The big gamble

Chapter 14

A little more than four weeks after his surgery, Kerney had a new knee and a new limp, although it was much less pronounced and less painful, and was disappearing fast due to the punishing rehab program he'd set for himself. There were certain situations where bullheadedness wasn't a bad thing, and given the progress he'd made, this was one of them. Even Sara, who'd been getting daily progress reports from Kerney by phone, had conceded the point.

Tomorrow Sara graduated from the Command and General Staff College, and today Kerney was flying in to attend the ceremony at Fort Leavenworth. It was also the day when the task force would carry out a coordinated strike against the partners and their associates.

Amazingly, there had been no glitches or miscues during the massive, four-state investigation. Over sixty cops and prosecutors from ten local, state, and federal agencies had worked thousands of hours unraveling the inner workings of the prostitution ring, and gathering evidence with no leaks, no botched surveillance, and no blown undercover assignments.

At five o'clock in the morning, as Kerney packed for his trip, Paul Hewitt, Clayton, sheriff's deputies, and state police agents were arresting Norvell and his "guests" at his ranch, which had reopened for business several weeks ago. Six prominent men, including a foreign diplomat and the head of a national charity, were about to become front-page news.

Last night, Hewitt had called Kerney to say he was planning to give Clayton a sergeant's shield and commendation for the work he'd done as soon as the cases were wrapped.

In Albuquerque Detective Pino, Sergeant Vialpando, and APD vice officers were rounding up Bedlow, Tully, Deacon, and all the known working girls, while IRS agents served search warrants on State Senator Leo Silva and Representative Gene Barrett to seize their financial and corporate records.

At seven o'clock, Kerney drove to his early therapy session on a perfect May morning just about the time federal agents were shutting down all the out-of-state prostitution operations, except El Paso, which would be the last to fall.

In an hour, after getting confirmation, Sal Molina was scheduled to make a personal visit to Walter and Lorraine Montoya to tell them that their daughter's murderer had been arrested.

Back home at ten after a long session with his physical therapist, Kerney showered, changed, and left for the Albuquerque airport. On the way he called Larry Otero and found that the schedule was holding: bank examiners and state investigators were just then seizing the records of Norvell's various Ruidoso enterprises.

Kerney checked the time as he boarded his flight. By now DEA agents should be picking up the Denver drug dealer who'd been supplying dope to hookers and their clients throughout the four-state region.

Later in the day around evening time, Clayton and agents from the Texas Special Crimes Unit would take down Rojas and Narvaiz on murder charges, when surveillance reported Rojas back in town and at home. Recorded conversations between the two men clearly showed that Rojas had ordered the murder of Felix Ulibarri.

From his first-class window seat, Kerney could see the snow-covered crests of the Rocky Mountains, an awesome, remote barrier that spawned rivers, cut canyons, studded high valleys with lakes, and threw domes and sharp-edged peaks into the pale blue sky.

The plane turned east toward the prairie, and the spine of the mountains that had filled his eyes gave way to a panorama of open range, bending rivers, ribbons of paved roads dotted by farm villages surrounded with checkerboards of irrigated green fields and pale yellow pastures.

The change in the landscape below strengthened Kerney's resolve to be more open and more attentive to Sara. It was time to remove the self-imposed barriers that, over so many years of living alone, had eroded his ability to express his feelings.

He closed his eyes and touched his jacket pocket. In a jeweler's gift box was a pair of diamond earrings. Tonight, when they were alone, he would give them to Sara and tell her again all the reasons why he loved her.

With a no-knock warrant in hand, Clayton made assignments: three agents to the rear of the house, three to the front door with a battering ram, and two officers with him up the outside stairs over the garage to Narvaiz's apartment.

The house looked unoccupied, but Clayton knew better. Surveillance reports put Rojas and Narvaiz inside the compound, but where exactly the men were was another matter.

The team went in low and fast, using palm trees along the driveway as cover. Clayton hit the staircase at a full run, two steps at a time. He heard the sound of the battering ram against the heavy front door as he reached the landing. Narvaiz appeared suddenly in a doorway, semiautomatic in hand, blazing away. The first loud round hit Clayton's vest, spun him sideways. The second round knocked him on his back. His chest felt like a freight train had hit it. He lifted his head, spread his legs, raised his weapon, and watched Narvaiz walking toward him, grinning and firing at the agents crouched on the stairwell behind him. The officers returned fire, bullets screaming above Clayton's head.

