Slow Kill

Chapter 2

A fter his retirement as an Army nurse, William Price had returned home to California and started a new career as a deputy sheriff. He’d put in three years as a patrol officer and then transferred into the detective unit as an investigator/coroner. During his ten years on the job, Price had seen just about every possible kind of dead body, from gruesome murder victims and gory traffic fatalities to little old ladies who died peacefully in their sleep.

Until her promotion and transfer out of investigations to patrol, Ellie Lowrey had worked with Price on a number of homicide cases. He admired her meticulous attention to detail. Although Price saw no evidence of foul play in the death of Clifford Spalding, Ellie was right to assume a worst-case scenario until it was proved otherwise.

The department contracted for autopsy space with a mortuary in the town of Los Osos, close to the coast. In an office outside the embalming room, Price went through the clothing he’d removed from Spalding’s body. The scent of flowers from the viewing rooms at the front of the mortuary made his nose itch.

In a pocket of the expensive Italian slacks he found a small gold pill case with Spalding’s initials engraved on the hinged lid. It contained a single, small, pale yellow pill shaped in the form of two blunt arrow points with the name of the manufacturer stamped on it.

Price reached for the Physicians’ Desk Reference he carried in his briefcase, known by all who used it as the PDR, and looked up the drug. It was a hormone replacement medication used in the treatment of Graves’ disease, a form of hyperthyroidism. He read through the entry and called Ellie Lowrey to give her the news.

“Would having a thyroid condition kill him?” Lowrey asked after listening to Price’s report.

“I’m no expert on immune system diseases,” Price replied. “But not taking the medication would be dangerous, perhaps even life threatening, especially if Spalding had other health problems.”

“Wait a minute,” Lowrey said. “There was a physician’s business card in Spalding’s briefcase. Here it is, Dr. Daniel Gilbert. His office is in Santa Barbara.”

Price reached for a pen. “You want me to call him?”

“Right away,” Lowrey replied. “Get all the information you can and call me back.” She read off Gilbert’s phone number. “And pull the pathologist in to do the autopsy right now.”

“Aren’t you rushing things a bit?” Price asked, knowing that Ellie might catch some flack from the brass for authorizing a priority autopsy for what appeared to be nothing more than a routine unattended death.

“I’ve got a feeling about this,” Lowrey replied, “and a possible suspect I’d rather not lose sight of before I get some answers.”

“Who’s your suspect?”

“The man who found Spalding’s body. His name is Kevin Kerney. He’s the chief of police in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which coincidentally is where Spalding’s wife has a house.”

“This could come back to bite you,” Price said.

“Just because he’s a cop doesn’t mean he gets a free pass,” Lowrey said.

Price hung up, contacted the pathologist, and then by phone tracked down Dr. Gilbert, who fortunately was handling weekend calls and emergencies for his group practice.

Gilbert responded to the news with surprise. “Clifford was in three months ago,” he said. “His health was good and his blood work results were fine.”

“What about the original course of treatment for the Graves’ disease?” Price asked.

“Radioactive iodine was used to destroy the thyroid gland and stop production of the hormone. It was completely successful.”

“When was that?” Price asked.

“Ten or eleven years ago,” Gilbert replied. “Clifford had all the classic symptoms, but he’d let them go untreated thinking it was just stress related. He’d recently divorced his first wife and was about to remarry. He came in for a prenuptial physical exam and that’s when I made the diagnosis.”

“Were there any complications?” Price asked.

“It caused some weakening of his heart muscles,” Gilbert answered. “But I put him on a diet and exercise program that he religiously maintained. I saw no further deterioration.”

“Would not taking his pill cause heart failure?”

“Certainly not by forgetting to take his medication for a day. But in the long term, too little or too much of the drug can put the patient at risk for a variety of medical problems. The key is to maintain the patient on a stabilized thyroid hormone replacement regime. That’s why periodic blood work to determine medication levels is vital.”

Price described the pill he’d found, and the dosage for it listed in the PDR.

“That’s what I prescribed,” Gilbert said. “I haven’t changed the dosage in two years.”

