Tularosa

Chapter 3

Kerney entered the officers' club to find half a dozen men and women sitting at the far end of the bar away from the door. In the back dining area, separated by a waist-high partition, some junior officers and their wives were celebrating a young child's birthday. Laughter and chatter spilled over to the front of the room. Kerney sat at a small cocktail table in the barroom and received quick attention from a waiter. He ordered a light meal-his stomach, unable to digest any food in quantity, demanded it-and nursed a glass of iced tea while waiting for his food to arrive. The walls of the barroom, paneled in a rich walnut, were decorated with framed prints of nineteenth-century military scenes. Replicas of old regimental cavalry flags hung from the ceiling rafters. His meal, a pasta salad with a cream dressing, was served quickly. He ate slowly, enjoying the food. Eating out was something of a treat, and the meal was well prepared.

He was about to call for his check when Sara Brannon entered the club with a man. Both were dressed casually. Sara, in a loose ribbed pullover shirt, a denim skirt, and a soft pair of suede boots that accented her long legs, looked very classy. Her companion, a tall fellow, dressed in chinos, hiking boots, and a blue chambray shirt, with dark, sun bleached hair that curled up at the nape of his neck, had a studious, intelligent face. Eyeglasses highlighted his scholarly appearance. Sara didn't see

Kerney as she passed by; her attention was diverted by something the man was saying as he led her by the arm to the bar.

Hoping to leave undetected, Kerney watched Sara as he waited for the waiter to bring the check. She talked with her hands and seemed much more relaxed and animated than when Kerney had met her in her office. The tendency to fidget with her class ring was a habit, Kerney decided. She unconsciously toyed with it, rubbing her thumb along the band. The waiter came with the check, and Kerney settled up immediately, hoping for a discreet exit.

Sara saw his reflection in the bar mirror and waved him over.

"Lieutenant Kerney," she called. Forcing a smile, Kerney veered toward the bar. The man turned and eyed him with interest.

"I'd like you to meet Fred Utiey," she said. Utiey got off the bar stool.

"Nice to meet you," he said with a grin, extending his hand. Utiey was in his mid-thirties, about Kerney's height. His hand was calloused and his grip firm.

"Likewise," Kerney replied.

"You must be new on the post," Utiey said, reclaiming his seat at the bar.

"Lieutenant Kerney is with the Dona Ana Sheriff's Department," Sara clarified. Her eyes, guarded and unsmiling, never left Kerney's face.

"Join us for a drink. Lieutenant." She patted an empty stool next to her. In spite other relaxed veneer, it was an order, not a request.

Instead of sitting next to Sara, Keroey slid onto the stool beside Utiey, using the man as a buffer, and ordered a glass of white wine. Utiey didn't notice the unspoken exchange.

"Are you here on official business or just visiting?" he asked. Sara didn't give Kerney a chance to answer. She touched Utiey lightly on the arm.

"The lieutenant is working on a case with us." With Utiey placated, she gave Kerney a sharp, quick look, while her voice remained unruffled.

"Fred is the chief archaeologist at the missile range." Kerney hesitated. The lady is pissed, he thought, without a clue as to why. He smiled at Utiey.

"Your job must be very interesting." Utiey nodded with satisfaction. "It is. White Sands is an anthropologist's dream. There are over five thousand square miles on the base that were hardly touched by modern civilization before the Army took it over. The Apaches traversed the area, mostly to hunt or camp, and Hispanic settlers farmed on the fringes of the basin, but that was about it until cattlemen moved in from Texas, looking for free range. It was really one of the last western frontiers.

"It's a vast area that's been protected for almost half a century. That means no destruction of historical sites, no pot hunters digging for artifacts, no massive public use of the land. Some of the old ranches are still standing, with everything in them that the previous owners didn't carry away." Utiey paused while the bartender served Kerney his wine.

"You may not be interested in all this," he said, with an apologetic wave of his hand.

"But I am," Kerney replied. Utiey gave him an appreciative smile. Kerney leaned back, glanced at Sara, and decided she was really pissed off. The smile on her face didn't hide the antagonistic gleam in her eyes. Utiey continued talking, unaware.