He emptied his magazine at Narvaiz. Rounds from three weapons tore into Fidel's flesh and gouged holes in the open door on the landing. Blood splatter from a neck wound arched over the wrought-iron railing and cascaded down to the driveway below.

Clayton fed in another clip, aimed his weapon, and watched Narvaiz fall. He heard rounds shattering glass and pulverizing plaster walls inside the house and sent the two agents to lend support.

The firing stopped before they got down the stairs. They went in calling out names on their handheld radios, asking for status and location.

Clayton got to his feet on unsteady legs and walked to Narvaiz's body. He counted twelve bullet holes, all leaking either dark fluid or viscous gray matter. Was it adrenaline or just plain fear that had him shaking?

He waited for a feeling of revulsion to overwhelm him, but nothing came except an emptiness that made him feel dark and bleak.

His handheld hissed his call sign. Feebly he keyed the microphone and answered. Rojas was down, probably dying, and one officer had a superficial leg wound.

He stepped back from the body and ordered ambulances and crime scene techs to roll. Would he ever be able to tell Grace about this? Really tell her?

He doubted it. But maybe one day he could tell Kerney. Please read on for a special preview of Michael McGarrity's next thrilling Kevin Kerney novel Everyone Dies Jack Potter, perhaps the most successful and best-known attorney in Santa Fe, had recently attended a gay rights costume ball dressed as Lady Justice. The following morning a photograph of a smiling Potter wearing a shimmering frock and a curly wig, and holding the scales of justice and a sword, appeared on the front page of the local paper.

Today Jack Potter wore a tank top, shorts, and a pair of expensive running shoes that looked brand-new to Detective Ramona Pino. He was faceup on the sidewalk with a bullet hole in his chest. He'd bled out in front of his office across from the county courthouse early on a warm July morning. From the blood trail on the sidewalk, Pino saw that Potter had crawled a good fifty feet before turning over on his back to die.

Ramona was more than slightly pissed at the man who'd discovered Potter. Alfonso Allesandro had spotted the body as he passed by in his newspaper truck, and called the city editor on a cell phone before dialing the cops to report the crime. As a result, a photographer had hurried over from the newspaper offices a few blocks away and walked through the blood trail to take pictures before the scene was secured.

Both men were now waiting in the panel truck with a uniformed officer while Pino cordoned off the entire block and worked the crime scene with the techs, searching for a shell casing and anything else that looked like evidence.

Dozens of little orange markers were placed at every cigarette butt lying in the gutter along the street, the broken toothpick found a step away from Potter's body, and the small puddle of fairly fresh crankcase oil in a vacant parking space. One tech dusted all the parking meters for fingerprints while another worked on the door and front porch to Potter's office.

Ramona inspected the small lawn in front of the building for any signs that shrubbery and grass had been disturbed or that fibers, threads, or hair had been transferred by contact. Finding nothing, she sent the tech who'd finished taking snapshots of the bloody footprints over to the panel truck to secure the photographer's shoes so a comparison could be made. The man opened the truck door, pulled off his shoes, and shot Ramona a dirty look as he handed them to the tech.

Ramona smiled, but not at the photographer. The newspaper's truck bore an advertising slogan, "Everyone Reads It," and in black spray paint someone had added: "And Wonders Why"

By the time an assistant district attorney, the medical examiner, and Lieutenant Sal Molina showed up, the courthouse was about to open for business. A small crowd of lawyers, clerks, judges, and officers scheduled for court appearances had gathered across the street and were scrutinizing her every move, which made her somewhat uneasy.

The ME, a roly-poly man with skinny arms showing below his short-sleeved shirt, went off to declare Potter officially dead. Ramona turned her back on the crowd and briefed Molina and the ADA in a low voice.

"Potter was shot in the chest at what appears to be close range," she said. "We have no witnesses to the crime and so far, no substantial evidence."

"Was it a drive-by?" Molina asked.

