The big gamble

Chapter 11

The telephone call from Wendell and Hannah caught Kerney by surprise. Hannah recited the letters of the alphabet she'd learned along with her numbers, which she rattled off into the double digits. As the piece de resistance she informed Kerney that she could write out her name. Kerney said he was amazed and that Hannah was a very, very smart girl.

"I know," Hannah said, handing the phone off to Wendell.

Wendell described the picture he'd drawn for Kerney and asked if it would be all right to have his mother mail it to him. Kerney said that he would love to have it. He would keep it in his office at police headquarters.

"I'm gonna be a policeman, just like you and my dad," Wendell said.

The pleasure in the children's voices made Kerney realize that no matter what stood between him and Clayton, to Hannah and Wendell he was their grandfather, and they seemed to like it. He wondered where the idea for the phone call had come from. He didn't think Clayton was behind it, so that left Grace, or Clayton's mother. He settled on Grace as the instigator.

Grace came on the line and Kerney asked about Clayton.

"He would have called himself," she said, "but he's out of town."

"Give him my best, and tell him I'll be coming down there soon."

"Stop by the house while you're here," Grace said. "Wendell and Hannah would love to see you."

"I'll do that," Kerney said. "Thank you for calling, Grace. It made my day."

"From the smiles on your grandchildren's faces, I'd say the feeling was mutual."

The phone rang immediately after Kerney disconnected. He picked up to find Sara on the line.

"Sara, I just…"

"Don't talk, Kerney, listen. I'm pissed at you and this whole situation. I think you just want me only for sex, or for carrying your child, or for occasional companionship when I can fly in on one of your rare free weekends."

Kerney's cheerfulness evaporated. "What are you talking about?"

"I should have been there today for the house siting, not hearing about it on the other end of a phone call. I should have been there because it's supposed to be our house. I don't think you give a damn about me. You've just got this fantasy going about a wife, a family, and a ranch, not necessarily in that order."

"That's crazy. I thought you said you couldn't get away between now and graduation."

"Of course I can't get away," Sara snapped. "That's not what I'm talking about. You could have waited. What's one month? Shit! I hate to curse. Shit, shit, shit."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I shouldn't have had to. It should have been clear in your mind that it was something we needed to do together."

"I've just been trying to move things along."

"Why? So it can all come together perfectly according to some master plan? The house gets built, the pregnant wife appears, the baby gets born."

Stunned by the criticism, Kerney tried again to explain. "I just wanted to have everything ready for you and the baby."

"The place you're renting is more than adequate for us."

"You're being wrongheaded about this."

"Wrongheaded? If I'm so wrongheaded why do you even bother to know me?"

Kerney heard the phone go dead. He dropped the receiver and stared at it, pulled his hand back from it. Now, he was pissed-beyond belief pissed. He was a jerk, a dummy, an unfeeling, inconsiderate SOB. A bum for wanting to make Sara happy.

Where had all this come from? A few hours ago she was laughing on the phone, talking excitedly about the house plans, consulting the architectural drawings he'd sent her, and asking questions.

The phone rang and Kerney picked up.

"Do you want to talk?" Sara asked.

He could hear her crying. "Yes, of course." A long silence followed, punctuated by Sara's sniffling. "Are you still angry?" he asked.

"I'm hurt, not angry."

Kerney's indignation abated. "I had no intention to hurt you."

"I know that. But sometimes you get so single-minded I want to give you a swift kick."

"I think you just have."

"I guess I did."

"Are you all right?" Kerney asked.

"No, I'm hormonal, pregnant, lonely, exhausted, and wondering what's in store for us."

"A good life together," Kerney said, trying for something upbeat.

"Yeah, the rare times we're together."

"We still have to work that out."

"Yes, we do. If you want me to raise this child on my own, tell me now."

Her words hit Kerney like a sucker punch. "Hold on a minute."

"Do you?"

"Never, dammit." He heard her intake of breath followed by another silence.

"Okay."

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I'd like to reach out and touch you in my bed tonight. Oh, never mind. I have to go. Good night."

"Sara, don't hang up this way."

"I'll be fine."

"I'm not sure I will," Kerney said.

"I wouldn't embarrass myself by crying at you over the telephone if I didn't love you. My nose is running, my eyes are red, and I need a big hug."

"Do you want me to fly in this weekend?"

"No, I won't have a spare moment."

"Okay."

"Just say good night," Sara said.