"I've been here seven years and we've barely begun to touch all the historical sites on the range. I'm excavating right now at a place called Indian Hills, north of here in the San Andres. It was part of the old Pat Garrett ranch. He was the sheriff that killed Billy the Kid. In fact, Garrett himself was murdered at the San Andrews Pass. His killer was never caught."

"Interesting," Kerney said, taking a sip of wine. He put the glass down, pushed it to one side, looked at Sara in the mirror behind the bar, and inclined his head toward the exit. She caught the cue, interceded by touching Utiey lightly on the shoulder, and gave Kerney a charming smile.

"I should have warned you not to get Fred started."

"I enjoyed it," Kerney announced as he stood up. "Thanks for the drink and the conversation."

"Let me walk you out. Lieutenant," Sara said, touching Utiey again to keep him in place.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, Fred."

"Shoptalk?" he asked her with a grin. "Or should I say cop talk?"

"A bit of both." After another staunch handshake from Utiey, Kerney walked outside with Sara. In silence they waited as the birthday party celebrants trailing behind them passed by, loaded themselves into cars, and drove away.

"You wanted to speak to me. Captain?"

"Your little deception didn't work," Sara snapped.

"I know that Sammy's father once worked for you, and he's hired you to find his son. For some weird reason, Andy Baca decided to give you a badge and make you legitimate."

"You work fast," Kerney replied.

"Don't try to butter me up. Lieutenant. I don't like being lied to. I want an explanation and I want it now." The irritation in Sara's eyes made Kerney break contact.

The full moon was high, projecting a glow that created hushed charcoal shadows in the basin. The distant Sacramento Mountains, blurred shapes, glistened with a satin polish. He turned back to her, looked her square in the eyes, and spoke carefully, admitting the truth to himself for the first time.

"For a long time, Sammy and his parents were like family to me. I guess I can't shake that off as easily as I thought."

"So, you're saying this is strictly a matter of an old family friendship." Sara's lips were two thin lines of reproach.

"I find that hard to believe, if you're being paid."

"It's not just the money. Sammy is one of the few people I really care about." Sara waited for more, and nothing came.

"Is that it?"

"Pretty much. I assume you've learned enough to fill in some of the blanks." Sara sighed in exasperation. She knew Terry Yazzi had been with Kerney the day he got shot, and that the friendship between the two men had ended soon after, but there were blank pages that needed filling in.

"I'd like to hear more," she prompted. Kerney shook his head.

"It's not relevant. Regardless of what you decide, I'm going to keep working on the case."

Sara bit her lip. Confronted by the facts, Kerney, to his credit, didn't sulk or cave in. And Andy Baca, after getting an earful from her on the telephone, had stood his ground about Kerney's skills as an investigator.

"You don't make it easy on yourself," she said.

"I know. It's your call, Captain. I'd like our agreement to stand."

"All right," she finally said, "but the clock is ticking, and when the twenty-four hours are up, you leave." Kerney smiled in relief.

"Thanks." Sara nodded, her green eyes searching his face for the slightest sign of gloating. Satisfied there was none, she switched gears.

"What have you learned so far?"

"Nothing. Does Sammy's disappearance fit a victim pattern? Are there any similarities to other A.W.O.L. cases?" Sara shook her head.

"We looked at that. There are two open A.W.O.L. cases involving young single males. Neither of them has surfaced, but we can find absolutely no connection between them and Specialist Yazzi."

"How old are the cases?"

"Recent. One involves a civilian employee and the other is a Navy seaman."

"Can you arrange for me to speak to Sammy's supervisor?" Kerney asked.

"I'll set it up and call you at the BOQ in the morning. His name is Sergeant Steiner." She turned to leave.

"Captain Brannon." Sara looked over her shoulder.

"What is it?"

"Bobby Jaeger. Sammy's roommate."

"What about him?"

"When is he due back on base?"

"Check with his first sergeant. Good night, Lieutenant."

