The big gamble

Chapter 4

While Grace and the children slept Clayton rose early, ate a quick breakfast, and went to meet the state police crime scene tech assigned to conduct an evidence search of Humphrey's car. Clayton had made the request the night before, after having the Cougar towed from the resort to the state police impound lot in Alamogordo.

On the drive from his house he reminded himself to try to be friendlier to people.

The technician, Artie Gundersen, a retired San Diego police officer, was working on the Cougar when Clayton arrived. In his late forties, Gundersen was an outdoor enthusiast who had moved to New Mexico so he could hunt, fish, and camp without sharing the forests, streams, and wilderness with thirty million other Californians.

Sandy-haired, blue-eyed, lean, tanned, and fit, Gundersen looked like an aging surfer. Clayton forced a smile as he walked up to him. It felt phony.

"I just finished a visual inspection," Gundersen said. "The owner was a pig. There's gotta be ten years' worth of fast-food garbage and trash on the floor-boards."

Clayton glanced at the open trunk. "What's back there?"

"It's stuffed with paper sacks filled with dirty clothes, cardboard boxes of what looks like pure junk and who knows what else."

"What kind of junk?"

"A broken Walkman, some trashed cassette tapes, some tools-stuff like that. We'll take a closer look in a little while." Gundersen pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his back pocket and gave them to Clayton. "Let's start with the passenger compartment. I'll take the driver's side. Stop whenever you find something that piques your interest and tell me what you've got. Then bag it and tag it. And don't smudge any surfaces with your gloves that might yield prints."

Although it rankled to be cautioned like some rookie cop, Clayton took Gundersen's direction without comment. He forced another smile and nodded.

"What do you hope to find?" Gundersen asked.

"Anything that puts my suspect in the vehicle would help, but finding the murder weapon would be nice. The victim was killed with a knife."

Gundersen shrugged. "You never know. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Two hours later, the two men sat in Gundersen's office and agreed they'd gotten fairly lucky after all. The pocket of a wadded-up threadbare windbreaker had yielded an old pay stub made out to Felix Ulibarri, and a plastic bag from a Ruidoso western-wear store, stuffed into the map holder on the driver's door, held a cash receipt for men's clothing and a pair of new cowboy boots dated the day after Humphrey's murder. Ulibarri had dropped seventeen hundred dollars of the stolen money on new duds.

The best evidence was the dried bloodstain on the rear seat cushion along with some good fingerprints that Gundersen was comparing to Ulibarri's print record, which he'd called up on the computer.

"It's a match," Gundersen said, pointing to a scar on a thumbprint. "If the DNA bloodstain test confirms it's your victim's, I'd say you've got strong evidence that links Ulibarri to the crime."

"The autopsy report said that Humphrey was killed with a single stab wound to the heart by a blade sharpened on one edge," Clayton replied. "There was very heavy internal bleeding in the thoracic cavity. I'm thinking Ulibarri knifed Humphrey while he was asleep or passed out on the rear seat."

"That's possible, given how small the bloodstain on the seat cushion is," Gundersen replied. "If I were you, I'd go for an arrest affidavit that puts your suspect at the scene of the crime."

"I can quote you?" Clayton asked.

"Sure thing, chief."

He doesn't mean anything by chief, Clayton thought as he started to tense up. It's just an expression. He waited a beat before responding. "Thanks for all your help."

Gundersen smiled. "Hey, you made it easy for me."

Clayton left Gundersen and on his way to the office stopped at the western-wear store in Ruidoso. It was an upscale establishment that featured custom-made cowboy shirts, expensive boots, fringed leather jackets, high-end designer jeans, and handmade silver rodeo-style, Texas-size belt buckles.

He showed Ulibarri's picture and the cash receipt to the clerk, a middle-aged woman with curly blond-highlighted hair that brushed her shoulders.

"Of course, I remember him," the woman said.

"When he first came in, I thought he'd wandered into the wrong store."

"Why was that?" Clayton asked, pushing down the thought that the clerk had profiled Ulibarri as a shoplifter because of his ethnicity.

