Tularosa

Chapter 2

South of the Albuquerque corridor, Kerney began to enjoy the drive. Santa Fe's unrelenting growth spurts were bad enough, but Albuquerque was pure, ugly clutter along the interstate highway. After the city, open desert country undulated in waves, broken by the Rio Grande valley and an endless parade of mountain ranges to the west and east. The small villages bordering the river were enclaves anchored against the expanse of open space, surrounded by green fields that dappled the stark landscape with color. The high country of northern New Mexico was beautiful, but it couldn't hold him the way the desert could. He had been away from it for far too long. He gassed up on the main drag in Socorro, a somewhat shoddy town that paralleled the interstate, found a self-service car wash, sprayed the crusted mud off the truck, and continued south toward Las Cruces with the music of Mozart filling the cab.

The office of the sheriff of Dona Ana County was in the old courthouse in downtown Las Cruces. He introduced himself to the secretary, who inquired as to the nature of his visit. He told her it was personal, and she gave him a quizzical look before announcing him on the phone.

Still puzzled after she hung up, the secretary quickly ushered him into Andy Baca's office. Andy came out from behind a big walnut desk, grinning from ear to ear, and reached for Kerney's hand.

"I'll be damned," he said. "It's good to see you, Kevin."

"Hello, Sheriff," Kerney replied, grinning back at his old friend. "I thought you'd moved to Las Cruces to retire and play golf." He looked around the office. The walls were filled with the memorabilia of Andy's twenty-year career with the state police. Behind the desk, on a windowsill, miniature state and national flags stood in stanchions.

"Seems you got bored," he added. Andy laughed.

"You've got the golf part right. I've got a ten stroke handicap, a wicked slice I can't seem to correct, and a standing offer to play every Friday afternoon with a bunch of guys who kick my butt and take my money."

Andy wore a conservative western suit that draped nicely over his sturdy frame. There was a slight hint of jowls under his jaw and a little less hair offset by longer sideburns. Aside from being a superior cop, Andy was one of the most warm-hearted men Kerney knew. He slipped into his executive chair behind the uncluttered walnut desk and gestured for Kerney to sit across from him.

"And I did get bored," he added. "Started reading the newspaper with my morning coffee and wound up deciding that my predecessor was a political hack surrounded by uniformed cronies. It pissed me off, so I decided to do something about it. Ran for sheriff, and here I am."

"So here you are," Kerney said.

"And it makes Connie damned happy," Andy replied. "She was tired of having me underfoot. Complained that I was turning into a grouch. What brings you into my county?"

"I need a favor," Kerney replied. In response, Andy raised a cautious eyebrow and nodded for Kerney to continue.

"I've been hired to find Terry Yazzi's son. He's A.W.O.L. from the missile range." Andy's expression turned quizzical.

"Is that why Terry stopped in to see me? I had no idea."

"I take it you didn't talk to him."

"No," Andy replied, getting up from his desk.

"I was out improving my slice when he came by." He walked to the small conference table near the front of the office, sorted through a stack of papers, selected one, and held it up to read.

"We're carrying a Specialist Sammy Yazzi on the daily report as an A.W.O.L.. Is that the kid?"

"It is. What information do you have on him?" Kerney asked as he joined him. Andy slapped the paper with his free hand.

"Nothing. Just date of birth, height, weight-that sort of stuff." He handed it to Kerney.

"Who's paying your freight? Maria?"

"Terry's paying." Andy walked back to his desk, perched on the corner, and waited for Kerney to join him.

"How is Terry?"

"He's okay, I guess. He's chief of police at the pueblo. Says he's been off the sauce for two years. He looks sober. In fact, he looks good." Andy studied his hands before speaking.

"You can't be doing this for Terry."

"I'm not. Sammy's my godson. I've known him since the day he was born." Andy nodded somberly.

"That makes sense." The smile returned, and he slapped his leg with the palm of his hand.

"Okay, how can I help?"

"The brass at the missile range stonewalled Terry. I was hoping you could grease some wheels for me."