"Good night." He watched her walk through the door to the club, thinking that Sara Brannon was one sharp lady. *** A visit to the NCO club, a more crowded, louder, and livelier establishment than the officers' club, with a honky-tonk atmosphere, yielded no information on Bull McVay. Kerney hung around asking questions until he ran out of people to quiz. He spent the next hour in the empty dayroom at the enlisted barracks waiting for PFC Alonzo Tony to get off duty. It was after midnight when, half asleep, he heard the barracks door open and footsteps on the tile floor. He called out PFC Tony's name, and a young man detached himself from a small group of soldiers who were quietly scattering down the hallway to their rooms.

Kerney introduced himself and asked Tony to talk to him in the dayroom. Tony eyed Kerney uneasily and only agreed to join him after Kerney explained his purpose.

"I don't believe Sammy went A.W.O.L.," Tony said, fishing out a cigarette. "No way, man." Tony had a full upper lip, prominent cheekbones, and a symmetrical nose. He was about five feet eight with a long trunk and no waist; just a straight line from chest to hips.

"Not his style?"

"You got that right," Tony agreed, lighting his smoke.

"Do you think something bad happened to Sammy?" Kerney inquired.

"That's the only thing that makes any sense. Sammy is just about my best friend. I know him pretty well. He's not the kind to go off half-cocked."

"Do you have any ideas about what happened to him?" Tony shook his head.

"Nope."

"I understand he was spending some time in town after he stopped dating Carla."

"He was, but I don't know if he was seeing anybody. We didn't talk about girls all that much. He'd bail out of here for Las Cruces, just like the rest of us, but I didn't get the feeling he was chasing some skirt."

"Did you go with him?"

"Sometimes. We'd hang together now and then, like if we had the same day off. He has wheels and I don't."

"Did you hang at any particular place?"

"Not really. We'd take in a movie or cruise-things like that."

"Did he buy a new car?"

"He was going to. The Chevy died on him. He's been saving money for a down payment. He doesn't like riding the shuttle bus to town. Can't say that I blame him; it's embarrassing."

"Did he keep anything personal in his car?"

"His art stuff. He likes to draw."

"Did Sammy say anything about buying a Toyota?"

"Nope."

"Where does he work?"

"Uprange. He's got a wacky schedule: pulls four days on and three off.

He was trying to work a deal to change his duty so he could take some art courses at the university." Kerney cut off his questioning.

"Thanks. I may want to talk to you again."

"That's cool." Back in his room at the BOQ, Kerney checked the zipper on his carryall bag. He'd left it open a fraction of an inch and now it was completely closed. He undressed and got into bed, exhausted from the twenty-hour day. He reread Sammy's letters to Maria. She was absolutely right about his attitude. The letters were upbeat and filled with plans for the future. Kerney mulled over the information he'd gathered since his arrival. It was both inconclusive and unpromising.

He was almost asleep when he started thinking about Sara Brannon and the muddle he'd made with her. He groaned at the memory, stuffed a pillow over his head, and went to sleep. *** PFC Bobby Jaeger drove his Camaro up the back road from Fort Bliss toward the missile range. He was a little drunk from all the beers that guy had bought him in a Juarez nightclub. What was his name? Greg, or something like that. Jesus, what a build! He looked like he could bench-press three hundred pounds easy, maybe more. A real nice guy. The Camaro started to weave. Bobby brought it to the center line and concentrated on the white stripe. He could ride the middle of the two-lane road straight to Orogrande. There weren't any other cars on the road. He gave the Camaro a nudge up to eighty-five and listened to the sound of the pipes. Sweet. Greg-that was his name. He knew Sammy.

Couldn't believe Sammy went A.W.O.L.. Shit! Who could believe it? Asked a lot of questions about Sammy. Bobby's eyes started to close. He snapped his head up and shook off the cobwebs. No problem, he thought, blinking rapidly to get things in focus. He was still in the middle of the road. Pick up the pace a little bit, he counseled himself. Need to get home and get some rack time.

PFC Bobby Jaeger was fast asleep as the Camaro sped toward the ninety-degree turn at the Orogrande curve. When the right tires left the pavement, Bobby woke up. He turned the wheel and stood on the brakes, and the Camaro slowed to a hundred miles an hour before crashing through the barrier. It flipped on the hood and ground a deep furrow through the desert. The phone rang at two-thirty in the morning, waking Kerney from a deep sleep.