"He was really scruffy," the woman replied. "But he had a wad of cash he said he'd won at the casino."

"He flashed money?"

"When he paid, he peeled off hundred-dollar bills. He left wearing his new boots."

"Did he take his old ones with him?"

"They were cheap work boots," the woman said with a shake of her head. "You'll probably find them outside in the trash bin behind the store. It gets emptied tomorrow."

Clayton went dumpster diving and found the boots. The right one had a dark stain on a toe that looked like dried blood.

In his unit he made radio contact with Sonia Raney, the state police patrol officer on duty, and asked if she was heading to the district headquarters anytime soon. He got an affirmative reply, and asked if she'd carry some evidence to Gundersen.

"Roger that," Raney said. "Give me a twenty and I'll meet up with you."

Clayton told her where he was, and within five minutes Ulibarri's boots were in the trunk of Raney's unit on the way to Alamogordo. He arrived at the office to find Sheriff Hewitt waiting.

"Dispatch tells me you located Humphrey's car last night," Hewitt said.

As far as Clayton could tell, there was no censure in the sheriff's voice. "One of Moses Kaywaykla's security people spotted it in the resort parking lot," he said. "I didn't even think to look for it there."

"The best mistakes we make are the ones we learn from," Hewitt said with a small chuckle. "How did the vehicle search go?"

"I've got more than enough to ask for a murder-one arrest warrant," Clayton said. He quickly filled Hewitt in.

"Very good. Do the affidavit, update your advisory bulletin, and get me a progress report when you can. I'll call the DA and tell him you're going to need his sign-off and a judge's approval right away. Now that we know Ulibarri isn't driving Humphrey's car, how do you think he's traveling?"

"Don't know." Clayton replied. "But I'm going to call around to every car dealer and rental company in Ruidoso as soon as I get the warrant signed."

"Good idea," Hewitt said. "What if Ulibarri isn't traveling?"

"I've thought about that, and I've asked Sergeant Quinones and Von Dillingham to start phoning area motel and hotels, ASAP."

"Work it hard," Hewitt said, waving Clayton out of his office.

Kerney started a new day still looking for the "doctor" who had called Walter Montoya asking for Anna Marie. Yesterday, he'd checked with the licensing boards for physicians, psychologists, counselors, chiropractors, optometrists, and practitioners of Chinese medicine. The few names he got wound up as dead ends.

After making no progress at the state nursing board, he put in a quick appearance at the office and then paid a visit to the state department of education, asking about any recent appointments of a male PhD in area school districts. He scored another zero.

He moved on to the local colleges, hoping perhaps a midyear faculty vacancy or an administrative position had been filled by someone matching the scanty information Walter Montoya had provided. That failed, so he went back to the office and expanded his search by phone, calling colleges in Albuquerque and some nearby area branch campuses, on the chance his unknown party commuted to work from Santa Fe, as more and more people did these days. The hunt fizzled out quickly.

The more Kerney worked to find the mystery caller, the more he began to realize that he still had a lot of ground to cover. The number of specialties, professions, and disciplines offering doctoral degrees had mushroomed over the last thirty years. There seemed to be PhD programs for virtually every occupation. Academia had apparently become a head-count growth industry, much like the private prisons that were springing up all over the country.

He called churches looking for newly installed reverend doctors, local high-tech think tanks asking about recently hired scientists, and state and local civil service personnel offices, hoping to locate any PhDs who were newly employed in the public sector. Zip, zilch, zero, nada.

He dropped the phone in the cradle and grunted in frustration as Helen Muiz, his office manager, walked in.

"My, my," Helen said. "Should I warn the troops that you'll be short-tempered and testy today?"

"You are cursed with a wicked sense of humor, Mrs. Muiz," Kerney said with a laugh.

In her fifties, Helen was a grandmother who didn't look like one. Always well dressed, today Helen wore tan slacks and a red silk top. Years ago she'd served as Kerney's secretary when he was chief of detectives. He was delighted to have her working with him once again.

"I like to think of it as a survival skill," Helen said, "made necessary by working in a male-dominated, testosterone-charged environment. That issue aside, Mr. Walter Montoya is waiting to see you. He says it's about his sister."