Price thanked the doctor, hung up, and reported back to Lowrey.

“Bag and tag everything you have,” she said, “and turn it in to evidence.”

“Will do,” Price said, nodding to the board-certified forensic pathologist, who stood in the office doorway looking not at all pleased and rather impatient.

He dropped the headset in the cradle and stood.

“Am I here because of one of Ellie Lowrey’s legendary hunches?” the pathologist asked.

“You could say that,” Price said. “Mind if I assist?”

“You damn well better,” the pathologist said. “I have a dinner party to go to tonight.”

Using a borrowed western saddle lent to him by one of the trainers, Kerney rode each of the four geldings around the track, first in a slow trot using the reins to see how they responded to the bit, then moving them quickly from a canter to a gallop, letting them run for a while to test their endurance. Of the four, he favored a red roan and a gray, because of their smooth gaits, calm dispositions, and swift, tight turns.

He watched Sergeant Lowrey drive up to the stalls just as he finished saddling Comeuppance, the stud horse. Other than the sheer fun of having a racing stallion under him, he had no compelling reason to check out Comeuppance on the track. He’d already decided to buy him, ship him home, and get him started servicing the mares. But he wanted the experience of running him full-tilt along the rail of the racetrack.

Lowrey was still a good thirty feet away as Kerney swung into the saddle and nodded at the stable hand, who opened the gate to the track. He adjusted the strap to the helmet Wheeler had asked him to wear, touched his heels against Comeuppance’s flanks, and the horse surged through the gate at a full gallop.

Why the horse couldn’t sire fast runners was anybody’s guess. He had good speed and power. Bent low over Comeuppance’s neck, Kerney gave him his head for a full quarter-mile, enjoying every second of the ride. But he sensed that the horse was running under protest, with little enthusiasm. He slowed the stallion gently to a walk and circled the track, deliberately letting Lowrey cool her heels.

From phone calls he’d received, Kerney already knew that contact had not yet been made with Spalding’s wife. Both the state police and Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino, one of Kerney’s officers, had reported that the woman was away on a weekend trail-riding trip with friends somewhere in the Pecos Wilderness outside of Santa Fe.

At the stalls, he turned Comeuppance over to the stable hand, returned the borrowed helmet, and walked to the track railing where Lowrey waited.

She gave him a smile. “You ride well.”

Kerney nodded at the compliment.

“So what are you, a cowboy or a cop?”

“A little of one, more of the other,” Kerney replied.

Lowrey laughed. “In that order?”

Kerney nodded again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a cop who kept racehorses as a hobby.”

“I don’t plan to race them, and it’s not a hobby.”

“Still, it must be expensive,” Lowrey said, the smile fixed on her face.

“Ask your question, Sergeant.”

“The last time I checked, police work wasn’t in the top ten high-income professions,” Lowrey countered.

Kerney stayed silent.

“How many horses do you own?”

“Right now, none. By the end of the day, probably four.”

“That’s interesting,” Lowrey said, her smile fading.

Kerney knew he had to give Lowrey more information or face her continued probes, starting with why a man who owned no horses would come to this ranch, at this particular time, to buy some animals.

“I own a small place outside Santa Fe,” he said, “and I’m partnering with my neighbors to breed cutting horses. Except for ones I’m looking to buy, they’ll supply the brood mares. I’m also fronting the costs for the stud horse and two geldings. We plan to start training the geldings as soon as possible.”

“On a ranch outside of Santa Fe,” Lowrey said.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been there,” Lowrey said in a casual tone, “but I’ve heard it’s where the rich people like to go and play.”

“It’s one of those places,” Kerney said. “Let me answer some of the other questions you haven’t asked me yet. How can I afford a ranch outside of Santa Fe? I came into a sizable inheritance several years back. Do I live anywhere near Mrs. Spalding? I know all my neighbors and she’s not one of them. Why did I come to this ranch to buy horses? My partner suggested it. Some of the finest cutting horses in the country have been bred here.”

Lowrey laughed and turned to face the track, where a trainer was running a frisky two-year-old. “You don’t like being the subject of an inquiry.”

“Would you?”