"I don't think so," Ramona replied. "Potter took just one bullet, straight on. If the killer had been firing from a moving vehicle, the round would have most likely hit him at an angle. Plus, a drive-by shooter would have probably emptied his weapon at his target."

"The shooter could have been parked at the curb."

"Possibly," Ramona said. "But if the killer was in a vehicle, I doubt it was a passenger car."

"Why do you say that?" Molina asked.

"The entry and exit wounds in Potter's chest and back are almost perfectly aligned," Ramona answered.

Molina nodded in agreement. "From a car, the killer would have been firing up at Potter. Have you found the bullet?"

"No," Pino said as she gazed down the street. At least a dozen buildings would have to be checked for the spent round, including an elementary school, an office building, and a resort hotel two blocks away across a major thoroughfare that circled downtown Santa Fe. It would take hours to do the search, probably with no results.

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Molina said, reading Pino's pessimistic expression. Pino was a pretty young woman with even features and soft brown eyes that often fooled people into thinking she could be easily conned or manipulated.

"What if Potter knew his killer?" Barry Foyt, the ADA, asked.

"That would be great," Molina said. "Otherwise we've got either a random shooting or robbery as the possible motive."

"Was there anything in his pockets?" Foyt asked.

"Just his keys," Ramona answered, showing the key ring in a plastic bag. "And he's still wearing his watch, although it's not an expensive one."

"So maybe we should rule out robbery as a motive as soon as possible," Foyt said, inclining his head toward the single-story adobe building that housed Potter's offices.

"Are you giving permission to search?" Ramona asked.

"Plain view only, for now," Foyt said, "including his car."

"You got it," Ramona said.

"Does he have any employees?" Molina asked, looking at the civilians who had congregated at both ends of the street behind the patrol cars that blocked the intersections. Uniformed officers stood by their vehicles holding the crowd back.

"He has one secretary," Foyt replied. "I don't see her here yet."

"ID her for us when she shows," Molina said, turning his attention to Pino. "Six detectives are rolling. Let's get the uniforms started identifying onlookers and taking statements. Assign a detective to search Potter's office and put one on Potter's car. Find his wallet. That could help us rule out robbery as a motive. Have the others canvass the neighborhood, and start the techs looking for the bullet."

"Will do, Lieutenant," Ramona said. Even with the additional help, it was going to be a busy day. Once a residential neighborhood, the McKenzie District west of the courthouse was now a mixed-use area of professional offices, private dwellings, apartments in converted houses, several bed-and-breakfast inns, retail specialty shops, and some eateries that were popular with locals. A good number of people would need to be canvassed on the assumption that someone might have noticed a suspicious person, seen a suspicious vehicle, or heard the gunshot.

"I wonder if Potter ran every morning before he started work," Molina said.

Foyt shrugged. "I know he liked to run, but I don't know if he kept to a set schedule."

"We'll find out," Ramona said.

"Have you called Chief Kerney?" Molina asked Pino.

"Negative," Ramona answered. "I wanted to secure the crime scene and get an evidence search under way first."

"I'll call him," Molina said, turning to Foyt. "Anything else you want to add, Counselor?"

Barry Foyt glanced ruefully at Potter's body. Foyt had been handling murder cases for the DA's office for the last five years and had been called out to most of the major homicide crime scenes. But this was the first time the victim had been someone he knew and liked.

"Jack was good people," Foyt said brusquely. "Let's get a suspect in custody fast, Lieutenant."

"If only it were that easy," Molina said, thinking maybe he'd been stupid to let Kerney talk him out of putting in his retirement papers. Potter's murder could turn into a real bitch of a controversy real fast if progress on the case stalled.

If he'd been smart, he could be out on a lake trout fishing without a care in the world, instead of facing the potential indignation of every judge, lawyer, prosecutor, and gay activist in Santa Fe.

Molina scanned the growing crowd before addressing Ramona. "I know you caught the case, Detective, but I'm taking over as primary on this one."

"I understand, Lieutenant," Ramona said.

Molina sent Pino and Foyt off to brief the detectives who were piling out of unmarked units, flipped open his cell phone to call the chief, then hesitated.