"Send him in," Kerney said.

Montoya entered, looking a bit sheepish. "First, I'd like to apologize about yesterday."

Kerney stepped from behind his desk and raised a hand to cut him off. "There's no need. I wish the world was more perfect, Mr. Montoya, so that nobody had to go through what you and your family have experienced."

Montoya nodded and gave Kerney an opened envelope. "This came in yesterday's mail at my parents' house."

Kerney read the return address. He'd spent hours trying to come up with the information that had just been dropped in the palm of his hand. He waved the envelope at Montoya and smiled. "I take it this is from the man who called looking for your sister?"

"Yes."

Kerney nodded. It got him one step closer to talking with someone who might have new information. "This could be very helpful."

Montoya shrugged, paused, and spoke slowly, the words coming with difficulty. "Or not, I suppose, given what few facts you have to work with."

"If this doesn't pan out," Kerney said, tapping the envelope with a finger, "we won't stop looking for your sister's killer," Kerney said. "I promise you that."

"I believe you," Montoya said. "Still, I want to apologize for our behavior yesterday."

"That's not necessary. It's perfectly natural to get frustrated when a police investigation stalls, no matter what the circumstances."

"Blaming you or your department serves no purpose. My sister and I talked; we won't cause you any problems."

"I appreciate that."

Montoya solemnly shook hands and departed. Kerney knew the sudden resurgence of goodwill might well be fleeting. The need to finger-point and blame could easily return. He'd seen it happen time and again with family survivors, who could go from feelings of numbing anguish to blistering outrage within a matter of minutes.

He read the return address and the enclosed sympathy note, called information, and got a new residential listing for Kent Osterman in Los Alamos. He dialed the number, identified himself to the woman who answered, explained the reason for his call, and learned that Osterman was at work. The number she gave him at the Los Alamos National Laboratory yielded Osterman's voice mail.

He hung up without leaving a message. On his way out of the administrative suite he paused at Helen's desk and told her where he was going.

"Did you know more people with PhD degrees live in Los Alamos, per capita, than anywhere else in the country?" she said.

Kerney nodded. "And most of them are pursuing peace in our time by designing new, improved weapons of mass destruction. Doesn't that give you a warm, fuzzy feeling?"

"That's the other thing about working with cops," Helen said with a laugh.

"What?"

"You're all so cynical."

"Only about people," Kerney replied.

Los Alamos was coming back from a major forty-thousand-acre forest fire that had burned down hundreds of homes and scorched the adjacent national forest with heat so intense that large swaths of ground were barren of growth. On ridgelines random exclamation points of blackened timber stood as silent reminders of the catastrophe. During the summer months, monsoon rains eroded canyon slopes, buckled roads, broke sewage lines, flooded streets, and seeped into basements.

But with the damage and destruction confined to several heavily forested residential areas, the urban core of the city still looked tidy. High in the Jemez Mountains on a narrow plateau, it was thirty-five miles from Santa Fe. For all practical purposes, it was a corporate town with one industry, a national research laboratory created by the legacy of the atomic bomb. No matter how the chamber of commerce or the town fathers tried to soften the image, Los Alamos remained a place of scientists, spies, and secrets.

He passed through the town center and parked in Technical Area Three, a cluster of buildings including a four-story, flat-roofed, concrete structure that housed the lab's administrative offices.

Signs were everywhere, directing foot traffic to the J. Robert Oppenheimer Study Center, which served as a staff library, a badge office, which Kerney found to be an interesting euphemism for a guard station, and a building that contained the personnel offices and an employee cafeteria. A number of the other buildings in the complex were off-limits, but the personnel department could be visited without going through the security checkpoint.

Halfhearted attempts had been made to landscape the complex with sloping walkways, some trees, and a few planters, but the look was purely industrial and utilitarian, and mostly dismal. Aesthetics did not seem to be a high priority to those building the modern engines of war.

Outside the personnel building, racks held a number of newspapers, some clearly antinuclear in point of view. A small, empty water fountain near the entrance was splattered with bird droppings. The lobby displayed the various presentation bowls and platters that employees would receive on completion of significant years of service.

