The big gamble

Chapter 13

Kerney didn't do well in motels; he missed his own bed and pillow. He'd rolled into Ruidoso last night at a reasonable hour, hoping to catch up on some sleep. But Sara's harsh annoyance about his bullheadedness and the prospect of facing Clayton's negativity made for troubled dreams that woke him off and on throughout the night.

At six a.m. Kerney called his office to get an update. Helen Muiz had pulled her people in at five a.m. to finish preparing the task-force packets. All participating agencies would have complete packets by noon. Larry Otero, who was also at work early, had ordered them hand-delivered by uniformed officers running silent Code Three to the out-of-town cop shops.

Kerney arrived promptly on time at the Lincoln County courthouse to find Paul Hewitt and Clayton waiting for him in the sheriff's office. After greetings, handshakes, and some small talk with Hewitt, they got down to business. Kerney kicked it off by detailing the breadth of the task force's mission, maintaining an equal amount of eye contact with both men so as not to give Clayton any reason to feel slighted.

When Kerney finished, Hewitt pulled at his chin in a failed attempt to hide a smile. "This could blow the roof off the state capitol, and put the good citizens of Lincoln County into an uproar. I wonder if Norvell and his political pals traded a week with a whore for votes from their legislative buddies."

"There's no telling," Kerney said as he handed out material on Sally Greer, Stacy Fowler, and Helen Pearson, who was described only as a confidential informant. "But discovering who their clients are will prove interesting. What I've just given you includes statements from three different women with personal knowledge about the operation, which has direct bearing on the Montoya case and Deputy Istee's homicide investigation. This is fresh information, gentlemen, gathered in the last thirty-six hours. You'll get full task-force packets as soon as they're completed."

Kerney watched as Hewitt and Clayton worked their way through the reports. The further Hewitt read, the more appalled he looked. Clayton seemed thoughtful and sober. He finished first.

"So Sally Greer was the woman with Ulibarri at the cabin," Clayton said, "and Fidel Narvaiz was nearby to keep an eye on her because Ulibarri was her first trick."

"That's what Greer says," Kerney replied.

"Did she witness the homicide?"

"No. Ulibarri paid in advance for twenty-four hours with Greer. When he went to the racetrack, Narvaiz checked on Greer and found her badly beaten. He got her out of there, took her to a motel room, and called Cassie Bedlow, who came and picked Greer up."

"I don't see that in these reports," Clayton said, tapping the pages with a finger.

"Greer's interviews were videotaped by APD vice officers," Kerney said. "The transcription of the second session wasn't completed by the time I left to come here. Greer did say, however, that Narvaiz left her with Bedlow at about eleven o'clock in the morning."

"Ulibarri was killed several hours later," Clayton said, "so Narvaiz had opportunity."

"What do you know about him?" Kerney asked.

"He lives on the Rojas estate and supposedly serves as a personal assistant to Rojas. The Debbie that Greer mentioned is Deborah Shea. According to an El Paso hotel security guy, she's a hooker. He also identified seven other prostitutes who probably work for Rojas. Initially, Shea alibied Rojas when I talked to both of them. Said she'd flown up to Ruidoso with him on his plane. Turns out that was BS."

"Tell me about it," Kerney said.

Clayton filled Kerney in on his inspection of Rojas's vacation cabin, which had exposed Shea's false statements.

Impressed with Clayton's good work, Kerney held back any praise and moved on to another subject. "And this Fidel Narvaiz, have you questioned him?"

"I've never met him," Clayton said.

"That's good," Kerney said.

"What's good about that?" Clayton asked. "At this point, he's our prime murder suspect."

"We need to work these cases without tipping our hand," Kerney replied. "Narvaiz was most likely ordered to kill Ulibarri by Rojas, so putting a murder charge on Rojas is a distinct possibility, if we can prove it. Did you get any hard physical evidence at the crime scene?"

"Ulibarri was strangled," Clayton said, "and we got some partial latents off the body around his throat that are good enough to make a match once we have something to match them to. And a few blond pubic hairs probably left behind by Sally Greer."

"Those hairs can confirm Greer's story," Kerney said. "Let's ask for a DNA comparison."