"Sure, sure, but it won't amount to much. Army cops are no different from the rest of us-they think private investigators are a pain in the ass."

"I'm not licensed as an investigator," Kerney replied. Andy frowned.

"That's worse yet. You might as well turn around and go home for all the good I can do you."

"I can't do that." Andy seemed amused.

"Why am I not surprised?" He rubbed a hand over his chin and thought for a minute.

"You'll need some juice if you want the military to cooperate. Why don't I put you on the payroll?"

The offer startled Kerney. "I'm medically retired. Not fit for active duty."

"So what? I can do it without bending any rules."

"You're serious?"

"You bet." Andy leaned over the desk, opened the top drawer, reached in, and tossed Kerney a badge.

"Let's make you a lieutenant. That should be high enough on the pecking order to get the Army's attention." Kerney held the badge in his hand, feeling slightly flabbergasted.

"I wasn't expecting this."

"It's no big deal, but don't get too attached to that shield. Money is tight. You're on the payroll for thirty days. That's all I can afford." Andy shifted his weight against the edge of the desk.

"Now it's your turn to pony up."

"Name it," Kerney replied, wondering what Andy wanted.

"Tell me what really happened with you and Terry. The shooting team report was a bunch of crap."

"It's not worth talking about."

"Indulge me." Kerney swallowed hard, unwilling to start. The scene had played through his mind endlessly, but he'd never put it in words. Maybe it was time. He looked Andy directly in the eyes and started talking.

"We were on a stakeout waiting for an arrest warrant so we could pick up a cocaine dealer in the barrio. I covered the back door while Terry was inside the liquor store across the street, watching the front of the house. Just before the perp crawled out a front window, Terry decided he needed a beer chaser to go with the vodka he had been nipping at from a hip flask all morning. At the time, I had no idea he was hitting the sauce heavily. He was moody and sullen, but I passed it off as a reaction to his divorce.

"Anyway, while he's popping open a cold one at the cooler in the back of the store, the perp came out the front door and ran behind the house. He saw me and started shooting. I took the first round in the knee and the next one in the gut before I could drop him. By the time Terry got to me, it was over.

"While I was in surgery, Terry told the shooting team that the suspect came out a side window and that he never saw him. I believed his story. So did Internal Affairs."

"How did you learn the truth?"

"Three weeks later, Terry came to visit me when I was home from my second round of surgery. He was tanked up, suicidal, and guilt-ridden. I guess he felt a need to confess. That was the last time I saw him until this morning."

"You should have busted his ass," Andy counseled.

"At the time I was too doped up on painkillers to give a shit about anything. It really didn't sink in. Part of me didn't want to believe it. Anyway, Terry busted himself. After he left my place, he stayed drunk until he got fired." Kerney searched Andy's face.

"How did you know Terry lied?" Andy laughed and pushed himself upright.

"I ran Internal Affairs for the state police, remember? It was my job to review the shooting team report for the DA. I interviewed Terry to confirm his story just before he got canned. For a man with nothing to hide-who had been cleared of any blame-he was in a cold sweat. It smelled fishy." Andy leaned over the desk, scribbled a note, tore it from the pad, and handed it to Kerney.

"Captain S. J. Brannon, Sara Brannon, is the officer-in-charge of the criminal investigation unit at the missile range." He checked his wristwatch.

"She should still be in the office. I'll make an appointment for you. I'll tell her Terry's an old friend of mine who's asked me to look into his son's disappearance. My secretary will pull the active A.W.O.L. files for you to review. Check to see if Sammy went over the hill with a friend. Sometimes these kids run together to keep their courage up."

"I'll look into it. Thanks, Andy." Kerney held out his hand.

"No problem." Andy handshake was sincere.

"Let's get you sworn in." After the paperwork was completed and Kerney left the office, Andy absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the desktop. He'd acted impulsively, but it felt right. Putting a badge in Kerney's pocket might be the best thing he could do for the man. He would gladly take ten officers like Kerney, gimpy leg and all, if he could find them. The man was one hell of a good cop. He reached for the phone to call Captain Brannon.