In the cafeteria the dress code for the patrons on their coffee breaks ran from casual to sloppy, with a lot of mismatched outfits, especially among the men, who seemed to favor top-of-the-line running shoes, plaid shirts, and light-colored Dockers. Kerney felt overdressed in his civvies, which consisted of black jeans, boots, a shirt, tie, and a sport coat.

At the personnel office Kerney explained to three different people that his request to speak to Dr. Kent Osterman had nothing to do with either national security or Osterman's status as an upstanding, law-abiding citizen. Finally, the last person in the hierarchy, a woman with big teeth and a frozen smile, arranged for Kerney to meet with Osterman in the cafeteria.

Escorted by the woman with the frozen smile, Osterman made his appearance in ten minutes. Kerney introduced himself and guided him to a corner table away from chatty clusters of employees.

Forty or so, Osterman had worry lines that creased his forehead, serious brown eyes, and blond, baby-fine hair that covered the tips of his ears.

"You're here to ask me about Anna Marie," Osterman said, sliding onto a chair. "I was so shocked to learn about her disappearance, and now to know she's been murdered." His expression turned into an unhappy grimace.

"How well did you know her?" Kerney kept his eyes fixed on Osterman, looking for any sign of uneasiness or deception.

"We were undergraduates together at the university. Both of us took our degrees in psychology. That was twenty years ago."

"Is your specialty still psychology?" Kerney asked.

"No, I discovered that I didn't have the patience or personality to work with people with emotional or mental problems. I switched to hard science in graduate school and took my advanced degrees in physics."

"When did you last see Anna Marie?"

"We worked as field interviewers on a research project the summer after we graduated. I left New Mexico when the job ended and spent a year taking the math and science prerequisites I needed to switch my field of study to physics."

"Were you romantically involved with Anna Marie?"

"No, we were just friendly. I really didn't get to know her very well until we worked together that summer."

"Tell me about the research project," Kerney said.

"It was a social psych study to assess the cultural causes of alcoholism among Hispanic males. Anna and I conducted interviews to gather raw data about family, employment, and educational histories, drug and alcohol use patterns, and criminal behavior. We spent a lot of time in jails and area treatment programs. It got Anna Marie interested in social work as a career."

"Who ran the project?"

"The primary investigator was a professor named Jeremiah Perrett. I always wondered if he ever published the findings. I never saw it in any of the psych journals. After a while I lost interest and stopped looking."

"Did Anna Marie have any personal problems that summer?"

"No, but both of us thought Perrett was a bit of a flake."

"Why is that?" Kerney asked.

"He kept changing the data-gathering instruments we used in the interviews. You can't draw any significant conclusions unless you have reliable and consistent information to work with." Osterman forced a chuckle. "Maybe that's why he never published."

Kerney smiled at Osterman's humorous attempt. "Did you keep in touch with Perrett?"

"No. He wasn't one of my favorite instructors. At the time, he was thirty-something and tenured, so he may still be at the university."

"Was Anna Marie romantically involved with Perrett?"

Osterman chuckled again. "That's a laugh. He's gay. Or at least he was then."

"Why did you try to contact Anna Marie?" Kerney asked.

"Just to reconnect," Osterman said. "I lost track of a lot of people after I left New Mexico. I thought it would be fun to catch up with old classmates."

"Did you reconnect with anyone else?" Kerney asked.

"A few people," Osterman replied, his eyes widening a bit. "Are you thinking I'm a suspect?"

Based on his conduct, Kerney didn't think Osterman was a murderer. But he'd learned never to rely on first impressions. "Would you mind giving me their names?"

"I'll write them down for you," Osterman said, a touch of coolness creeping into his voice. He reached for a pen in his shirt pocket, scribbled on a napkin, and pushed it toward Kerney. "The first three live in Albuquerque, the others in Santa Fe. I don't have their phone numbers handy, but they're listed in the directory."

Kerney looked at the five names. They were all new to him. "How many of these people knew Anna Marie?"