"If you get me her fingerprints," Clayton said, "we might be able to put her in the cabin that way, also. We lifted a number of unknown latents at the crime scene."

"You'll have them today," Kerney said.

"You're sure Greer isn't the killer?" Clayton asked.

"I believe her story," Kerney said. "So do the detectives who interviewed her."

Clayton nodded. "That's good enough for me."

"What's next?" Hewitt asked.

"The Montoya case," Kerney replied. "I've got strong circumstantial evidence that Norvell killed her to keep her from exposing the racket, but I need more."

"Two of your reports mention Adam Tully," Paul Hewitt said, leaning forward to put his elbows on the desk.

"He and Norvell go way back," Kerney said. "They were boyhood friends."

"I haven't heard Adam's name in years," Hewitt said. "His father, Hiram, owns the fruit stand where we found Montoya's body."

"What do you know about Adam?" Kerney asked, his interest rising.

"He was the baby of the family-unexpected and spoiled rotten by Hiram. His mother died giving birth. She was in her forties at the time. His two sisters are a good twenty years older. Something happened when Adam was a teenager. The family doesn't talk about it, but Hiram kicked him out of the house, sent him to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell, then up to Albuquerque to the university. I don't think he's ever been back here since."

"What did folks think happened between Tully and his father?" Kerney asked.

"Oh, there were rumors that Adam had gotten some girl in trouble, stolen money from his father, was using drugs-stuff like that. But they were just rumors and there was no evidence anyone could point to. The family stayed tight-lipped, of course."

"Was Tyler Norvell mentioned in those rumors?" Kerney asked.

"Not as I recall," Hewitt replied. "But Deputy Istee saw Senator Norvell's car leave Rojas's house two nights ago."

Kerney turned to Clayton.

"And I know where the ranch is," Clayton said.

"Excellent. Have you had any contact with the Tully family?"

"Yeah. I interviewed Hiram, one of his daughters, and her husband, and a granddaughter." He passed his field notes to Kerney.

Kerney scanned through the papers. "I'd like to talk to these people."

"I'll take you around to see them," Clayton said. With a resigned look he retrieved his notes from Kerney's hand and held out his casebook. "I guess this is your investigation, now."

Kerney shook his head. With few resources, and virtually no help, Clayton had done an amazingly good job. "You don't get to bow out, Deputy," Kerney said. "The state police officers assigned to investigate Senator Norvell have been advised that the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office is in charge of this piece of the task force. As far as I'm concerned, you're the lead investigator, unless your boss says otherwise."

Clayton's look of resignation lightened into a smile that he couldn't completely contain.

"I'm fine with that," Hewitt said. "How many agents and what's their ETA?"

"Four. They'll be briefed at noon. They should be here soon after that."

"I'd better get cracking," Hewitt said, rising from his chair. "Leave the casebook with me, Deputy. I'll free up some space in the building we can use as a command center, take care of the details, and have everything we've got ready to go."

Kerney stood. "You'll have the task-force packet in hand before the agents arrive. Thanks, Paul."

Hewitt hitched up his blue jeans and smiled. "No thanks are necessary, Kerney. Hell, this is one party I wouldn't want to miss."

Fidel, who had followed the cop from the highway turnoff to his house back to the county courthouse, waited for something to happen. It seemed like the Indian deputy and the cowboy sheriff went to work early so they could spend more time doing nothing. Ten minutes after parking, Fidel watched another cowboy-this one with a limp-park and go inside. Soon after that a few civilians and uniformed deputies arrived.

Fidel had hoped that the day would prove more interesting, but it wasn't turning out that way. It was, he decided, way beyond boring to be a cop in Lincoln County.

From his hallway desk Clayton put in calls to the people Kerney wanted to talk to while Kerney used his cell phone to ask to have Greer fingerprinted and provide some hair samples to be sent down for comparison to the evidence collected at the Ulibarri crime scene.

Page Seton, Hiram Tully's granddaughter, and her parents, Morris and Lily, were traveling out of state to attend a wedding in West Texas. Hiram Tully had been moved from the hospital to a state-run rehabilitation center in Roswell.