Kerney had picked up his pregnant wife at the Albuquerque airport last night before starting a two-week vacation. Their baby was due any day, and on top of that Kerney was having a new house built on some ranch land he'd bought outside the city.

But the chief's policy was clear: No matter where he was or what he was doing, he was to be informed immediately about every homicide or major felony that occurred within the city limits.

Reluctantly, Molina dialed Kerney's number.

Lt. Col. Sara Brannon handed the telephone to Kerney and watched his expression change from consternation to vexation as he listened to Sal Molina. She'd just told him that when her maternity leave ended she would start a tour of duty at the Pentagon in a plum strategic-planning position which would put her on track for promotion to full colonel. He wasn't at all happy about it.

"What is it?" she said after Kerney hung up.

"Nothing good," Kerney answered. "A lawyer has been shot and killed outside the courthouse."

"You'd better go," Sara said, shifting her weight in the kitchen chair to ease the pain in her back. In the last two weeks being pregnant had become increasingly uncomfortable.

"They can get along without me for a few more minutes," Kerney replied, giving Sara a long unhappy look across the kitchen table. "I thought you were trying for an assignment closer to home."

"Believe me, I did," Sara said. "But there wasn't anything available at my rank or in my speciality."

"What about resigning your commission?" Kerney asked. "I recall a conversation we had about that possibility."

"I'm not ready to do that," Sara said. "You knew I was a career officer when you married me."

"Things have changed, we're about to become parents."

"Thanks for the reminder," Sara said, forcing a smile and patting her tummy. "I'd totally forgotten."

"We can talk about it later," Kerney said flatly as he got to his feet. Sara's sarcasm annoyed him, but he didn't want to quarrel.

"I thought you had the time," Sara said.

"Not for this discussion," Kerney replied with an abrupt shake of his head.

He left the kitchen and returned wearing a holstered sidearm and his shield clipped to his belt. He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and went quickly out the door.

Determined not to cry or throw her coffee cup against the wall, Sara decided to draw a warm bath and take a long soak in the tub.

Kerney arrived at the crime scene to find Potter's body covered with a tarp. A large number of onlookers were clustered in the courthouse parking lot watching television reporters broadcast live feeds about the murder to network affiliates in Albuquerque. One reporter started shouting questions at Kerney from across the street.

He ignored the woman and took a quick tour of the evidence markers which, except for the bloody footprints, looked like nothing more than street litter. But if they found a suspect, DNA testing of the cigarette butts that had been marked as evidence might prove valuable.

He bent down and uncovered Potter's body. Jack's wide-eyed, handsome features were frozen in shock, and his bloody hands were pressed against a dark stain on the tank top just below the entry wound in his chest. Potter had died hard.

Jack had started his law career with the district attorney's office a few years before Kerney first joined the police department, and Kerney knew him well, professionally and socially.

After a fairly long stint as an ADA, Potter had opened a private practice specializing in criminal law, quickly becoming one of the most sought-after defense lawyers in the city. When he came out of the closet as an advocate for same-sex marriages some years later, it didn't hurt his reputation in Santa Fe one bit.

Of all the prosecutors Kerney had worked with in the district attorney's office, Jack had been the best of the lot. Outside of the job, he was charming, witty, and fun to be around.

Kerney flipped the tarp over Jack's face and stood. Entering Potter's office he found Sal Molina talking with Larry Otero, his deputy chief and second-in-command. Kerney nodded a curt greeting to both men and turned his attention to Molina. "Fill me in, Sal, if you don't mind repeating yourself."

"Not a problem, Chief," Molina said. "Potter was shot once in the chest at close range. I'm assuming you saw the blood trail on your way in."

"I did," Kerney replied.

"He crawled down the sidewalk and died in front of his building. The ME estimates Potter was shot about fifteen minutes before his body was discovered. We're canvassing the area, but so far we haven't turned up anyone who either witnessed the event or heard the shot."

Kerney glanced around the front office, once the living room of a modest residence. It was nicely appointed with matching Southwestern-style furniture consisting of a large desk, several chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. Two large museum-quality Navajo rugs hung on the walls, and a built-in bookcase held neatly organized state- and federal-statute books. The door to Potter's inner office was closed.