"As far as I know, just Cassie," Osterman said, pointing to the first name on the list.

"Is Bedlow her maiden name?"

"No, it was Norvell back in college."

Kerney folded the napkin and put it in his shirt pocket. "I may need to speak to you again."

"If you must, please call me at home," Osterman said, rising from his chair. "I'm new here, and I'd rather not have to deal with the police at work. It doesn't create a good impression."

"I assured the people in personnel that you are not under any suspicion," Kerney replied.

"That doesn't stop office gossip," Osterman replied, "and you haven't reassured me."

"Thanks for taking the time to talk," Kerney said.

Osterman nodded curtly and left in a hurry. Kerney followed suit, not feeling overly optimistic that he was making any progress, but pleased to have some new ground to cover. He'd start with trying to locate and talk to Jeremiah Perrett.

When Clayton struck out on picking up Ulibarri's trail through a canvass of car dealerships and rental companies, he made the rounds of the few available public transportation services, which were limited to a shuttle service to El Paso, one taxicab company, a bus station, and the regional airport served by a small puddle-jumping airline. Ulibarri hadn't used any of them. So he was still in the area or he'd gotten a ride out of town.

Back at the office, Clayton worked alongside Quinones and Dillingham, calling what seemed to be an endless list of places where Ulibarri could be staying. As a tourist and vacation destination, Ruidoso boasted lodging options ranging from tent and RV campgrounds for the budget-minded to swanky resorts for the well-heeled. In between there were motels, hotels, cabins, privately owned houses and condos, bed-and-breakfast operations, and apartments available for short-term and long-term rental. Beyond the town limits but within reasonable driving distances were villages and towns with even more possibilities.

It was drudge work that frequently meant leaving messages on answering machines at property management and realty companies, or getting no response whatsoever from the mom-and-pop cabin-rental operators who only took reservations during certain hours of the day. After lunch, Paul Hewitt jumped in to help with the calls and sent Clayton out to start making the rounds of places that couldn't be reached by telephone.

There were cabins off the main roads in canyons sheltered by tall pines, cabins perched above the river, hillside cabins on stilts, cabins that hadn't yet opened for the season, and cabins sprinkled along and behind the main roads through the city. He stopped at property management firms, tracked down real estate people on their mobile phones, and met with resident condo and town-house managers.

After several hours, with most of his list checked off, Clayton called in. Dispatch passed along more lodging establishments Hewitt, Quinones, and Dillingham had been unable to reach by phone. One of them, Casey's Cozy Cabins, was close by Clayton's location.

At the bottom of a hill two blocks behind the main tourist strip, six rental units bordered a circular gravel driveway just off a paved street. Each cabin had a stone chimney; a covered porch; a shingled, pitched roof; and weathered wood siding. Old evergreen trees shaded the structures, and barbecue grills on steel posts were planted in front of every porch. All the parking spaces in front of the cabins were empty.

Clayton cruised by, parked on the shoulder of the road, and walked up to the compound. A hand-carved sign hanging from the porch on the cabin closest to the pavement announced the name of the business. On the porch railing were pots filled with ratty-looking artificial flowers.

Clayton knocked at the door and an older man, probably in his early sixties, opened up. He had a pasty gray complexion, watery eyes, and a heavily veined, pudgy nose.

"Are you Casey?" Clayton asked, showing his shield.

The man eyed Clayton suspiciously, stepped outside, and quickly closed his front door. "He died five years ago. I bought the place from his widow and never got around to changing the name. What can I do for you?"

Before the door closed, Clayton caught a glimpse of several poker tables in the front room. Tribal gaming operations had wiped out a lot of the illegal poker parlors in Ruidoso, but not all of them. Some players still preferred private big stakes games, where none of the winnings went to the tax man.

"Who are you?" Clayton asked.

"Do we have a problem?" the man responded with a tinge of an East Coast accent.

"Let's see some ID."

"Name's Harry Staggs," the man said, reaching for his wallet. He held it out to Clayton. "I run a quiet, family place here, deputy."

"I'm sure you do," Clayton said. "Take your driver's license out of the wallet and hand it to me, please."