While Clayton called the rehab center to confirm that Tully could see them, Kerney stood with his back against the hallway wall thinking that the working conditions at the sheriff's department were abysmal. Clayton had no privacy, and the staffers from other county offices passing by had to step sideways behind Clayton's chair in order to get around him.

He didn't fault Paul Hewitt; sheriffs in rural counties pretty much always got the short end of the stick when it came to divvying up tax dollars.

The trip to Roswell with Clayton started out in silence. They passed the city park on the outskirts of town, a rather bleak-looking place bordering the highway that consisted of a poorly landscaped nine-hole golf course, some ball fields, picnic tables, and a scattering of trees. Soon after, Clayton slowed and pointed at the burned-out fruit stand up ahead.

"Want to take a look at the crime scene?" he asked.

"I would," Kerney replied.

Clayton pulled off the highway and together they walked to the building.

"At least the mud has dried up," Clayton said as he turned on his flashlight to show Kerney where Montoya's body had been found.

"It must have been a bitch to excavate the remains," Kerney said, peering into the cold-storage space from the doorway.

"Yeah," Clayton replied. "Why would Norvell, if he is the killer, put her body here?"

"I've thought a lot about that," Kerney said, stepping back from the doorway. "Let's say Montoya meets him at the shopping mall in Santa Fe and agrees to go someplace private where they can talk. Norvell takes her to some secluded spot and when he realizes she won't be dissuaded from unmasking him, he decides to kill her, except he doesn't have a gun, a knife, or the balls to strangle her. So he punches her, knocks her out, and uses a tire iron to kill her, hitting her not once, but twice. I asked for a forensic analysis of Montoya's skull. It showed that she suffered a hairline crack to the jaw along with two blows to the head consistent with a tire iron or similar object."

"But that still doesn't answer my question," Clayton said.

"I'm getting to it," Kerney said as he walked to the back of the building with Clayton following along. "So now he's got a dead body in his car, a long road trip ahead of him, and a big problem: what to do with the body. On top of that, he's probably not thinking very straight and is paranoid as hell about getting stopped by the police. He can't just dump Montoya out at the side of the road, or bury her on his own property. That would be too risky. So he thinks of places he knows where it might be safe to hide the body before he gets home."

"Even if you can prove Norvell knew about the abandoned fruit stand, have you got probable cause?" Clayton asked.

"That's the missing piece I need, according to the district attorney," Kerney replied, stepping back to look at the shell of the fruit stand. A parked car behind the structure wouldn't be seen from the highway.

He swung around and looked at the mountains. There were no houses or trailers in sight. "Norvell probably passed this place often during the years it sat unused. Maybe he even knew that Tully had no plans to reopen it. Or maybe he thought he'd come back later and move the body, but decided not to when time passed and the case turned cold."

"Have you seen enough?" Clayton asked.

"Yeah, let's go."

Clayton locked his gaze on Kerney's face. "One question: why did you back me as lead investigator with the sheriff?"

"Because you're the most knowledgeable about the case and you've done one hell of a job," Kerney replied.

The stern look on Clayton's face smoothed out slightly. "That's it? Nothing personal?"

"Part of it's personal, I guess," Kerney said. "You might think it's silly of me to say this, but I'm proud of what you've done."

The comment caught Clayton off guard. He swallowed hard and looked away.

"Let's go," Kerney said, taking the pressure off Clayton to respond.

All the phone taps, including land lines and cell phones, were up and running just before Cassie Bedlow arrived at her talent and modeling agency. In his APD uniform and driving a patrol car, Jeff Vialpando waited a few minutes before pulling up outside the building. Entering, he called out a hello and Bedlow appeared in her office doorway.

"Yes, Officer," she said, looking somewhat startled.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," Jeff said, taking off his hat. "But I need your help."

"Regarding?"

"A woman named Stacy Fowler died in an automobile accident last night, and the state police asked if we'd help locate next of kin. They found your business card in her wallet. Did you know her?"

"Yes, but only slightly. I interviewed her a month or so ago for a modeling job, but it didn't pan out. How did it happen?"