“Probably not. Are you going home tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan,” Kerney replied.

“Maybe I’ll have to come see you in Santa Fe,” Lowrey said as she returned her gaze to Kerney.

“That would be a waste of your time.”

“You haven’t asked me if Mrs. Spalding has been advised of her husband’s death.”

“I figured you’d tell me if she had been.”

“Of course I would.” She handed Kerney a business card. “Call me if you’d like to get anything off your chest.”

Lowrey stepped away in the direction of her police cruiser. Kerney stuffed her card in his shirt pocket. Clearly, the sergeant was just doing her job, and doing it very well. But that didn’t ease the irritation he felt at being treated like a suspect.

He laughed at himself. No matter what Lowrey thought, he had nothing to worry about. He went to take a closer look at one of the four geldings. It seemed a bit shallow in the flank and somewhat razor-backed, which wouldn’t do at all.

In her unit, Ellie Lowrey checked with Price by radio on the status of the autopsy and learned it was still under way. She decided to drive to Los Osos and get a firsthand report from the pathologist. She had deliberately given Chief Kerney the impression that he’d be free to go back to Santa Fe tomorrow. But that depended on what the doctor had to say.

Ellie knew she was operating solely on her intuition. But coincidence was always questionable in a criminal investigation. Happenstance, fate, and chance were often used by subjects to camouflage the truth.

She pondered a scenario. Kerney lived in the same town as Spalding’s wife. Both of them were apart from their spouses a good deal of the time. Kerney, who owned no horses, came to California to buy stock at the same time Clifford Spalding was at the ranch. They shared accommodations, which allowed Kerney to conveniently find Spalding dead in his bedroom in the morning.

According to Jeffery Jardin, Spalding had never stayed at the ranch before, and had arrived surreptitiously to buy a horse as a surprise anniversary present for his wife. Did Claudia Spalding know Clifford’s whereabouts? Wives often have a way of keeping track of husbands.

And what about Kerney? Who better to orchestrate a crime than an experienced cop? Who better to stage a death that looked natural, leave no evidence behind, and have plausible explanations at hand?

Motive, opportunity, and means made up the three major components of any criminal investigation. So far, all she had for sure was opportunity, and a lurking suspicion that perhaps Kerney and Claudia Spalding were lovers who’d plotted and carried out a murder. But why?

She’d watched Kerney carefully, and he hadn’t shown any nonverbal signs of lying. But cops, the good ones anyway, were masters at lying. A lot of dirtbags were in the slam because of well-formulated, totally believable lies told to them by police officers.

Ellie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Was she completely off base? She hoped the autopsy would answer the question one way or the other.

She reached the mortuary in Los Osos, and the thought struck her that calling such places funeral homes was totally incongruous. If you were there to get buried, you were about as far away from home as you were ever going to get.

Inside, she found Price moving the body from the autopsy table to a gurney. “Where’s Doc?” Ellie asked.

“He left,” Price answered.

“And?”

Price shook his head as he covered the body. “It looks like straightforward heart failure. But Doc said he’d have the lab run exhaustive blood and chem tests, just as you asked. He’s particularly interested in learning what the levels were for the hormone replacement medication.”

“Did he say why?” Ellie asked.

Price laughed as he pushed the gurney into an open locker and closed it up. “For two reasons: to keep you happy, and to see if the drug may have contributed to the death. Spalding’s heart blew a valve and the muscles showed signs of fairly rapid and recent deterioration.”

“Getting the lab results could take several days.”

Price hosed down the autopsy table, stripped off the bloody gown and gloves, and dumped them in a hamper. “Not much we can do about it,” he said.

In his late fifties, Price had a fatherly air about him that always calmed Ellie down. Maybe she’d pushed the investigation as far as she could for the time being.

She gave Price a resigned smile and nodded. “Do you think I’m wrong about this one?”

Price responded with a shrug of a shoulder and a grin. “I’ve learned never to bet against you, Sarge.”

Ellie’s smile turned mischievous.

“What are you thinking?” Price asked.

“Did you do a plain-view search of the cottage?” she asked.

“No, just the bedroom.”