"Have you ruled out robbery?" Kerney asked.

"Pretty much," Molina replied, "as well as burglary. We've only done a plain-view search so far, but the office and his car appear undisturbed. There are no signs of breaking and entering, and the vehicle hasn't been tampered with. Both were locked, and Potter had his keys in his possession when he was shot."

"Also, his wallet containing three hundred dollars and his credit cards is in the bathroom along with an expensive Swiss wristwatch," Otero said.

"Where's his secretary?" Kerney asked.

"She showed up a few minutes ago," Molina said. "Detective Pino has her over at the courthouse, conducting an interview."

"Is Pino the primary?" Kerney asked.

"No, I am," Molina replied.

"That's what I wanted to hear," Kerney said. "Get the secretary over here soon. Have her double-check to see if anything is missing."

"That's the plan," Molina said.

"What have you learned from her so far?" Kerney asked.

"She says that unless Potter had a court appearance or trial scheduled, he worked abbreviated hours during the summer months," Molina replied. "He'd come in early, go running for a half hour or so, and then shower and change here before starting his day. He usually finished up by midafternoon."

"Several neighbors have seen Potter running in the morning, and he keeps a change of clothes in his office closet," Otero said.

"So Potter kept to a daily schedule," Kerney said, "which means this might not be a random shooting."

"That's the way we read it," Molina said.

"Have you contacted Jack's life partner?" Kerney asked. Norman Kaplan, Potter's significant other, owned an upscale antique shop on Canyon Road.

"According to Potter's secretary, he's in London on a buying trip and not due back for three days," Otero said. "I called his hotel, but he's not there. I'll try him again later on."

"Are there any other next of kin?" Kerney asked.

"Not that we know about yet," Otero answered. "But the story is already on the airwaves, thanks to the photographer who showed up before our people arrived on the scene."

"What happened?" Kerney asked.

"He walked through the blood trail, took pictures, and called the newspaper on his cell phone to tell them Potter had been gunned down," Molina explained. "Detective Pino had to order him away from the crime scene."

"Do we have this bozo in hand?" Kerney asked.

"Yeah, he's outside in the panel truck cooling his heels, waiting to give a statement," Otero said. "He's not too happy about it."

"Have a detective take his statement and then arrest him for tampering with evidence and interfering with a criminal investigation," Kerney said.

"Those charges probably won't stick, Chief," Otero said.

"I don't give a damn if they stick or not," Kerney said. "Let the DA sort it out."

Otero eyed Kerney, who was usually levelheaded when it came to dealing with the media. He wondered what was biting the chief. It had to be more than a stupid photographer's mistakes. "Are you sure that's what you want us to do?" he asked.

Kerney bit his lip and shook his head. "You're right. It's a dumb idea. Put a scare into him instead."

"We can do that," Molina said.

"Get a handle on this fast, Sal," Kerney said. "Let's find someone with a motive-friends, clients, enemies-you know the drill."

Molina nodded.

"I'll talk to the reporters," Otero said.

"Give them the usual spiel, Larry," Kerney said, heading for the door, "and keep me informed. Call me on my cell phone."

The spat with Sara had put Kerney in a bad mood, and Jack Potter's murder only added to it. He decided to cool down before going home, and drove to the South Capitol neighborhood where Fletcher Hartley lived. In his seventies, Fletcher was a highly regarded Santa Fe artist, a retired museum director, and an old friend who'd assisted Kerney in a major art heist investigation several years ago, during Kerney's tenure with the state police.

A colorful eccentric, Fletcher was a prominent fixture in the gay community and a potential source of good information about Jack Potter's personal life.

Fletcher's sprawling adobe was nestled at the bottom of a large sloping lot behind a beautifully landscaped, expansive front yard filled with hedges and trees that screened the house from the street. Situated in a neighborhood of older homes lined up in tidy rows, Fletcher's hidden rural oasis was the crown jewel of a charming residential area that still retained a small-town feel.