"I'm not completely sure, ma'am," Jeff replied. "But I do know it was a rollover accident outside the city limits, and Ms. Fowler was alone in the vehicle at the time."

"Oh my goodness," Cassie said, shaking her head sadly. "I heard something about it on the radio as I was coming to work."

"Do you know anything about her family?" Jeff asked.

"No, I think she'd just moved here from the Midwest."

"Her car was registered in Arizona," Jeff said. "Did she mention any family members there?"

"We only talked once and it was purely about business."

"Thank you for your time," Jeff said.

"I'm so sorry I can't be of more help," Bedlow said. "I hope it won't take you long to notify her family."

"It probably will," Vialpando said with a shrug. "We don't have much to go on."

Once he was back in the unit, Ramona's voice came over his police radio. "She's talking to Tully right now."

"Saying?" Vialpando asked as he drove away.

"That Fowler is dead and Greer didn't keep her date last night."

"And?"

"She tried calling Greer from home and got no answer. She's going to her apartment to look for her, then to Fowler's town house to make sure there's nothing incriminating for the police to find."

"Beautiful," Vialpando said. "That's even better than we expected. What else?"

"Tully's telling her to be careful. Bedlow's saying not to worry, the police are just investigating an accident, nothing more, and they don't know anything about Fowler. Tully just told her to act fast and call him back as soon as she's finished."

"I'm going home to change," Vialpando said.

"I'd like to send one of your detectives down to Fowler's town house to videotape Bedlow's comings and goings."

"Good idea. Use Alvarado. He's great with a camera and good at surveillance. Is Ault in place?"

"Ten-four."

Frustrated at not finding Sally Greer at home, Cassie Bedlow went to the resident manager's apartment, where Detective Allen Ault, unshaven and dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, opened the door.

"If you're looking for the leasing office," he said, "it's in Building One. Just take a left at the corner. You can't miss it."

"I'm looking for Sally Greer," Bedlow said.

"She moved out yesterday," Ault said. "Didn't even leave a forwarding address for her cleaning deposit."

"Did you see her?"

"Yeah, she dropped off her key." Ault waved his finger at Bedlow. "Wait a minute. Are you Carrie?"

"Cassie," Bedlow said.

"Yeah, that's it. She left a letter for you."

Ault rummaged around on the coffee table and gave Bedlow an envelope.

"Thank you," Bedlow said.

In her car Bedlow read the letter. I figure that what you did to me and let others do to me more than pays you back the money you "lent" me. You've made me sick to my stomach about myself. But I'll never be as sick and twisted as you are. Don't worry, I won't cause you any trouble. I couldn't stand to have anyone find out what I did.

Bedlow dropped the letter on the car seat and called Adam on her cell phone. He and Luis could decide what do about Sally Greer.

The rehabilitation center was located on a former air force base just south of Roswell. The original building, a blocky, monotonous structure, had served as the base hospital. According to old-timers and locals, it had been built on the site where secret autopsies had allegedly been performed by military doctors on the bodies of aliens from outer space who'd crash-landed in a UFO outside of the city after World War II.

A single-story, modern addition that had been appended to the hospital created a jarring, somewhat schizoid blend of architectural styles. A wide expanse of lawn with trees planted here and there failed to soften the impression.

In a physical therapy suite housed in the new addition, Kerney and Clayton watched through a glass partition as Hiram Tully finished up his treatment. The stroke had affected the left side of his body, and Tully was doing a leg weight exercise to strengthen his calf muscles. The old man was working hard, and Kerney knew from his own experience that the task wasn't easy. Soon he'd get to go through the experience all over again for his new knee.

After he completed his regimen the therapist walked Tully slowly out of the rehab room. His gaunt face glistened with perspiration, and his partially paralyzed arm dangled a bit at his side. They met with him in an empty nearby office, where Kerney introduced himself.

"I don't know why you're back here," Tully said haltingly to Clayton, as he lowered himself slowly onto a chair. "Couldn't tell you anything before, can't tell you anything now."

"We'd like to ask you about a friend of your son," Clayton said.

Tully stiffened and turned his head away as though he'd seen something despicable. "My son is dead to me."

"We're only interested in his friend," Clayton said.