“I took a quick tour around the other rooms,” Ellie said, “and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Maybe we should go back there and look again, this time more carefully. Perhaps Chief Kerney will let us search his personal property.”

“He could challenge you on that,” Price said.

“I hope he does.” Ellie dialed Jardin’s number on her cell phone, and when he answered she asked for permission to search the cottage to look for any evidence that might help determine the cause of Clifford Spalding’s death.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” Jardin replied.

“It would be a great help to the investigation,” Ellie said.

“Do your search, Sergeant,” Jardin said.

“Thank you, sir.” Ellie disconnected and winked at Price. “Let’s go see what we can stir up.”

“Don’t you mean stir Chief Kerney up?”

“Exactly.”

Kerney found doing business with Ken Wheeler enjoyable. The man had given him lots of space and made no attempt to influence his choices. In the ranch office, Kerney signed the paperwork for the animals he’d selected, and arranged to have Wheeler contract on his behalf to transport the horses to Santa Fe. He was one mare short, but he could probably talk Jack Burke into selling him an eight-year-old bay he had his eye on.

“You picked the best of the lot,” Wheeler said as Kerney wrote out the check.

“They’ll do nicely,” Kerney replied. “Have you ever been to Santa Fe?”

Wheeler shook his head as he took the offered check. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me about Mrs. Spalding.”

Wheeler laughed. “I can’t help you there. As far as she’s concerned, I’m just hired help, and I’m sure not the type that would turn her head.”

“Meaning?” Kerney asked.

Wheeler scratched his chin. “She seems to have an eye for men. But they’re all a hell of a lot taller, younger, and better-looking than me. I’ve never heard that it went any further than that. But playing around isn’t all that unusual among the horse-racing set.”

“She got along okay with her husband?”

“Yeah, as far as I could tell. Why wouldn’t she? The guy was fronting some big bucks to keep her happy.”

“Did Spalding ever say anything about his marriage?” Kerney asked.

Wheeler wrinkled his nose. “Not directly to me. I did overhear him once bellyaching to a friend before a race that he had a hard time getting her to travel out to the coast. There was always something that would come up and keep her in Santa Fe. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“I have the feeling the sheriff’s deputy thinks I may be personally involved with Mrs. Spalding,” Kerney said, “and that her husband’s death may not be as uncomplicated as it appears.”

Wheeler’s genial attitude vanished as he looked Kerney up and down. “You’re saying the cops think Spalding might have been murdered?”

“They haven’t discounted it.”

“Well, you sure fit the type she’d be drawn to.” Wheeler shifted uneasily in his chair. “Not that I’m saying you’re involved in anything.”

“I’m sure it will all get sorted out,” Kerney said.

He picked up the paperwork from the desk and thanked Wheeler for making the transaction pleasurable. Outside, two sheriff’s units were parked in front of the guest cottage.

Kerney walked across the circular driveway thinking that what Wheeler had told him lent credence to Sergeant Lowrey’s gut instincts about the case. The idea of going home as a suspect in a homicide held no appeal. He decided to delay his return to Santa Fe and poke around a bit to see what more he could learn about Clifford and Claudia Spalding.

Ellie Lowrey didn’t see any hint of surprise or uneasiness in Kerney when he entered the cabin.

“Have you found anything interesting, Sergeant?” he asked. In the kitchen, the coroner was bagging the juice glass Kerney had rinsed out and left on the counter.

“Not yet,” Ellie replied.

He turned to leave. “I’ll wait on the porch until you’re finished.”

“Mr. Kerney,” Lowrey said.

Lowrey had deliberately avoided addressing him by rank. It was a neat psychological trick to establish dominance. Kerney countered by reducing Lowrey in rank. “Yes, Deputy?”

Color rose on Lowrey’s cheeks. “I’d like permission to search your luggage.”

“Go ahead,” Kerney said. “I’ll be on the porch.”

“Don’t you want to be present?”

“It’s not necessary.”

She held out a clipboard. “Please sign the permission slip,” she said tersely.