Kerney rang the doorbell and listened to a Beethoven piano sonata that flowed through the open windows of the front room. Fletcher opened the door, clutching a book. He wore his favorite kimono and a pair of screaming-pink silk pajama bottoms. Reading glasses where perched on his nose, which had recently been made perfect by plastic surgery. Fletcher fought the aging process by every possible means. In the past, his cheeks had been lifted and his wrinkles tucked to give him the face of a fifty-year-old.

Kerney had heard about the nose job, but hadn't seen it until now.

"I know," Fletcher said with a smile, noticing Kerney's quick appraisal, "I'm a vain old coot." He turned to give Kerney a view of his improved profile. "Do you like it?"

"You look great," Kerney said. "Sorry to bother you so early."

"Pooh," Fletcher said, smiling broadly at the compliment. "You know full well that I am always home to visitors. I thrive on distraction. Come in, dear boy. Join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee."

Kerney sat at the large antique Spanish colonial table, where he'd spent many pleasant hours chatting with Fletcher, and told him about Jack Potter's murder. On an open shelf above a kitchen counter, a small menagerie of hand-carved, wooden folk-art animal figures-two chickens, a rabbit, and a pig-overlooked the scene.

Fletcher's cheery expression vanished. "You can't be serious," he said, his voice filled with dismay. He filled Kerney's coffee cup with a shaky hand and replaced the carafe in the coffeemaker. "This is tragic."

Kerney nodded solemnly. "What can you tell me about Jack that I don't already know?"

"You can't be thinking that Norman had anything to do with it," Fletcher said as he sat down across from Kerney.

"Norman is in London. He doesn't know what happened, unless of course, he hired a contract killer."

"Don't be absurd," Fletcher replied. "This will break the poor man's heart. They were such a loving couple, perfect for each other. How familiar are you with Jack's private life?"

"Until he came out, I just figured him to be the confirmed bachelor type," Kerney said. "I've met Norman socially, but Jack never talked to me about any of his personal relationships or his family."

"Until Jack met Norman he'd kept his sexual orientation out of public view," Fletcher said. "His love for Norman helped him realize that being gay was something to openly celebrate. As far as family goes, he was an only child and both his parents are dead. He is close to an aunt who is retired and lives in Tucson. Jack and Norman visit her several times a year."

"Do you have a name?" Kerney asked.

"Maude is her first name, I believe," Fletcher said. "But I'm sure Norman will know how to get in touch with her, or Jack's secretary should."

"Did he have any lovers before Norman who caused him trouble?" Kerney asked.

"He had a long-standing affair with a rather troubled young man whom he supported on the q.t. for several years. Jack paid the rent, gave the boy expense money when he wasn't working, and bought his clothes. It was a May-December affair. The lad was a good twenty-five years younger than Jack. It was also common knowledge that the boy was not mentally sound."

"How so?" Kerney asked.

"He was in and out of the psychiatric ward for fits of depression and suicidal tendencies. When he was stable, he worked as a waiter. But as time went on, he became more unbalanced, less able to hold a job, and totally promiscuous. Jack had no choice but to end it."

"Did it end badly?"

"In chaotic uproar," Fletcher replied. "But Jack kept it under wraps from the straight community."

"Do you have a name to give me?" Kerney asked.

"That's a story in itself. The young man's name was Matthew B. Patterson. It's now Mary Beth Patterson. He had a sex-change operation up in Colorado six years ago. It made a world of difference for him."

Kerney finished his coffee and put the cup aside. "In what way?" he asked.

"Matthew was small-boned, almost petite, and very feminine, with soft doe eyes and pretty features. But he wasn't at all the swishy queen type. There was a woman hiding inside his body, and once Mary Beth emerged, his depression and self-destructive tendencies seemed to vanish, at least for a time."

"Aren't sex-change operations expensive?" Kerney asked.

"Indeed. Jack paid for it as a settlement to the affair."

"And to keep it quiet?"

"That also," Fletcher replied. "All this happened before Jack and Norman became an item."

"So did the problem with Matthew go away?"

Fletcher nodded. "Only to be replaced by the arrival of Mary Beth on the scene. She came back fully expecting Jack to marry her, which of course he did not do."

"Then what happened?" Kerney asked.

"Mary Beth took on the characteristics of a hysterical, wronged woman. She tried every ploy to get Jack back, including stalking him for a time."

"Did she make any threats?"