"How about if I say I love you, instead?" Kerney countered.

"That will do nicely."

"I love you."

"Me too," Sara replied.

He held the dead phone in his hand until a recorded message urged him to hang up. Then he poured whiskey into a glass and stood on the patio staring at the hill behind the house in the darkness. He felt angry, hurt, above all misunderstood. Suddenly, he was dissatisfied with himself, with everything.

He sipped the whiskey. The quarter moon and the star-filled sky couldn't hold his interest. The stiff cold breeze against his face felt insignificant even though he started to shiver. The whiskey burned his throat.

Was he really so unfeeling? Pigheaded? Inconsiderate? How could Sara ever think that he would want her to raise their child alone? Was she sending him a message? Had she decided to keep her commission and stay on active duty after her maternity leave?

Confused, Kerney went inside and tried to get his head straight, although he didn't hold out much hope that it would happen easily.

Thomas Deacon was a little high and a little horny. He sat close to Ramona on a couch in his living room, occasionally letting his leg touch her knee as she looked at the enlargements she'd asked him to make. His leering smile made her want to slam his face into the hardwood floor.

The room was decorated with mismatched furniture, cheap throw rugs, and shelves made from concrete blocks and boards, which held a large number of videotapes within easy reach of a VCR and big-screen television. There wasn't a book in sight.

"You've got a good start on a portfolio," Deacon said. "But it's only a start. We need to get you in some evening wear, swim suits, lingerie, and do some location work."

"Oh, I'd love to do that," Ramona said.

"You gotta learn to play to the camera," Deacon said as he leaned closer, sounding every bit like a Dutch uncle offering friendly advice. "How to use your face and your body." He ran his finger across Ramona's cheek. "You've got the right bone structure for the camera, and Hispanic women are a hot commodity right now."

"Can I see some of your location work?" Ramona asked, maintaining her eager smile.

"Sure, why not," Deacon said, getting to his feet. "But don't get ahead of yourself. That's not gonna be happening until you're about to graduate from the program."

Deacon swaggered his way into the studio and came back with some photo files. Ramona fed his ego with compliments as she looked at the pictures. She paused at the photograph of Sally Greer posing on the patio of the Santa Fe-style house. The one Deacon said he'd shot at the Indian resort and casino outside Ruidoso. Ramona knew better: she'd been to the casino and it didn't look anything like an adobe hacienda.

"Do you always go to the same places with Cassie's students?" she asked.

"Pretty much."

She tapped Sally's photo. "I have this really sexy little black cocktail dress. Maybe we could do something high-class at a place like this. You said I needed to get more comfortable in front of the camera."

"I thought you were short on money," Deacon said.

"I'm starting a new job in a week at The Players Club."

Deacon licked his lips. He'd figured all along that Bedlow had an agenda for the bitch, but hooking her up with a job at The Players Club sealed it. Bedlow and Tully were gonna turn this sweet thing into a whore, just like they did with Sally Greer and some other prime tail.

He put his hand on her thigh. "Yeah, you could use the practice."

Ramona ignored Deacon's hand and held up Sally's picture. "Is this place nearby? It looks like it was taken in Santa Fe."

"No, that was shot at a ranch owned by Cassie's brother."

"I couldn't afford to pay for your time to go there. But it's beautiful. Where is it?"

"Down in Lincoln County," Deacon said.

"I'd love to see that part of the state," Ramona said. "I've never been there."

"Maybe I could free up some time and drive you there for a shoot," Deacon said, slipping his hand further up her thigh. He wondered how long it would take to get the bitch high and naked with him in front of a video camera.

Ramona almost shuddered at Deacon's touch. Instead, she removed his hand and stood up. "Now, behave yourself, Mr. Deacon," she said primly, teasingly. "I have to go."

Deacon smiled. "Don't you want to stay and play with me?"

"I'm not that easy. How much do I owe you for the enlargements?"

"Forget about it. It's on the house."

After she walked out twitching her tight little ass, Deacon rolled a joint, took a hit, and shrugged off the bitch's rejection. The day would come when she would be easy.

Three blocks away from Deacon's house, Jeff Vialpando flashed his lights, and Ramona pulled to the curb. He got in her unit and Ramona handed him the wire she'd been wearing.

"That sucked," she said.

"I think it went well," Vialpando said.

"I'm talking about how I feel. He had his hand halfway up my crotch. I need a shower."