He not only wanted Sara to know she would soon have a visitor, he wanted her to know something about the new lieutenant he was sending her way. *** Captain Sara Brannon inspected the man standing in front of her desk.

His face was tan and his hands were calloused from physical work. He was built like an athlete, with big shoulders, a nicely formed chest, and a slim waist. He didn't look like a cop coming off a lengthy convalescence after being seriously wounded. If Andy hadn't told her, she would have guessed the limp was nothing more than an old football injury. Dressed in jeans that broke below the heels of his cowboy boots and a white starched western shirt that fit him nicely, he wore an oval belt buckle with a single turquoise stone in the center of a silver setting.

"Sit down, Lieutenant," she said as she shook his hand. He had the prettiest blue eyes she'd ever seen. Kerney lowered himself into the straight-backed chair in front of the gray steel desk.

"Thanks for seeing me."

"I hear that you're new to the sheriff's department," Sara replied. "I'm a bit surprised that Andy Baca would send a lieutenant to investigate this case."

He waited for the captain to be seated before replying. It gave him a brief chance to study her. Her fatigue uniform was crisp, with sharp creases in the sleeves. The shirt didn't hide the long, slender neck, offset by short strawberry-blond hair. Her eyes were sparkling green. The only jewlery she wore was a West Point ring. He'd seen a lot of academy rings during his tour of duty in Nam.

"The sheriff and Chief Yazzi are old friends. He wants to give the case priority."

"So I understand. You are aware that Specialist Yazzi's case is purely a military matter?"

"Of course," Kerney answered cordially. "But I'd appreciate any information you can give me. Specialist Yazzi's parents are very worried, and Sheriff Baca would like to help as much as possible." The captain nodded curtly.

"Sheriff Baca made that clear. We take the disappearance of any soldier very seriously. Most of the personnel at White Sands work on highly secret projects. There are security implications to be considered in this situation."

"Do you have a motive you can share?" Kerney asked. Brannon's office was strictly functional: two metal chairs for visitors that matched the unpretentious desk, a filing cabinet within easy reach, a builtin bookcase along one wall, and a computer on a work station by a window that looked out at the distant Sacramento Mountains.

"Not presently," Sara responded. She rubbed the band of her ring with her thumb. Kerney kept looking at her hands. She folded them in front of her on the desk. Kerney decided Captain Brannon had elegant hands. He looked at her face.

"Your investigation is stalled," Kerney restated. She bit her lip and scowled.

"Dead in the water."

"Maybe a fresh perspective would help." Sara bit her lip again. The close-cropped hairdo complimented her face. A small line of freckles ran across her nose. She considered the man in front of her.

"I really don't see the need for your assistance." Kerney countered quickly.

"Give me twenty-four hours on the base. If I don't make any progress, I'll pack it in."

"What exactly do you propose to do?"

"Backtrack. Play up the fact that I'm not part of the military. Maybe something will shake loose." Sara Brannon considered the idea. It was a long shot, but if Kerney could light a fire under the investigation it might help get another case off her desk.

"You've got twenty-four hours," she finally said. "And tell Andy Baca he owes me one." Kerney held back a smile of relief.

"I'll pass along your message." She nodded curtly.

"You're restricted to the main post. I'll arrange a billet for you at the bachelor officer's quarters. The officer's club is nearby and the food is decent."

"Will I need an escort?" Kerney asked.

"If you make that necessary, Lieutenant, you'll be out of here before you can blink an eye."

"Fair enough," Kerney agreed, wondering how Brannon planned to have him watched. She wrote a note on a pad, tore it off, and handed it to Kerney across the desk.

"Give this to the duty sergeant at the front office. He'll take care of you." She stood up. Kerney rose with her. She was tall enough to look him in the eye without difficulty.

"Thank you. Captain," he said.

"I expect to be kept informed. Call the post operator and ask for me by name. If I'm not available, I'll get back to you." She nodded in the direction of the door to indicate that he was dismissed.