"Not that I know of."

"How was the situation resolved?"

"When Jack rejected her advances, she mutilated herself with a knife by cutting her arms and then called for an ambulance to take her to the hospital. The doctors diagnosed her as a borderline personality. Jack paid for her medical care, sorted out her disability benefits, and got her into a group home for mentally ill adults. She met another patient there and fell in love with him. They've been living together ever since they moved out of the group home."

"How do you know all this?" Kerney asked.

"Partially from Jack, but Mary Beth's lover is my new gardener. I've only employed him for a couple of months. His name is Kurt Larsen. He's much older than Mary Beth and suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder."

"Where can I find Mary Beth?"

"They live in an apartment complex run by a mental health clinic."

"I know the place," Kerney said.

"I'm sure you do."

"Tell me about Larsen."

"Kurt is quiet but pleasant, except when something triggers his war experiences. Then he becomes agitated, out of sorts, and drinks heavily. When he comes to work sullen and hungover I always know that he's had one of his episodes. He's a Vietnam veteran, an ex-marine."

"You've been very helpful, Fletcher," Kerney said as he went to the sink and rinsed out his coffee cup.

"I'd like to say it's always a pleasure to assist the police," Fletcher replied with a rueful smile. "But this is so very sad. I must do something to help Norman get through this."

Kerney nodded in agreement. "I may need to talk to you about this again."

"Of course, as you wish. But you can't just jump up and leave until you agree to bring your lovely wife here for dinner. I think it would be best to do it before the baby arrives and you both become totally preoccupied with the exhausting tasks of parenthood. Are you free Friday night?"

"That should work," Kerney said.

"You must promise not to be called away on some pressing police matter."

"I'm on vacation."

Fletcher raised an eyebrow. "Really? One would hardly know it."

Kerney laughed. "No police business, I promise."

"Perfect. I'll pull out my cookbooks and start menu planning. We'll have a grand feast."

"As always," Kerney said.

"Neither Mary Beth nor Kurt strikes me as a killer," Fletcher said.

"Killers come in all flavors," Kerney said as he patted Fletcher on the shoulder and left to the soft sounds of Beethoven.

In his unit, he got on the horn to Sal Molina and gave him the rundown on Mary Beth Patterson and Kurt Larsen.

"Well, at least now we've got something to follow up on," Molina said.

"No luck at the crime scene?" Kerney asked.

"Not so far," Sal replied.

Kerney arrived home to find Sara waiting expectantly for him. Their first day of vacation together was to have started with a visit to the construction site of their new house. Up to now, Sara had only seen the photographs Kerney had taken and mailed off to her. Last night she'd been excited and eager to see it first-hand. But their early morning spat had left Sara less than enthusiastic. She nodded curtly when he asked if she was ready to go, walked quickly to his pickup truck, then sat looking straight ahead and said nothing as he wheeled out of the driveway. Feeling guilty about the squabble, Kerney matched Sara's silence with his own.

Halfway through the drive, Sara looked at her hands, twisted her wedding ring with her thumb, and asked about the homicide.

Kerney gave her a brief summary. "It could be a tough one to solve," he said in conclusion.

"You were so long getting back, I thought you had abandoned our plans for the morning," Sara said.

"I wouldn't do that," Kerney replied. "I stopped by to talk to Fletcher. He had some interesting information about Jack Potter that might prove helpful."

"You could've sent a detective to meet with Fletcher," she said flatly, her eyes still fixed on the road ahead.

"Yes, but I wanted to cool down a bit," Kerney said.

"Besides, seeing Fletcher got us a dinner invitation to his house for Friday night."

"If we're talking to each other by then, I suppose we should go."

"Aren't we talking now?"

Sara squinted against the sunlight and lowered the visor. "Not really."

They left the highway and drove along the ranch road to the cutoff that took them through a pasture on their new property and up toward a long ridgeline. Kerney had spent several weekends improving the road with a borrowed grader, spreading and packing vast amounts of gravel base course to make it usable year-round. No longer rutted, narrow, and rocky, it climbed gently to a large sheltered bowl below the crest where several low courses of new adobe walls stood on the recently poured concrete pad.