Jeff stayed silent. He'd learned from hard experience working with the female vice cops in his department that nothing he could say would wash Ramona's feeling of disgust away.

"I wish the bastard had incriminated himself," Ramona said.

"You did good," Jeff replied.

"Big deal. He shoots Bedlow's students on location at Norvell's ranch."

"It's another link in the chain," Jeff said.

"I would have liked to get a hell of a lot more."

"Are these your pictures?" Vialpando asked, reaching for the envelope on the dashboard.

"Don't touch."

He pulled his hand away. "I'd like to have one to show the guys who I'm dating."

Ramona's fierceness softened. "Oh, are we dating?"

"We will be, if you let me take you to dinner."

"Don't you have a date with Sally Greer?"

"Yeah, in three hours. Until then, I'm all yours."

"Dinner, huh?"

"Yep," Jeff said, pulling at the lapel of his best suit. "At a fancy restaurant. I already made the reservation."

"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" Ramona said, breaking into a smile.

"Hopeful, optimistic."

"One question," Ramona said. "Are there any current girlfriends I need to know about?"

"I'm between relationships," Jeff replied.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I haven't been on a date in six months."

"That's worse than not having a girlfriend."

Vialpando laughed. "You're right. May I buy you dinner, Detective?"

"As long as you don't put your hand on my thigh."

"Agreed," Jeff said. "Now, about those pictures."

Ramona snatched the envelope off the dashboard. "In your dreams. You've got a long way to go before you'll get to see them, if ever."

"But there's a chance?"

"Maybe," Ramona replied.

Vialpando put his hand on the door latch. "Follow me. After dinner you can hang out and eavesdrop on my date with Greer, if you want to."

"I'd like that. Besides, somebody needs to keep an eye on you."

Vialpando laughed and went back to his car. Ramona dialed Chief Kerney's home number. He answered in a gruff voice, and she filled him in as Jeff swung ahead of the unit.

"I don't know if it means anything substantial," Ramona said.

"It's helpful," Kerney said tersely. "Thanks for the call, Detective."

Feeling a bit deflated by Kerney's tone, Ramona disconnected and closed the distance to Jeff's car, wondering what was eating at the chief.

Luis Rojas talked to the El Paso vice cop on the phone and watched Tyler Norvell drum his fingers on the black marble top of the kitchen island.

He disconnected and swung his bar stool to face Norvell straight on. "That Indian cop is still nosing around, but he won't get anywhere." He gave Norvell the scoop on Detective Brewer's phone call.

"And you were just telling me everything is going to be all right," Norvell said. "This doesn't cut it, Luis."

"What's the problem?" Rojas responded. "A cop asks Cassie a couple of questions about Anna Marie and goes away. An Indian cop comes around nosing into my whereabouts the night of the murder in Ruidoso, gets his answers, and goes away."

"But this Indian cop hasn't gone away," Norvell said. "He's still investigating. He's got the names of two of our girls."

"He was told nothing that can come back at us. I'll have Shea take the girls to Juarez tonight. They can work there until things quiet down."

"And that solves everything?" Norvell snapped.

"If I asked the cop pretty please to stop, would that make you feel better?" Rojas moved off the stool, poured two mugs of freshly ground coffee, and brought them to the kitchen island.

"Cut the sarcasm," Norvell said, spooning sugar into his mug.

"In time, this will become just another unsolved cold case that's forgotten."

"Anna Marie's death hasn't been forgotten," Norvell said.

"Because they found her remains," Rojas said, settling back on his stool. "They had to reopen the case."

"Was it necessary to have Ulibarri killed?" Norvell asked.

"Of course it was, and Fidel did a good job of it. For five years, we used Harry Staggs's place to break in some of our new girls and never had a problem," Rojas said. "Ulibarri beat Greer up bad, for chrissake."

Rojas drank some coffee before continuing. "You know the rules: hurt our girls and you pay, threaten the partnership and you pay. Above all, we protect our investments. It's worked for over twenty years. Ulibarri wasn't the first and he won't be the last. Remember Belinda Nieto?"

Norvell looked skeptical. "This is all happening too close to home."

"I told you to let me handle Montoya."

"There wasn't time for that," Norvell said. "She was going to bring everything down."

"Burying her body in a fruit stand in Lincoln County wasn't very smart," Rojas said. "I never should have listened to you when you said it was taken care of."