"Good luck." Alone in her office, Sara rang for her second-in command and asked what he had learned from the Armed Forces Record Center about Kevin Kerney. The officer came in bearing a packet, prepared to give an informal briefing. Sara stopped him short and had him sit quietly while she scanned the papers. Kerney, a Vietnam veteran, had served one tour in-country late in the war as an infantry platoon leader and had rotated stateside with an impressive array of citations and a recommendation for a Regular Army commission, which he had turned down. The personal information about Kerney intrigued her. His place of birth was listed as Tularosa, New Mexico, a small town on the eastern edge of the missile range. A native son. If his date of birth was correct, Kerney had been something of an overachiever; he had received his ROTC commission at the age of twenty when he graduated from the state university in Las Cruces.

Sara looked at the young officer, who waited expectantly.

"Query the FBI on Kerney and ask the post historian to see if he has information on the ranching families in the Tularosa Basin who predated the missile range. Anything he has on the Kerney family I want to look at." The officer wrote it down and waited for more.

"Put a tail on Kerney," Sara added. "Two men, full-time, and rotate the shifts starting at midnight. Run a background check on Specialist Yazzi's father. I want anything you can get on his work history in law enforcement. Look for a connection between the father and Kerney. Start with the Santa Fe Police Department. That's where Kerney was last employed."

"Anything else?" the officer inquired, getting to his feet.

"Tell the surveillance teams I want every move Kerney makes fully documented. They're to pull him in if he spits on the sidewalk."

"Problems?" the officer asked. She closed the file, handed it to the lieutenant, and looked out the office window. Kerney was standing in the parking lot pasting a temporary vehicle pass to the rear window of a pickup truck. She watched him for a moment and turned back to the officer with a smile.

"That's what you're going to tell me. But I find it strange that a sheriffs lieutenant, on duty, drives his personal vehicle instead of a police cruiser." *** The late-afternoon sun burned through the fabric of Kerney's shirt and the hot desert wind blew against his neck. Behind him was the office of the post provost marshal, where he'd left Captain

Brannon. He was barely aware of the line of cars moving slowly through the guard station as the civilians, defense contractors, and off-post personnel began their commutes home. His eyes were riveted on the Sacramentos, sixty miles distant. He recalled the trip to Frenchy's cabin in Dog Canyon, one of the rare excursions of his childhood when his father packed up the truck and took him camping in the high, cool forest. It was a year when the cattle brought a good price and the beef herd was sleek and fat from a wet winter and spring. The year before the drought. His gaze moved down from the peaks to the sundrenched desert, chalky gray in a great sweep of rolling space. Up the tube of the Tularosa Valley, light danced on the fringe of the brilliant gypsum dunes at the White Sands National Monument.

To the north the San Andres Mountains showed a rugged, tortured countenance to the valley floor, hiding the sinuous curves of narrow canyons that cut deep into the mountain range. He took a deep breath of the dry air and climbed into the truck. To the west, the granite peaks of the Organ Mountains dominated the main post. He thought about Sara Brannon. She was damn pretty, with an oval face and high cheekbones that drew attention to her eyes. He wondered if she was involved with someone. Probably, he decided. He attached the visitor's badge to his shirt pocket and drove down the street. The base, arranged with military precision, made finding your way fairly easy.

There were directional signs everywhere, and all the buildings were numbered and named. The administrative offices were clustered on a main drive with shade trees marching in neat rows along the roadway. All the curbs were freshly painted, and there wasn't a piece of litter in sight. A large parade ground sat across the road from the headquarters. A permanent reviewing stand installed on the north side looked out over a grass field. He found the sign to the enlisted barracks and turned off. The quarters were a compound of two-story red-brick buildings with flat roofs, within walking distance of the dining hall and the post amenities. Kerney parked in the lot and walked into the empty compound between the buildings. Given the time of day, Kerney reckoned most of the people he wanted to see were in the chow line at the mess hall. A small, one-story building at the end of the compound was posted with a company headquarters sign. Kerney went in the open door and found a clerk at a desk finishing up reports for the day. He showed the soldier his badge and asked to see Captain Meehan, Sammy's commanding officer. He was told that Meehan was gone for the day and not due back until morning. Kerney asked to see the first sergeant.