Sara made no comment about the road, nor about the new red prefabricated galvanized-steel horse barn that had been erected a good half a mile from the house. She was out of the truck and moving toward their contractor, Bobby Trujillo, before Kerney set the parking brake and killed the engine.

Trujillo met Sara halfway across the open field. Together they walked around the outside perimeter of the partially raised adobe walls, inspecting the work in progress. Kerney decided to let them go on without him and took a hike in the direction of the horse barn to check on Soldier, the mustang he'd trained as a cutting horse.

Soldier had been pastured at Dale Jennings's ranch down on the Tularosa for the past several yeas. Two weekends ago, after the barn and corral were completed, Dale, Kerney's boyhood chum and lifelong friend, had brought Soldier up by trailer along with his own mount. The two men camped out on the property overnight and covered all of Kerney's two sections-twelve hundred and eighty acres-by horseback the following day.

It had been Kerney's best weekend away from the job in several months. Dale had left shaking his head in wonder and amusement at the beauty of the land with its magnificent views of the distant mountains, the size of the house Kerney was building, and the fact that his old buddy had put up a six-stall barn that for now would serve one lonely animal.

The corral gate was closed and the stall door was open, but Soldier wasn't inside the arena or under the covered shelter that ran the length of the barn. Inside the corral, Kerney inspected the water trough and freestanding hay rack he'd filled yesterday before leaving to pick up Sara at the airport. Both looked untouched. He glanced into the empty stall, which he'd purposely left open to give Soldier access to the corral. The interior gate to the center aisle was closed and latched.

Kerney stood in the corral and did a three-sixty looking for his horse. He was nowhere in sight. Kerney doubted Soldier could have gotten out without assistance. He'd carefully padlocked all the other exterior doors to keep rodents and other small animals from gaining access.

He walked around the barn. Except for Soldiers stall it was secure. He unlocked the barn doors, pushed one back, and saw Soldier lying on the concrete pad that ran the length of the center aisle. He stepped in and inspected the animal. Soldier had been shot three times in the stomach and left to die. In his death throes, he'd kicked and dented the steel wall with his forelegs. Blood from the wounds had stained the concrete pad and soaked into the dirt floor in front of a stall door.

Because he was starting out with just one animal, Kerney had jokingly named the spread the One Horse Ranch. Now, it wasn't even that anymore. He bent down and stroked Soldier's head. He'd been a fine horse, a smart horse. Who would do such a thing? And why?

Outside, he used his cell phone to call Andy Baca, his ex-boss and the chief of the state police. He told Andy what had happened to Soldier and asked him to dispatch a patrol officer.

"Do you want me to send an agent also?" Andy asked.

"No, I'll handle the crime scene myself," Kerney said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Kerney said.

"This doesn't sit right with me," Andy said.

"With me either," Kerney replied. "Somebody went out of his way to kill my horse as painfully as possible."

"You got any idea who did it?"

"Only a handful of people knew Soldier was on the property, and none of them carry any grudges against me as far as I know."

"Well, somebody's sending you a message," Andy said.

"It looks that way."

"Maybe you've got a wacko on the crew building your house."

"Maybe," Kerney said. "But I've gotten to know the guys pretty well, and none of them strikes me that way."

"You never know."

"True enough," Kerney said.

"Any leads on the Jack Potter homicide?"

"Nothing worth talking about yet," Kerney answered.

"Keep me informed, and if you need help, just ask."

"I will, and thanks." Kerney disconnected and called Tug Cheney, a veterinarian he knew from his days as a caretaker of a small ranch on the Galisteo Basin. Tug told him Soldier could be sent to Albuquerque for an autopsy or he could do a quick and dirty one himself.

"I know what killed my horse," Kerney said. "What I want are the bullets out of Soldier's stomach. When can you get out here?"

"Give me directions to your place, and I'll be there in an hour," Tug said.

Kerney supplied directions, thanked Tug, stuck the cell phone back on his belt, and turned to see Sara walking slowly in his direction from the construction site.

Today he'd argued with a woman he adored, seen the murdered body of a man he liked, and found a horse he loved maliciously destroyed. It was a crummy way to start a vacation.

He started toward Sara to give her the news.