"I don't know any of his friends," Tully said, working his mouth slowly to pronounce the words.

"A friend from a long time ago," Clayton said.

Tully gave him a sidelong glance. "Who?"

"Tyler Norvell," Kerney said.

Tully wiped a bit of drool from his lips. "I have nothing to say about him."

"Our questions aren't personal," Kerney said. "Did Norvell ever work for you?"

Tully nodded. "When he was in high school. I hired him as an apple picker. He worked after school and weekends in the fall."

"Did he ever work at the fruit stand near Carrizozo?"

"No."

"He had nothing to do with the fruit stand?" Kerney asked.

"Deliveries, that's all. He'd go with Julio, my foreman, to restock apples and cider, and dispose of any spoilage."

"From the cold-storage cellar?" Kerney asked.

"Yes."

"How long did he work for you?" Kerney asked.

"Three harvest seasons."

A thought about the abandoned fruit stand clicked in Clayton's head. "Has Norvell ever offered to buy the property from you?"

Tully nodded. "He had a realtor make an offer through his company. I turned it down. Don't ask me why."

"When was that?"

"Ten years ago, maybe longer."

They thanked Tully and turned him over to a waiting aide, who walked him down the hall toward the old hospital.

"So when are you going to arrest Norvell for murder?" Clayton asked.

"All in due course," Kerney replied as they left the lobby.

Clayton shook his head. "I wonder what the deal is between Tully and his son."

"I'm glad we didn't have to find out," Kerney said.

Clayton unlocked his unit. "Why?"

Kerney thought about Vernon Langsford, the retired judge from Roswell who had been murdered by a deeply disturbed daughter because of a secret incestuous relationship he'd had with her decades earlier. "Because that kind of family stuff is usually pretty ugly, sometimes disgusting, and I've heard enough of it to last a lifetime."

"But saying a son is dead to you is really harsh."

"No harsher than a son saying it to a father," Kerney said deliberately as he strapped on his seat belt.

Clayton sat behind the steering wheel without reacting, letting Kerney's words sink in. When they'd learned about each other's existence, Clayton had come close to telling Kerney to completely butt out of his life. Was there that much difference between Tully's denial of a son and his own rejection of a father? Tully had raised his son, but he had never known Kerney as his father until recently. Still…

Clayton ran his forefinger over the edge of the wheel and said, "I guess that's true, in a way, isn't it?"

Fidel waited on a side street down from the rehab center, parked in front of a row of single-family dwellings which he figured once housed military personnel. Some of them were occupied and some had for-sale signs plunked down in dead grass under dead trees. The whole area on three sides of the center was filled with identical ugly concrete block houses. Some of them looked pretty trashed out.

He called Rojas and told him the Indian cop had done nothing, except go to work early, walk around a burned building, and take some crippled cowboy with a limp to a rehabilitation center in Roswell.

"I guess the Indian cop runs a taxi service when he's not busy drinking coffee and eating donuts," he said.

"What did the cop do at the fruit stand?" Rojas asked.

"Tour the guy with the limp around. They weren't there long."

"Did you recognize the other man?" Rojas asked.

"Never saw him before."

"Then nothing's happening," Rojas said. "That's good."

"Yeah, but it's not keeping me entertained."

"If everything stays quiet, finish out the day and come home. Don't do anything stupid."

"I'll be cool, promise," Fidel replied.

He saw the Indian and the cowboy walking to the police vehicle, fired up the engine, and got ready to take another boring drive in the country.

As they left Roswell Kerney and Clayton shied away from talk about their troubled relationship and focused instead on business. Kerney got the distinct feeling that Clayton was loosening up a bit. He seemed more talkative and animated. It gave him a hopeful feeling.

"Do me a favor," Kerney said, looking at the brown desert hills and the mountains beyond rising up on the western horizon.

"What's that?" Clayton asked.

Traffic had thinned. Kerney checked the side-view mirror. "When the time comes, pick up Norvell for me. It will save me a trip down here."

"You're giving me the arrest?" Clayton asked, surprised. Kerney was offering to turn over his major felony bust to another officer outside his own department, which was almost unheard of.