He scrawled his name, went outside, and sat on the stoop. Woodpeckers were busy in the trees and mares grazed lazily in the adjacent pasture. The afternoon sun, hazy in the sky, cast a soft, golden light that looked like melted butter. A mare rubbed her rump against the thick, curling lower branch of a live oak tree as her foal lay asleep close by, legs folded. Leaves shimmered in a whispering breeze, and a crow swished overhead, wings spread wide, croaking as it passed to drop down and perch on a creek-bed rock.

It had been an unusual day. Some of it had been as pleasant as the warm afternoon sun now on Kerney’s face, and some of it as chilly as the early morning air, the darkened bedroom, and death. He wondered what other events might be in store for him before it ended.

An hour passed before the coroner hurried out carrying a small cardboard box. He loaded it in the trunk of his unit and drove away. Lowrey soon followed, stopping to thank Kerney for his cooperation.

“No problem,” Kerney said.

“I still haven’t heard back if Spalding’s wife has been notified,” Lowrey said.

“I take it she’s not the first Mrs. Spalding.”

“No, ex-wife number one lives in Santa Barbara.”

He decided to tell Lowrey his plans. “I’m staying over until this gets resolved. How long do you think it will take?”

Lowrey blinked. “Through tomorrow night should do it.”

Kerney stood, brushed off the seat of his jeans, fished Lowrey’s business card from his shirt pocket, and waved it at her. “Good. I’ll find a motel and let you know where I’m staying.”

“Don’t you want to know what I found in your luggage?”

“Nothing of any consequence, I’m sure,” Kerney replied.

Lowrey nodded and walked away.

Kerney went inside, found his return airline ticket and car rental agreement, and changed his travel itinerary by phone. Then he called long distance information and got a phone listing for an A. Spalding in Santa Barbara.

A woman answered on the first ring. Kerney identified himself as a police officer and asked if she was Clifford Spalding’s former wife.

“I am not,” the woman replied. “That would be my employer, Alice Spalding.”

“May I speak to her?” Kerney asked.

“What is it in reference to?”

“Her ex-husband.”

“Talk to Mrs. Spalding’s lawyer. I can give you her office number to call in the morning.”

“Clifford Spalding died early today.” Silence greeted Kerney’s announcement.

“Where are you calling from?” the woman finally asked.

“Paso Robles,” Kerney said. “It’s important that I speak to Mrs. Spalding.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I can’t discuss it with you until all family members have been notified,” Kerney replied. “It’s policy. May I speak to Mrs. Spalding?”

“It’s best that you do it in person,” the woman said. “Alice has Alzheimer’s disease, and she doesn’t use the telephone much anymore. It confuses and upsets her.”

“How advanced is her condition?” Kerney asked.

“Deteriorating. It’s quite likely she won’t understand all of what you tell her, but I can never be sure. Sometimes she’s lucid, at other times she’s incoherent. Her mind wanders, her memory is impaired, and she goes off-topic frequently.”

“I can be there in two or three hours.”

“Don’t make it any later than that,” the woman said. “Alice fades in the evening.”

Kerney asked for directions and scratched them down on his road map, starting with which Highway 101 off-ramp to take once he reached Santa Barbara.

He left the ranch and headed south. Given Alice Spalding’s medical condition, Kerney wasn’t sure what he might gain from meeting her. But it felt good to be doing something.

The route to Alice Spalding’s house took Kerney through a tidy Santa Barbara neighborhood of charming Spanish Mission and Romanesque houses. He passed the Presidio, a low-slung adobe building joined to a large mission church with twin bell towers that framed the coastal mountains rising behind it. Tour bus visitors busily took pictures as they strolled the grounds.

Beyond the Presidio, the winding road climbed into hills where the houses were much larger, and more difficult to see through an increasing profusion of plants, shrubs, and trees. None of the flowering vegetation, a riot of rich blues, deep reds, vivid purples, and vibrant yellows, was familiar to Kerney. About all he recognized were the towering palm trees.

He found the right street and house number, and turned into a driveway barred by an electronic gate. He announced himself over the intercom, and the gate swung open.

