confusing. His best bet was to call De Leon and ask for instructions. But he would wait until he knew exactly where the police were taking the vehicle before disturbing the patron.

The tow truck pulled away with the van and Carlos nudged Facundo.

"Stay at a safe distance behind the police car," he ordered.

Facundo waited until the tow truck was a block away before he pulled onto the street. The flashing blue lights on the truck made it easy to follow. At the police station. the truck turned and disappeared behind the back of the building.

Facundo continued on to the next intersection before doubling back and coasting to a stop at the curb.

"Wait here," Carlos said as he got out of the vehicle.

He walked behind an adjacent building and stood in the shadows. The tow truck operator was winching down the van at the back of a parking area inside a vehicle impound lot. No one eke was in sight. Three empty police cars, including the one that had followed the truck to the station, were parked near the rear entrance.

Carlos took the cellular phone from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and dialed De Leon private Santa Pc number. As soon as De Leon came on the line, he explained the situation.

"You did well to call me," De Leon said when Carlos finished.

"Is there any way you can safely get to the vehicle without being seen?"

"Yes, patron. It is not under guard. But I believe the police will search it soon."

"Can you drive it away?"

"No, patron. It is parked in an impound lot behind a locked gate."

"Burn the van," De Leon instructed.

"Do not allow yourself to get caught. Do not allow the police to see the Range Rover."

"Yes, patron."

Carlos rang off and studied the layout. He would climb the impound fence at the rear of the lot, and use darkness for concealment. He went back to the Range Rover, took the road atlas away from Pacundo, and tore out a handful of pages.

"Drive away when I leave," Carlos ordered.

"Do not come back here. I will meet you at the all-night convenience store on the main street in one hour. We passed it on our way here."

"I know where it is," Facundo answered, as he slipped the vehicle into gear and pulled away.

Carlos waited until Pacundo was out of sight before returning to the back of the building next to the station.

The tow truck was gone and no one was in sight.

Staying in the shadows as much as possible, he made his way quickly to the rear of the impound lot, climbed the fence, and moved in a crouch to the van.

He reached under the fender near the fuel tank, found the flexible hose to the tank, and slashed it with a knife, opening a wide, deep cut. He stuffed some twisted pages from the atlas down into the tank until they were saturated with gas. He pulled them out and repeated the process until he had enough to make a fuse that ran from the tank to the ground.

Maybe he had three or four seconds to get away once he lit the paper.

He judged the distance to the back fence. He could just reach it before the van blew up.

Somebody might catch a glimpse of him, but he would be too far away to be identified.

He lit the fuse and started running at full tilt. The van exploded into flames and heat seared the back of his neck. He was safely over the fence and in deep shadows when the first cop burst out of the back door of the police station, carrying a fire extinguisher.

Carlos turned down an empty side street and trotted away.

Kerney was two blocks away from Fletcher's house and some much needed sack tame when he got the news that the van used in the shooting of Officer Rogoff had been found in Silver City. He hit the siren and ran Code Three back to headquarters. Within minutes of his arrival the Silver City PD dispatcher called to report that the van had been torched and heavily damaged by persons unknown.

Kerney reviewed the background information on Nick Palazzi. While serving time in a California prison, Palazzi had joined the American Nazi Party. Any known party members in the Silver City area needed to be identified and interviewed immediately. His arrest for a contract killing had been tied to a territorial dispute among drug traffickers in Southern California.