The private gave him directions to the sergeant's quarters at the opposite end of the compound. Kerney walked to the two-room suite in the barracks that Master Sergeant Roy Enloe occupied and knocked on the door. It was jerked open by a hairy, naked man who was toweling dry his hair. He seemed unconcerned about his appearance or the stranger at his door.

"My company clerk just called from the office to say you were coming over. I don't have much time," Enloe said, leaving the door open and walking to the middle of his small sitting room.

"What can I do for you?"

"What can you tell me about Sammy Yazzi?"

"He was a good soldier." Enloe picked up a fresh pair of boxer shorts from the arm of a chair, dropped the towel, and started dressing."He pulled his duty without complaint and never gave me any trouble. I've been over this ground before, Lieutenant, with our own people. Ask me a question I haven't heard."

"Do you know how I can get a hold of William McVay?" Kerney asked.

"Bull McVay?" Enloe smiled as he pulled on an undershirt.

"He's retired. Living up in a trailer park at Elephant Butte Lake. Why do you want to see Bull?"

"He was Sammy's baseball coach. Maybe he might know something about Sammy's disappearance." Enloe shook his head in disagreement.

"I doubt it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Bull likes to talk about three things. Baseball, religion, and the Army. He became a horn-again Christian about three years ago. You can't get him to stop talking about Jesus Christ, the New York Mets, and the air cavalry, especially if he has a few beers in him. That's all he cares about. I don't think he'd have a clue about why Yazzi went A.W.O.L.." Enloe stepped into a pair of stretch denim jeans and sat down to put on his shoes and socks.

"Why did McVay retire?" Kerney inquired. Enloe talked to the floor as he tied his shoelaces.

"Bull was planning on being a thirty-year man until his mother got sick. Alzheimer's disease. It was real tough on him to put in his retirement papers, but he felt obligated to look after her. He got her admitted to the state veterans' home up in Truth or Consequences. She served in

World War Two as a WAC ferry pilot, flying B-17 bombers."

"Have you seen him since he retired?"

"No." Enloe stood up and put on a clean shirt that had been draped over the back of the chair.

"But he should be easy to find. Truth or Consequences isn't that big of a town."

"Why do you call him Bull?" Enloe snorted as he buttoned his shirt.

"Wait till you meet him. He's a foot shorter than me and built like a tank."

"Is he married?"

"Divorced. That's one reason he's working. The ex-wife gets a third of his retirement pay."

"Do you know where he works?"

"I haven't a clue. Somebody at the NCO club might be able to tell you."

"Thanks for your time."

Enloe smiled. "No sweat." He walked out the door behind Kerney and hurried across the compound to the parking lot.

Kerney went to locate PFC Alonzo Tony, who was nowhere to be found. His roommate, a slightly overweight boy with bony hands and a pug nose, arrived just as Kerney was about to leave. The soldier told Kerney that Tony worked swing shift at the post communication center, where he served as a cryptographer, and didn't get off until midnight. Kerney asked where Sammy Yazzi bunked, and the boy took him to a two-man room down the hall. Exactly half the room was empty, except for a bunk. The other half contained a precisely made bed with military corners, a foot-locker, and personal gear. The name on the closet door read PFC Robert Jaeger.

"Where is Sammy's gear?" Kerney asked.

"At the quartermaster's," the soldier answered.

"They store your gear if you go A.W.O.L.." Kerney could hear the sounds of the troops returning from dinner. A radio was cranked up to a rap music station. Someone shouted to turn down the noise.

"What about his bunkmate?" Kerney asked.

"Bobby? He's on a pass."

"When is he due back?" The soldier shrugged and looked down the hallway, anxious to be done with Kerney.

"In a day or two, I guess. Anything else?"

"No. Thanks a lot."

The kid nodded and walked away. Kerney made a quick search of the room, checking the closets, the built-in dressers and desks. The room was completely bare of any trace of Sammy.