"Why not?"

"I don't need a career boost from you," Clayton replied.

"No, you don't. Are you being sarcastic?"

Clayton shook his head. "I'm just saying you don't have to do me any favors."

"You're doing me the favor, remember?" Kerney tapped his right leg. "I've been recalled by my doctor for a replacement knee. The warranty has run out on the old one. I go in for surgery next week. I doubt I'll be chasing any bad guys for a while."

Clayton looked at Kerney's leg. "You never told how you got hurt."

"You really want to hear the story?" Kerney asked, glancing at the side-view mirror.

"Yeah, I do."

Kerney told him how another cop-his best friend in the department and a secret boozer-had let him down when they were on a stakeout waiting for an arrest warrant to bust a drug dealer; how the perp had caught Kerney off guard because his friend had left his post to sneak a drink; how Kerney had taken one round to the stomach and one to the knee before he could put the perp down for good.

"Some friend," Clayton said.

"Well, he was. A good one, until the booze caught up with him," Kerney replied. He glanced at the side-view mirror once again and stretched his leg to ease the ache in his knee. "He's on the straight and narrow, now. In some ways, I think he's in more pain about what happened than I am. Although today I wouldn't bet on it. Did you know we're being followed?"

Clayton looked in the rearview mirror. "Which car?"

"Third one back," Kerney said. "The blue Camaro with Texas plates."

"Where did you pick it up?" Clayton asked.

"In Roswell, just outside the old air force base."

"Were you able to read the plate?"

"Not with these tired old eyes," Kerney replied.

"What do you want to do?" Clayton asked.

"Find out who our friend is," Kerney said.

They talked it over. Kerney suggested a traffic stop, using a state police patrol officer, who could ID the driver. Clayton agreed, adding that he thought it best to wait until they were back in Lincoln County. Kerney brought up the idea that their "friend" might not be very friendly at all. Clayton conceded the point and imagined that it might be best to use two uniforms to make the stop, doing it casually but treating it as high risk. Kerney felt that would work if they had the state police come up behind the Camaro while a second unit, preferably from a different department, passed by in the opposite direction, and then stopped to render assistance.

They crossed the county line with the blue Camaro still hanging back behind them. Clayton got on the horn to a state police officer and a patrol deputy, explained the situation, told them what he wanted to do, and where he wanted it to go down. They gave him a twenty-minute ETA.

"What do I write the driver for?" New Mexico State Police Officer Sonia Raney asked.

"I'll speed up when you're in position," Clayton said. "That should get you a legal stop."

"You said high risk but casual, right?"

"Ten-four, whatever that is," Clayton replied.

Officer Raney laughed.

"I'll do a thirty-second count after you pull him over," Deputy Dillingham said to Raney by radio. "Then I'll come into view and swing around behind you."

"Don't run Code Three," Clayton cautioned.

"Wouldn't think of it," Dillingham replied. "I can't act casual with my emergency lights on."

"Let me know when you're in position," Clayton said.

There were very few cars on the two-lane highway that ran from the Hondo turnoff to Carrizozo. Fidel kept his distance, letting the cop's police vehicle become a speck on the pavement up ahead. On the curves he sped up to regain visual contact. Through the village of Lincoln, the cop slowed, but tourist traffic on the road allowed Fidel to remain inconspicuous. He looked at the old buildings fronting the highway, wondering why anybody would want to stop and look at them. The place had nothing to offer: no bar, no gas station, not even a roadside diner or a convenience store.

In the hills past Lincoln the road curved and rose. The cop picked up speed, traveling well above the posted limit. Fidel hit the accelerator, and topped out on a plateau to find the cop nowhere in sight. He heard a siren behind him and saw flashing emergency lights in his rearview mirror. Had he been made?

He dropped down to the speed limit and watched the vehicle come up fast, hoping it would pass him. It was a black-and-white state police car. It slowed and flashed its lights in a signal for him to pull over.

He thought about taking off, decided not to, eased to the shoulder, and watched the squad car roll to a stop behind him. The cop, a woman, was talking on her radio, probably running his plate. He rolled down his window, killed the engine, took his semiautomatic out of the shoulder holster, stuck it under the seat, and waited.