He parked next to a high-end Japanese sedan and looked around. Pink and red flowers bordered a step-down cobblestone walkway to the house. Tall, thin evergreen trees that reached to the second-story tile roof line bracketed the entry.

Before he could knock on the thick, antique plank door it swung open to reveal a woman with blue eyes, long dirty blond hair, and a fair complexion. She was somewhere in her mid- to late forties.

“Officer Kerney,” the woman said, looking him up and down, taking in the jeans, boots, and western shirt. She hadn’t expected a cowboy cop to come to the door. But then, Paso Robles wasn’t as stylish as Santa Barbara.

Kerney nodded and flashed his shield, which he’d carried to California in his overnight bag.

The woman gave it only a quick glance as she extended her hand. “I’m Penelope Parker,” she said with the slightest hint of a Southern accent. “Come in.”

Kerney followed Parker into a large room with a line of windows looking out to a covered loggia supported by four columns and surrounded by a semicircular wall. Beyond was a view of mountains, the city below, and finally the bay, where masts of pleasure boats bobbed like tiny toothpicks in the water.

“Alice is napping right now,” Parker said, “and I don’t want to wake her. It shouldn’t be too long before she rings for me.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Kerney said.

Parker gestured to the patio, opened the door, and led Kerney outside. “How did Mr. Spalding die?” she asked.

“For now, it appears to be by natural causes,” Kerney said as he joined her at the patio wall. Below him an abandoned three-story stucco house sat with a patched tar-paper roof and plywood-covered windows and doors. A paved drive ran behind the building to a dead-end parking area where a few benches had been positioned to take in the view of the bay.

“Alice won’t be happy to hear this,” Parker said. “She’ll probably reject what you have to say.”

“Why is that?” Kerney asked, wondering why a derelict house on an overgrown lot with a parking area stood in the middle of such an expensive neighborhood.

“Because of her condition, and because of Mr. Spalding’s legally binding agreement to make continued good faith efforts to locate their only child, a son named George. Alice had her lawyer make that language part of the divorce settlement, and she refers to it obsessively.”

“They have a son who’s gone missing?” Kerney asked. The grounds around the abandoned house overflowed with huge palm trees, and more lush shrubbery, vines, and flowers he didn’t recognize. But these plants were growing wild, not carefully tended like those in the gardens of the houses all around.

“If only it were as simple as that,” Parker replied. “George was killed in the Vietnam War. However, Alice refuses to accept that reality.”

“Because of the Alzheimer ’s?”

“Oh, no,” Parker said. “The onset of the Alzheimer’s occurred two years ago. The hunt for George has been going on much longer, almost thirty years. Alice’s obsession about it was one of the things that drove a stake in her marriage.”

“You knew them back then?”

“No,” Parker said with a shake of her head. “I’ve been Alice’s personal assistant since the divorce. In fact, in a way, I’m also part of the divorce settlement. Mr. Spalding pays my salary and benefits. Before they split up, I worked for both of them for about two years.”

“Has the son’s death in Vietnam been fully documented?” Kerney asked.

“Completely,” Parker said. “Still, Alice persists in her belief that he’s alive. You’ll see what I mean after she’s up. There’s a room in the house devoted completely to George. But no one’s allowed in it unaccompanied. Not even me. If you ask, she’ll show it to you.”

“Do you know the current Mrs. Spalding?” he asked.

“I’ve never met her,” Parker replied. “Clifford bought her a Tuscan-style mansion in Montecito. But as I understand it, she rarely stays there.”

“Do you know where it is?”

Parker nodded. “I can give you directions before you leave.”

“That would be great,” Kerney said. He pointed at the abandoned house. “What is that place?”

Parker leaned against the patio wall. “It’s a park owned by the city but rarely used. Originally, it was a residence and a plant nursery started by an Italian named Francesco Franceschi, who came here in the 1890s. He was responsible for importing almost a thousand foreign species and varieties of horticultural plants to the area. They still grace many of the older homes and mansions. He almost singlehandedly beautified the city. These were treeless, brush-covered hills back then.”

“Why is it so run-down?”

Parker laughed. “The city would love to restore the house and grounds as a venue for concerts and community events. But the neighbors won’t hear of it. They don’t want the peace and quiet of the area disturbed.”