"She was fine just where she was, until a drunk got killed and the place was torched. I don't want to argue with you, Luis."

"So, stop. Do we have problems anywhere else in the organization? No. Everything is cool at Cassie's, at Tully's, and at your place. Things are running fine in Denver, Houston, San Antonio, Phoenix, and here. Nobody's questioning Silva or Barrett, Staggs is taken care of, Sally Greer is playing ball, and the Indian cop has nothing but the names of two whores who will be across the border as soon as I talk to Deborah."

"We should move Sally Greer," Norvell said.

"Fine. Have Cassie send her to Houston. The oil men will love her, especially the Arabs."

Norvell nodded agreement. "And neutralize the cop."

"I'll send Fidel up there tomorrow to kill him," Rojas said. "He'd like that."

Norvell's eyes widened. "You're joking, right?"

"Yes, I'm joking." Rojas stood, patted Norvell on the shoulder, and put his half-empty mug in the sink. "Killing cops isn't smart. Let's say we make him look dirty. Plant some money in his house that he can't explain away and make an anonymous tip to the state police."

"That would just make him more suspicious," Norvell said, sliding his empty mug across the kitchen island.

Rojas refilled it and pushed the mug back to Norvell. "Or get him fired. We don't do it right away. Give it a month, maybe two."

"Meanwhile, what?" Norvell asked as he reached for the sugar.

"We stay alert."

"That isn't good enough. We need to be proactive."

"Save the speech making for your constituents, Tyler," Rojas said. "If you're that worried, cancel the bookings at the ranch."

"I've already done it, and the clients aren't happy. Some of them made reservations up to a year ago."

"They'll come back," Rojas said. "We offer the best damn sex venue in the Southwest. We've got judges, lawyers, politicians, doctors, corporate executives, and celebrities from all over the country who come back year after year to be with their mistresses or favorite whores."

With a worried look still firmly in place, Norvell sipped his coffee and said nothing.

"What else do you want to do, Ty?" Rojas asked.

"Keep tabs on the Indian cop," Norvell said. "That way we stay on top of the situation."

"That's not a half-bad idea."

"It has to be low-key, below the radar."

"I'll have Fidel do it," Rojas said. "But just for a couple of days. I'll send him up there tonight."

"I have to go," Norvell said.

"Stay in touch," Rojas said as he walked with Norvell to the front door.

Norvell drove away and Rojas went to find Deborah Shea. He found her in Fidel's bed, riding him hard with obvious pleasure. She was a true nympho, who took her fill of Fidel every chance she got.

Rojas watched for a moment before interrupting. "When you two are finished," he said, "come to the kitchen."

Deborah nodded her head up and down vigorously without losing her rhythm.

By sunset Clayton had settled into a shallow gully that gave him adequate concealment and a clear line of sight into Rojas's driveway. The house sat at the boundary of the Franklin Mountains State Park, the largest range in Texas, all of it contained within the city limits.

The highest peak, pale pink in the last flicker of light, rose three thousand feet above the city. Rocky and treeless, from a distance the desert mountains looked barren, but through his binoculars Clayton had seen hawks circling in the sky and a wide range of different types of cactus plants on the hillsides.

Landscaping pretty much blocked Clayton's view of the house, although he could see a light from a room above the garage and another in the main residence.

The clear sky darkened, sapping away the heat of the day. Clayton pulled on his gloves and his ski mask, zipped up his sleeping bag, and adjusted his night-vision scope to draw in the maximum ambient light from the rising quarter moon. Above, he heard the distinctive sound of a bat winging by.

A car exited the driveway. Clayton locked in on the plate as it turned onto the road, and he almost let out a whistle. The vehicle carried the distinctive New Mexico license plate of the state senator from Lincoln County.

Clayton checked the make of the vehicle as it sped away. It was Senator Norvell's vehicle, for sure. Clayton had seen it often on the highways traveling in and out of Ruidoso. What was Norvell doing with Rojas? Could it possibly have anything to do with the investigation? Maybe yes, maybe no, but certainly worth looking into.

He broke out a canteen and some trail mix from the backpack and waited to see what happened next. Within an hour two cars drove away from the house. He got license plate numbers, makes, and models, but couldn't see inside to spot the drivers.

Clayton waited, hoping for more action at the house. Except for an occasional vehicle passing by, everything stayed quiet. Finally, he decided to call it quits, drive home, catch some sleep, and check in with Sheriff Hewitt in the morning. He packed up his gear, belly crawled until the slope of the hill gave him enough cover to rise, and made a beeline for his unit.