He froze when a sheriff's vehicle came around a bend toward him, thinking it was the Indian cop. But it wasn't running with emergency lights or traveling very fast, and the only occupant was an Anglo uniformed deputy. The vehicle slowed, made a U-turn and pulled in behind the patrol vehicle.

Fidel let out a sigh, got his driver's license from his wallet, searched the glove box for his registration and insurance card, and waited.

Officer Raney keyed her microphone. "The car is registered to Fidel Narvaiz," she said to Clayton, who was parked up the road by an abandoned building that had once housed a bar with a bad reputation.

"Use extreme caution," Clayton replied, "and let me know the ID of the driver as soon as you can."

Raney dismounted her unit while Dillingham took up his backup position at the right rear fender. He had a clear view into the Camaro. He placed his hand on his belt next to the butt of his sidearm.

Raney approached the Camaro, stopped at the center post, and looked down at the driver, a young Hispanic male. His hands were empty, as were the center console, dashboard, and the passenger and rear seats.

Raney asked for his driver's license, registration, and proof of insurance. Fidel handed them out the window. Raney walked backward to her unit, stood behind the open driver's door, and called Clayton. "The driver is Narvaiz."

"Can you get me something with his fingerprints on it?" Clayton asked.

"Ten-four. Do you want me to write him?"

"Be nice, give him a written warning."

Raney wrote out the ticket, returned to Narvaiz, and explained that he wouldn't be cited, only issued a written warning. She handed the ticket book to him and asked him to sign.

"Thanks," Fidel said, smiling. He signed the form and handed the book back to the cop.

Raney tore out a copy, gave it to Narvaiz, and sent him on his way.

"I've got his prints," Raney said into her handheld microphone. "They're all over my ticket book." She held it between a thumb and forefinger.

"Bag it, tag it, give it to Dillingham, and ask him to deliver it to Artie Gundersen," Clayton said. "Dillingham knows what case I'm working, and can tell you what's up."

"Ten-four."

At the sheriff's office, while Clayton huddled with Paul Hewitt, Kerney wrote out the arrest affidavit on Norvell. Because his evidence was wholly circumstantial, he took his time, making sure all the relevant facts were convincingly included. Then he faxed it to the private office of the DA in Santa Fe, along with a note to have a copy of the warrant sent to Deputy Istee.

He walked in on Clayton and Hewitt to learn that the task-force packet had arrived, and Narvaiz's fingerprints matched the partials found on Ulibarri's body.

"You've got your killer," Kerney said. "Congratulations. When are you going to arrest him?"

"All in due course," Clayton said, smiling slyly.

Kerney laughed. "Keep me informed. You've got my phone number."

"You're leaving?" Hewitt asked, rising to offer his hand.

Kerney shook it. "It's your show, Paul. You don't need me filling up space. That's something you don't have a lot of around here."

"Tell me about it," Hewitt said with a chuckle.

"I'll walk you out," Clayton said.

Outside, Kerney and Clayton looked for the blue Camaro and didn't see it. The clear day accented the dull slate-colored mountains behind a sea of tall-stemmed soapweed yuccas that spread out across the high desert plains, rippling in low waves against a slight breeze.

"Grace was hoping you'd stay over, and come to dinner tonight," Clayton said.

"Another time," Kerney replied, smiling.

"The kids will be disappointed."

"You've got a great family."

"Good luck with your surgery," Clayton said.

"Thanks."

Hesitantly, Clayton extended his hand. "Give my best to your wife."

"Sara," Kerney said, gripping Clayton's hand. "I'll send her your good wishes."

"Yeah."

"Take care, and be careful," Kerney said.

"Yeah. You, too."

Clayton started to say more, but the moment passed, and he turned away. Kerney watched him disappear into the building. Maybe it wasn't a big breakthrough, but he felt a definite warming trend in the air.

As he passed the restored train caboose in the postage-stamp roadside park on the main drag that served as the chamber of commerce visitors' center, Kerney thought about Sara. As soon as he got home, he'd write her a love letter, even if he had to struggle halfway through the night to find the right words to tell her what she meant to him.