A bell sounded from inside the house. “That’s Alice,” Parker said. “I’ll go prepare her for your visit.”

Kerney stood on the patio and looked up. A covered second-story balcony dominated the back of the house, and, he guessed, gave onto the master bedroom. He wondered if an adjacent room served as George Spalding’s shrine. Although Mrs. Spalding’s obsession with her son probably had nothing to do with her ex-husband’s death, it was intriguing.

A ground-floor breezeway connected to what Kerney assumed were Parker’s living quarters. Parked in front was a sporty silver SUV that had probably never been off the pavement.

Penelope Parker stepped out on the patio and beckoned to him. He followed her through a spacious living room filled with ornate Spanish Colonial period furniture and tapestry rugs, and up a staircase to the master bedroom, where he was introduced to Alice Spalding.

A tiny woman dressed in powder-blue slacks and a creamy white blouse, Spalding smiled up at him from a beige leather easy chair near the windows. Her feet barely touched the floor.

She smiled vaguely at him. “What do you have for me today, Captain Chase?”

Parker touched Spalding on the shoulder. “This is Officer Kerney from Paso Robles, Alice, not Captain Chase.”

“Oh,” Spalding said, looking worriedly from Parker to Kerney. “What happened to Captain Chase?”

“Nothing,” Parker replied. “The officer has something to tell you.”

Spalding’s expression brightened with anticipation. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to tell you that Clifford Spalding is dead,” Kerney said.

Confusion and anger washed over Alice’s face. “George isn’t dead.”

“I’m talking about your ex-husband, Clifford,” Kerney said.

“Well, he isn’t dead either,” Alice said emphatically. “Have you found George?”

“Not yet,” Kerney said, thinking he’d wasted his time coming to see her.

“I didn’t think so,” Alice said huffily as she rose. “Come with me, I have something to show you.”

She took him into an adjacent room. It was indeed a shrine, filled with framed photographs of George Spalding as a child, boy, teenager, and finally a young man in his Army uniform. On a heavy oak table were stacks of out-of-state newspaper clippings, some of them slightly yellow with age, others worn from constant handling.

She removed two recent news stories posted on a bulletin board behind a desk and handed them to Kerney. One, from an El Paso newspaper, had a picture of a middle-aged man accepting a civic award. The other article, with a photograph of a different man pushing a shopping cart filled with aluminum cans, was a story about homelessness.

“That’s George,” Alice Spalding said. “Now, all you have to do is go get him and bring him home to me. I never should have let him go. I need to tell him how sorry I am.”

Kerney stifled the impulse to ask which man was George, since neither one at all resembled the young soldier in Mrs. Spalding’s photograph. He glanced at Parker, who shook her head sadly.

“I’ll get right on it,” he said.

Among the photographs on the wall was a picture of Alice, Clifford, and a very young George Spalding in front of a pueblo revival-style motel that had been popular in the Southwest before the advent of the Interstate highway system. Kerney asked about it.

“It was our first motel in Albuquerque,” Alice said. “On Central Avenue. We owned it for years.”

“You lived in Albuquerque?” Kerney asked.

“I think so,” Alice replied as she glanced questioningly at Parker.

“Yes, you did,” Parker said.

Alice smiled in relief.

On the desk was a framed photograph of George in his Class A Army uniform, probably taken after his graduation from basic training. Next to it was a picture of a pleasant-looking teenage girl.

“Who’s the young woman?” he asked.

Alice Spalding glared at him. “You know very well that’s Debbie Calderwood.”

“Yes, of course it is,” Kerney said.

“Find her and you’ll find George,” Alice said.

“She’s also missing?”

“You know she is,” Alice replied hotly.

“Debbie left Albuquerque soon after George died,” Parker explained. “Alice believes she was pregnant with George’s baby at the time.”

“I want to see my grandbaby,” Alice said. She made a cuddling motion with her arms.

Kerney had heard and seen enough. He excused himself and let Parker escort him downstairs.

“See what I mean?” Parker said as she led him toward the front door.