Staggs did as he was told. Clayton copied down the information and handed back the license.

"What's this about?" Staggs asked.

"Do you have any guests?"

Staggs shrugged. "Three cabins are rented, but I don't think anyone is here right now."

"How about this man?" Clayton asked, holding up Ulibarri's photograph.

Staggs nodded in the direction of the cabins on the right side of the porch. "Yeah, he's in cabin three, but like I said, nobody's here right now."

"You're sure of that?" Clayton asked, stepping to one side so he could keep the cabin in view.

"Well, I haven't seen him all day, so I'm guessing he's out."

"Did he check in alone?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody was with him?"

"A man and a woman dropped him off, but they stayed in the car."

"Are you sure he doesn't have company?"

"No, I'm not. I rent cabins. As long as my guests don't cause trouble or do damage, it doesn't much matter to me what they do or who visits them."

"Did you get the names of the companions who dropped him off?"

"There was no need," Staggs said. "They waited while he registered, then he got his bag out of the car, and the people left."

"Do you know either of them?"

"It was dark and I didn't get a good look," Staggs replied. "I just saw them sitting in the front seat."

"But you could tell it was a man and a woman."

"Yeah."

"Describe the vehicle."

"Late model Lincoln. Dark color. Maybe blue or black. I didn't pay any attention to the license plate."

"Let's step inside," Clayton said.

"You got no business in my home," Staggs said, a worried look crossing his face.

"The guest in cabin three is a murder suspect," Clayton said, "and I need to use your phone. Either let me inside or I'll arrest you for refusing to assist an officer."

Grudgingly Staggs opened the front door. Inside Clayton asked Staggs a few questions about cabin three and found out all the rental units were identical in layout. Standing at the side of the window with cabin three in view, he called Hewitt, gave him the news, and asked him to request SWAT assistance from the Ruidoso Police Department.

"You've got it," Hewitt said. "Give me specifics for deployment."

"Cabin three is the target. It's in the center of the circular driveway, backed up against a hill. There's good cover if SWAT comes in from the rear. The only windows are one on each side of the cabin and a living-room window near the front door. There's a raised front porch that's high enough to conceal a crouching man."

"No other exits?" Hewitt asked.

"Affirmative."

"Are you under cover?"

"Affirmative."

"I'm rolling. So are Quinones and Dillingham. Stay put and don't take action until SWAT arrives and sets up, unless you have to."

"Ten-four," Clayton said. "I'll be on my handheld." He hung up and looked around the room. It contained a fully stocked, built-in bar, two large poker tables, an assortment of straight-back chairs, a sagging daybed, and a sideboard that contained boxes of poker chips and stacks of unopened playing cards. "Are all the cabins furnished like this one?" he asked.

Staggs said he liked to have his pals over once in a while for a friendly card game.

Clayton pointed at the poker table that gave a clear view out the window. "Sit down."

Staggs sat. Clayton read him his rights as he pushed him forward in the chair and handcuffed him behind the back.

"I want to call my lawyer," Staggs said.

"That will have to wait. What time did the game break up last night?"

"I want to call my lawyer now."

"Did the people who dropped Ulibarri off sit in on last night's game?"

"I'm not talking," Staggs answered.

Clayton resumed his position at the window, switched his handheld radio to the Ruidoso PD frequency, waited, and listened. In twenty minutes SWAT arrived. He made contact with the SWAT commander and talked the team down the hill and into position. There was no discernible movement in cabin three.

Hewitt made contact by radio, reported his arrival, and gave his location. Quinones and Dillingham followed suit.

"SWAT goes in first," Hewitt said. "Sheriff personnel hold your positions."

From their units, Dillingham and Quinones acknowledged the order.

"Roger that," Clayton replied.

The SWAT commander cut in. "We're ready."

"It's your move," Hewitt said.

Clayton watched it go down. Sharpshooters covered the windows. Three men hit the front door, two on either side, as one smashed it open at the lock set with a battering ram. They went in high and low, automatic weapons at the ready, while Clayton held his breath. Finally the radio hissed.