Jeff Vialpando held the money out to Sally Greer-three hundred bucks-which was a fair price for an hour of her time, given her good looks and knockout body. When she slipped the bills in her clutch purse, he showed his shield and told her she was busted.

With a poor-me, dismayed look on her face, Greer sat on the hotel-room bed and tried hard not to cry, holding it back in small, tight gasps. Her reaction surprised him. Most hookers either played it nonchalant or put on the tough cookie role with cops.

Vialpando looked down the front of her skimpy dress. She wasn't wearing a bra, and there were faint bite marks on her breasts. The bruises on her arms had turned yellow, and makeup covered the mouse on her face.

"I have to call a lawyer," Greer said.

Vialpando sat next to her, thinking about her interesting choice of words. Why not need to or want to? That's what most of the working girls said when faced with arrest. Greer was a rookie.

Vialpando looked at her face. There wasn't anything hard about it, just a vacant sadness. He smiled sympathetically. "That might not be the wisest thing to do. It makes your situation more complicated."

"I can have a lawyer, can't I?" Greer asked pleadingly.

"Have you ever been arrested before?" Vialpando asked.

Greer shook her head.

"Here's the way it goes," Vialpando said. "I haven't read you your rights yet. If I do that, then you really are busted and I have to book you into jail. First off, you'll be strip-searched. They never show that part on TV. All your body cavities will be probed. Then you'll be dressed out in jail coveralls, fingerprinted, photographed, and locked in a tiny holding cell while I do the paperwork. It's got a concrete bunk, a toilet, a light that never goes off, and a small window in the door so you can be watched at all times. When I'm finished, you get to make one phone call. It's late by then, so the chances are good it will take the lawyer a couple of hours to arrange for your bail. Do you want that?"

Again, Greer shook her head.

"Let's say you get out on bail," Vialpando continued. "You'll still have a court date. If you show up, I'll make sure the newspapers cover it, especially your hometown paper. If you skip out, you become a fugitive from justice, which always carries jail time. While I'm waiting to see which way you decide to go, I'll put twenty-four-hour surveillance on you. Each time you meet a client, you'll get busted. See how complicated it can get when you ask for a lawyer?"

"What do you want me to do?" Greer asked.

"Talk to me, off the record."

"I can't do that."

"Do you want to be a whore?" Vialpando asked.

Greer dropped her head. "No, but I don't want to die, either."

"You won't, I promise."

Greer looked up. "I'm strung out."

"That won't kill you," Vialpando said.

"You don't understand."

"Make me understand."

Tears ran down Greer's face. She wiped them away. "I owe money to people."

"To Cassie Bedlow, I bet."

"You know?" Surprise filled her voice.

Vialpando nodded, got the desk chair, positioned it near the bed, sat, and leaned forward, not so close as to break into Greer's personal space, but close enough to keep her focused on him. It was time to get to the nitty-gritty.

"We know all about it," he said. "How she set you up with the tuition loan and reeled you in when you couldn't pay it back. Maybe even got you started on drugs. You're not the only one she's done it to."

"I know."

"But I don't think Bedlow would kill you."

"Not her," Greer said.

"Who?"

"This man, this boy."

"What happened?"

Greer took a deep breath to compose herself. "We were down in Ruidoso on location. The whole class. It was kinda like a big deal because we were finishing school and the photos would complete our portfolios. Cassie told me I had to pay her back right away for the tuition, plus interest. I told her I couldn't, and she said I had to work it off, that she had a job for me."

"Then what?"

"This boy drove me to El Paso, where a man and a woman were waiting." Greer started sobbing, her face twisting into a look of disgust.

Vialpando gave her a minute before saying, "Go on."

"They did me, all three of them. The boy put a gun to my head while he was on top of me. He said if I ever failed to do what I was told, I'd be killed."

"Then he beat you," Vialpando said.

"No, that happened the next night in Ruidoso when I turned my first trick. They killed him for hurting me, I'm sure of it. It was in the papers. I went to Cassie and asked her about it. She said I would end up the same way if I ever said a word."

"I need names and places, Sally."

Greer gave him what specifics she had. The man was Luis Rojas. The woman was called Debbie, and the kid Fidel, but she didn't know their last names. The trick who'd beaten her was Felix, an Hispanic male. She'd picked him up at the Indian casino while Rojas and Fidel watched.