“Who is Captain Chase?” Kerney asked.

“He’s the commander of the Santa Barbara Police Department Criminal Investigation Unit. Alice usually has me call him once a week to report another lead about George. He’s handled the case-if you want to call it that-for years.”

“Can he tell me anything about Mr. Spalding?”

“I’m sure he can,” Parker answered. “As well as probably more than you’ll ever want to know about Alice’s search for George.”

“How did Spalding handle Alice’s obsession?”

“Indulgently, for years, until it got the best of him.”

“What about Debbie? Is she really missing?”

Parker had her hand on the front doorknob. “She probably just moved away. The police aren’t looking for her. They never have. Years ago, before my time, Alice talked Clifford into hiring a private detective to look for Debbie, but it didn’t get anywhere.”

“Does the private detective live here in Santa Barbara?”

“Yes, but he’s retired now, and I don’t know his name. Alice will eventually ask me about Clifford. What can I tell her?”

“What I said earlier, that he probably died from natural causes in his sleep.”

“What a peaceful way to go.”

“You’ll be able to get a report from the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department within a few days.”

“Could you bring it to me?” Parker asked, smiling winningly.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Parker gave him directions to the second Mrs. Spalding’s Montecito estate, and Kerney decided to find a room for the night. After his visit with Alice Spalding, he wondered if staying over in California to chase down information would turn out to be nothing but a waste of time.

He pulled into a motel parking lot on State Street, a few blocks beyond an area of hotels, high-end department stores, movie houses, restaurants, and retail shops that formed the tourist center of the city. His cell phone rang as he killed the engine.

“Hey there, Kerney,” Andy Baca said.

“How were the polar bears at the zoo?” he asked.

“Playful,” Andy said. “The grandkids loved them. We’re on our way home to Santa Fe, and they’re asleep in the back of the car.”

“Wasn’t I supposed to call you later tonight?” Kerney asked.

“Yeah, but I’ve got news,” Andy said. “I told my district commander to do whatever it took to find Mrs. Spalding pronto. So he contacted the state game and fish officer for the Pecos District and asked him to go looking for her and her trail-riding buddies up in the mountains.

“The game and fish officer found her all right, along with only one, I repeat, one, trail-riding pal: a white, forty-year-old male named Kim Dean. It was just the two of them. Mrs. Spalding gave the officer a line of bull about the rest of the group having gone on ahead to Elk Mountain. But from what the officer saw, he didn’t buy it.”

“What did he see that led him to that conclusion?”

“A cozy tent for two and no sign of any other riders entering the trailhead during the last three days.”

“Interesting,” Kerney said. “Where’s Mrs. Spalding now?”

“Still in the mountains,” Andy replied. “The officer just called in his report. He said she had a good three-hour ride before she would get back to where their horse trailer is parked.”

“Did he say how Spalding reacted to the news of her husband’s death?” Kerney asked.

“Yeah, tears, shock, and surprise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Larry Otero has Ramona Pino checking out this Dean guy.”

“Good. Has the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department been informed?”

“They will be as soon as we hang up and I give my people the go-ahead to make the call.”

“I’m staying over an extra day,” Kerney said.

“Why? If something is fishy, the focus of attention should be on this guy Dean, not you.”

“You’re probably right,” Kerney said. “But just to satisfy my curiosity, I’ll give it another day. I don’t want this situation biting at my heels back in Santa Fe.”

“Okay. Try to stay out of any more trouble while you’re there,” Andy added with a chuckle.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kerney said.

“See you when you get home.”

Kerney disconnected, walked into the motel office, and paid for a room. As he left with the key, he had half a thought to call Sara and tell her what was going on, and decided against it. Better to wait until things got sorted out.

He dumped his overnight bag on the double bed, and looked around the plain room. Cheap salmon-colored drapes adorned with seashells and sea urchins covered the window, and a faded print of a sailboat in a plastic frame was screwed into the wall over the bed. On a small desk was a pile of brochures for the major local tourist attractions.

He hadn’t eaten all day, which was more than enough of an excuse to leave the dreary room, get a meal, and come back only when it was time to sleep.