"Clear," the SWAT commander said, "but you might want to come and take a look-see."

"What have you got?" Clayton asked.

"Looks like one very dead murder suspect," the SWAT commander replied.

Clayton left Staggs in the company of Deputy Dillingham and joined up with Paul Hewitt outside cabin three. Together with Sergeant Quinones they inspected the crime scene. Naked to the waist and bare-foot, Ulibarri was on the floor in a sitting position propped against one of two unmade double beds. The new belt with the sterling silver rodeo-style buckle was undone at his waist, his jeans were unzipped, and his feet were bare. His fancy new boots were next to his body with a pair of socks draped over the toes. There were visible bruise marks at his throat suggesting death by strangulation.

"Dammit," Clayton said.

Hewitt stopped scanning the room, glanced at Clayton, and noted the disappointed look on his face. "Let's see what evidence the crime scene techs turn up before you start grousing."

"I wanted an arrest and conviction out of this," Clayton said.

"Like the sheriff said, maybe we can still clear the Humphrey murder," Quinones replied.

"That's not the same thing," Clayton said.

"We can worry about that later," Hewitt said, with a nod at the corpse. "Right now we've got another fresh homicide to work."

"You're not turning it over to the city cops?" Quinones asked.

"Nope," Hewitt said. "The police chief won't like it, but screw him. I'm the chief law enforcement officer in this county and this is in my jurisdiction."

"How do you want the team to operate?" Quinones asked.

Given his mistakes and Quinones's rank, Clayton fully expected Hewitt to bounce him and put the sergeant in charge.

"Let's leave things as they are," Hewitt answered. "Deputy Istee will continue as lead investigator."

"Makes sense to me," Quinones said.

Clayton hid his relief by staring at the corpse and avoiding eye contact with the sheriff. "We need to talk to Harry Staggs," he said. "Maybe he knows what got Ulibarri killed."

"Let's do that," Hewitt said to Clayton as he turned to leave the crime scene. "By the way, the stain on Ulibarri's boot is the same type found in Humphrey's car. If the DNA confirms a match to Humphrey, as far as I'm concerned you've cleared a homicide."

Before leaving Los Alamos, Kerney made phone calls from his unit. Several years ago Professor Perrett had transferred from his teaching position to administer a chemical and alcohol dependency research project affiliated with the university. Kerney made an appointment with Perrett's secretary and then dialed the orthopedic surgeon in Albuquerque who had reconstructed his shattered right knee after it had been blown apart in a shootout with a drug dealer. He persuaded the office receptionist to slot him in for a ten-minute doctor's visit late in the afternoon.

In spite of weight work to keep his legs muscles strong and his daily routine of slow jogging, the knee had been hurting like hell over the past month, and Kerney's limp was getting more pronounced with each passing day. It was time to see what could be done, if anything, to fix it.

The recently constructed bypass around Santa Fe, built to avoid trucking nuclear waste from Los Alamos through the city, shortened his driving time to Albuquerque. The new Indian casino just outside of Albuquerque, a massive, glitzy pueblo-style complex, loomed up as the traffic slowed to a mere ten miles above the reduced speed limit. Across from the casino the tribe's buffalo herd grazed behind a fence anchored by railroad-tie posts that covered acres of ground. It made for a startling contrast of old Indian traditions and new Native American enterprise.

The administrative offices for the chemical treatment research program were located in an area of the city known as Martineztown, a predominantly low-income, Hispanic neighborhood. The nondescript building, sandwiched between the train tracks and the interstate, reflected the university's politically correct decision to place community services in the barrio to avoid criticism of an ivory-tower mentality.

A few minutes early, Kerney spent his time waiting for Perrett reading a brochure that detailed the scope and mission of the center. It received major funding from a variety of government agencies and private foundations and had half a dozen ongoing projects to develop and test new treatment approaches to hard-core addiction with an emphasis on minority populations. Kerney was halfway through a second brochure when the secretary buzzed him in to Dr. Perrett's office.