Outside, the evening air was cooling quickly and the compound was filled with young men, most of them in civilian clothes, eager for diversion. The Organ Mountains were tipped with a band of pink light as the final shadows of dusk came on.

The post library, within walking distance of the barracks, near the service club and the post movie theater, was not the most popular attraction on the post. Some housewives browsed through the new fiction display, and a few off-duty soldiers were in the reading room. Kerney found the young woman Sammy had briefly dated busily shelving books in the stacks. Carla Montoya was petite, bouncy, and talkative. Long, curly hair framed her rather ordinary features to advantage. She appeared to be in her early twenties. She answered Kerney's questions willingly, creating a sense of drama for herself in the process.

"I met him here at work," Carla said, responding to Kerney's overture. "He spent a lot of time at the library when he first came to the base. I thought he was kinda cute. Real quiet-like and serious. He didn't try to hustle me, but was real sincere-like. We dated five or six times. The movies, a couple of dances. Stuff like that."

"Who broke it off?" Carla shook her head, the curls swirling over her shoulder. She patted them down.

"Nobody. It didn't get that far. It was just dating, that's all. I like him and everything, but…" She shrugged.

"Did Sammy talk about himself? His problems?" Carla chewed on her lip.

"Not really. It wasn't like he was unhappy or anything like that. He talked a lot about how much he wanted to go to art school when he got out. Some place back east. I forget exactly where."

"Nothing else?"

"He talked about cars," Carla answered.

"He had an old Chevy sedan." She rolled her eyes in mock disgust and twirled her finger around a lock of hair.

"It was really a piece of junk. I mean, embarrassing." She strung the word out.

"He wanted to buy something better."

"Did he?"

Carla hesitated, her fingers toying with a strand of her hair.

"I'm not sure. I saw him cruising in Las Cruces once after we stopped dating. He was driving a different car. Somebody was with him, but I couldn't tell who it was. I don't think he even saw me. I kinda figured he'd bought himself something better."

"When was that?"

"About two months ago. Just before he went A.W.O.L.."

"What kind of car was Sammy driving?"

"I think it was a Toyota. Not new. Maybe a couple of years old. Sort of a sandy beige two-door. An economy model." Carla's tone of voice suggested that the car was not at all cool.

"Have you talked to anyone about this?"

"Sure. Sammy's father. The Army investigator." She smiled brightly. "And now you. But I just remembered seeing him in a different car. I'd forgotten about that."

"Where did Sammy keep his car?" Kerney asked.

"I guess behind the barracks," Carla answered. "That's where the enlisted personnel have to park."

"Tell me about the Chevy," Kerney asked. Cars meant a great deal to Carla. She described the junky Chevy in detail.

Kerney left her to resume her book-stacking chores and walked back to the barracks. The parking lot was half empty. He looked for a beige Toyota and a beat-up Chevy. There was no Toyota that matched Carla's description, but there was a white Chevy sedan with a For Sale sign in the window parked at the back of the lot. He wiped away the film of dust from the window where the sign was taped. The sign had Sammy's name on it. He circled the vehicle. There was enough light from the streetlamps to see hand and fingerprint smudges in the dust on the door near the handle.

Someone had recently been in the vehicle. He found more smudges on the trunk lid. The car was locked. The interior was clean as a whistle. Kerney found that interesting. The Sammy he knew, on his best days, wasn't that neat. He went to his truck and drove toward the BOQ.

In the foothills that rose to meet the Organ Mountains, lights from the married officers' quarters dotted the landscape. The orderly at the BOQ gave him the key to a room and said there was more than enough time left to get a meal at the officers' club. Kerney's stomach grumbled and his leg ached. The knee just didn't do too well on long trips in the truck. He carried his bag to the room, unpacked a fresh set of clothes, and sat in the tub under the shower, letting the hot water soak away the throbbing in his knee.

While dressing, he had an impulse to check in with Sara Brannon. He rejected the notion. There was absolutely nothing to report. He closed the door and locked it. There was no sense making it too easy for the room to be searched.