The house in El Paso was like an estate, and by the way Rojas acted, was probably owned by him. The cabin in Ruidoso was a rental, Casey's Cozy Cabins. Rojas had driven her there with the trick. Fidel, who was assigned to keep an eye on Greer, followed in another car.

"We're going to have to go over this again," Vialpando said, "in greater detail."

"Will I be safe?" Greer asked. The makeup covering the bruise on her cheek had been washed away by tears, and her eyes were red.

"I'll make sure you are," Jeff said gently, reaching out to pat her hand. "Who's the lawyer you were supposed to call?"

"Leo Silva," Greer replied.

The fifth partner, Vialpando thought as he opened the door and motioned for a detective to enter. "This officer will stay with you," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sally Greer wasn't listening. She dropped to her knees at the side of the bed and curled up in a ball, crying in long, jerky sobs.

Vialpando stepped into the adjacent room just as Ramona took off the earphones and swiveled in his direction.

"Wow," she said, flashing him a smile. "You got more than I bargained for."

"What next?" Jeff asked. "It's your call."

"We need to get as much out of her as we can and then find a safe place to stash her under protective custody."

"I can arrange that."

"I'm worried that she may still be being watched. Can we use one of your female detectives to pose as Greer? We put her in Greer's car, wearing a wig and Greer's dress, and send her to the apartment. She picks up some clothes and personal items to make it look like Greer decided to bolt, and we give her backup in case she's followed."

"It will take about an hour to arrange it," Vialpando said. "I'll have to call in an off-duty detective. She's almost a perfect physical match to Greer. Did you catch who her lawyer is?"

"I did."

"I'm going back in there for round two," Jeff said.

"You did real good," Ramona said.

"You're just saying that because we're dating."

The vice cop who'd been videotaping the conversation looked up and grinned at both of them.

Vialpando grinned at the cop and said, "Get Westgard for me. Tell her I need her here ASAP."

"Ten-four," the cop said, reaching for the phone.

"Go back to work," Ramona said. "I need to call my chief."

Sal Molina called before heading out to Kerney's house. The chief, who'd recently moved, gave him his new address, and Molina drove the quiet narrow road that wound up the canyon, past million-dollar properties. He knew the chief was rich, but because Kerney never made a big deal about it, Sal hadn't paid it much mind. That all changed as he swung into the driveway of a beautifully restored enormous adobe hacienda and parked in front of an equally charming guest house. From the size of it and the location, he guessed Kerney had to be putting out at least four grand a month in rent, which was quite a bit more than Molina's monthly take-home pay-a whole lot more.

Although it was past midnight, Kerney greeted him wide-eyed and awake, looking somewhat strained. He took Molina into a dimly lit, nicely furnished living room, where an almost full whiskey bottle and an empty glass sat on an end table next to an easy chair.

The whiskey bottle surprised Sal. He knew for a fact that Kerney wasn't much of a drinker, that the bullet wound to his gut had chewed up some of his intestines, destroyed part of his stomach, and made him cautious when it came to booze, so he wondered what was up.

"What have you got, Lieutenant?" Kerney asked.

"Information on Silva, Barrett, and Rojas," Molina said. "Plus some recent photographs of them."

Kerney nodded. "Run it down for me."

Molina spent ten minutes briefing Kerney, who looked at the photographs and listened silently, chin resting in his hand.

"You got questions, Chief?" Molina asked, as he closed his notebook.

"Not right now," Kerney replied. "A lot has happened and things are moving fast. I want a midday meeting tomorrow with you, Pino, that APD sergeant, Vialpando, plus two of your best detectives. Officers who can write flawless arrest and search-warrant affidavits. We'll put all the pieces we have together then and hammer out a plan of action. Set it up for me, will you?"

Molina nodded. "Want to tell me what's been happening?"

"Let's save it for the meeting."

Sal eyed the chief. Although his instructions were clear, there was something different about Kerney's tone. What was it? A blandness? A remoteness? Had the whiskey blunted Kerney's usual upbeat disposition?

Molina decided to risk asking. "Are you all right, Chief?"

"Yeah, I'm good, Sal," Kerney replied, pushing himself out of the chair. "Leave those photos behind, will you? I can use them in the morning."

Molina dropped the photos on the coffee table, said good night, and left, convinced that something was troubling the boss.