Jeremiah Perrett was a man of late middle age who obviously put time and energy into remaining fit. His biceps filled the sleeves of his collarless shirt, and he had a well-developed upper torso. He kept what hair he had cut short, and his blue eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of fashionable glasses, signaled a no-nonsense outlook on life.

If he was gay, as Osterman said, it didn't show in either his mannerisms or appearance. But living in Santa Fe, Kerney was used to meeting gay men of all ages who proved that homosexuals were by no means all swishy queens.

Perrett stood up, reached across the desk, gave Kerney a hearty handshake, and sat back down. "My secretary said this is about Anna Marie Montoya."

The office furnishings were far too nice to have been bought with grant or public money. No bean counter would have allowed such indulgences. Kerney eased into a comfortable wicker lounge chair with leather cushions. The expensive walnut desk was twice normal size, and Perrett's desk chair was a high-end model that likely sold for eight or nine hundred dollars. The wall art consisted of tasteful, nicely framed posters of old Broadway musicals. Clearly, Perrett had furnished the office with his own funds.

"Are you aware that Anna Marie disappeared some years ago and her remains have just recently been discovered?" Kerney asked.

Perrett nodded. "Yes, of course. Very tragic."

"How well did you know her?"

"Fairly well. I became her advisor when she transferred from university studies to major in psychology. She was a good student with an intuitive talent for working with people. She held promise as a researcher, but she enjoyed direct client involvement more than pure science."

"Yet she worked for you on a research project in northern New Mexico."

Perrett nodded. "She took my senior research seminar and I recruited her to be a field worker the summer after she graduated. She was bilingual. Native Spanish speaking, in fact. A very desirable asset, since we were working to develop a culturally unbiased intake assessment tool for Spanish-speaking alcohol and substance abusers."

"That must have been difficult to accomplish," Kerney said, hoping that focusing on Perrett's professional interests would loosen him up a bit.

Perrett's eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. "Yes, very frustrating. Do you have some knowledge of research methodology?"

Kerney smiled. "Not really. What I know consists only of dim memories from an undergraduate psych course I took years ago. Did you get the results you hoped for?"

Perrett smiled, showing his pearly whites and a hint of smug satisfaction. "Indeed, we did. The assessment instrument we developed is now used in Hispanic alcohol and chemical dependency treatment programs throughout the country."

His reaction, and a framed photograph on the credenza behind the desk of a former first lady presenting him with an award, confirmed to Kerney that Perrett was a man who took great satisfaction in his accomplishments.

Kerney stroked him. "That must be very gratifying."

Perrett gave a modest shrug and said nothing.

Kerney turned the conversation back to Anna Marie and asked if she'd ever come to him with any personal problems.

"None of a serious nature, as I recall."

"What do you remember?"

Perrett reflected for a moment. "Best not to trust to my memory," he said, rising from his chair. He opened an antique oak filing cabinet and sorted through a drawer. "Anna Marie used me as a reference when she applied to graduate school, so it's quite likely I still have my advisor notes attached to my copy of the letter of recommendation."

He returned to his chair with a folder in hand and thumbed through it. "Yes, here it is. She had met a young man, early in her senior year, who she was attracted to but not sure about."

"Another student?" Kerney asked.

"She didn't identify him as such," Perrett said, scanning his notes.

"Did she give you a name?" Kerney asked.

"If she did, I didn't write it down."

"What were her concerns about him?"

"A fear that he was just interested in sex."

"Nothing more than that?"

"For a young, heterosexual Hispanic woman raised as a Catholic that would not be a minor issue."

"Was she sleeping with him?" Kerney asked.

"Considering it," Perrett said, setting the folder aside.

"Did she ever tell you what decision she made?"

Perrett shook his head.

"What can you tell me about the young man?" Kerney asked.

"He had money and lived off campus. Other than that, nothing. Perhaps one her former roommates could tell you more."

Kerney left, thinking the fresh information about a hitherto-unknown boyfriend at least gave him another new thread to follow. He didn't know how far it would take him, but it felt like a potential bright spot in an otherwise stalled-out cold case.

He shook off the brief snippet of optimism, called information for Cassie Bedlow's number, got an address, and headed toward the northeast heights.