"Get dressed and meet me outside," Sara Brannon ordered when Kerney answered. Kerney grunted, got up, and dressed. Outside Captain Brannon waited in a marked patrol car.

"What's up?" Kerney asked, as he climbed into the front seat. Sara hit the overhead emergency lights and pulled away from the curb before Kerney had the door closed.

"PFC Jaeger is dead." Kerney was wide awake.

"What happened?"

"He rolled his car and put his face through the windshield." They drove through the main post to the Orogrande turnoff, where Sara floored the unit. In the distance Kerney could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. There were four military police and a medical team at the scene when Sara and Kerney arrived. Two units blocked the road and two more were positioned to spotlight a length of the highway. The sergeant in charge approached at a run as Sara jumped out of the unit and slammed the door.

"What have you got, Sergeant?" she demanded.

"Skid marks and yaw marks, ma'am," the sergeant replied. He was an Asian-American about thirty, with the frame of a distance runner.

"He went off the pavement with the right tires, tried to adjust, and hit the brakes. Looks like he fell asleep at the wheel. Probably alcohol-induced."

"Walk me through it." Kerney watched Sara put the sergeant through his paces as he reviewed the skid marks and physical evidence on the roadway. She asked all the right questions. Then, with Kerney in tow, they walked to the Camaro, which was upside down a good hundred feet from the pavement. A portable generator and light illuminated the overturned vehicle. Bobby Jaeger's face, his expression frozen in surprise, features mangled and bloody, protruded halfway through the shattered glass.

"No seat belt," the sergeant noted. Sara nodded.

"I want a forensic team out here on the double. Nobody touches the body or the car until they're finished. I want to know the mechanical condition of that car before Jaeger rolled it. Arrange for an immediate autopsy when forensics releases the body. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," the sergeant answered.

"Also get me full background information on Jaeger before you go off duty. Everything you can dig up about him-drug-screening results, rap sheet, his personnel jacket. You know the drill." The sergeant nodded glumly. That meant a good three hours of extra work.

"Yes, Captain."

"Carry on," Sara said, turning to Kerney.

"Are you ready, Lieutenant?"

"Sure." Sara Brannon said little on the drive back to the base.

"Mind telling me why you brought me along for the ride?" Kerney finally asked.

"Two men room together. Within weeks one goes A.W.O.L. and the second dies in an auto accident." She glanced over at Kerney.

"Are you good at math? What's the statistical probability?"

"I understand that. What else?"

"You wanted to meet Bobby Jaeger."

"Paybacks are a bitch," Kerney commented.

"Isn't that the truth," Sara replied, with a charming smile. Captain Brannon called again at six in the morning rousing Kerney out of a stupor. She gave him instructions on when and where to meet Sergeant Steiner, Sammy's NCOIC, and granted permission for Kerney to search Sammy's gear stored with the quartermaster.

Groggy, he shaved in the bathroom mirror, trying not to look too closely at his haggard face. It wasn't a pretty sight. Finished, he strapped on the ankle weight, sat on the end of the bed, and exercised the knee, working the few remaining ligaments that held the leg together until the pain forced him to quit.

He stretched and soaked the leg before getting dressed. The beefy sergeant in the supply room watched him carefully as he pawed through Sammy's belongings. There were some framed family snapshots, letters from Maria-but none from Terry-civilian clothing, uniforms, and standard-issue military equipment. Sammy had a small desktop stereo system, a fairly eclectic collection of cassette tapes and compact disks, and a small library of paperback novels and art books. There were several unused sketchbooks still wrapped in protective cellophane and an assortment of pens, acrylic paints, and watercolors, but not a single example of Sammy's art work.

Kerney dumped all the clothing on the floor and went through each piece systematically, turning everything inside out. He took the case off the stereo, the covers off the speakers, and the pictures out of the frames. He shook each book by the binding and inspected each cassette tape. Each time he added something to the pile, the sergeant snorted with displeasure. Satisfied that there was nothing, Kerney thanked the sergeant, who grumbled openly about the mess on the floor and damn civilians. Kerney smiled benignly and left.

Staff Sergeant Steiner was waiting for Kerney outside the eadquarters building, looking preoccupied. Steiner had a long, angular frame topped off by an owl-like, bookish face. He stiffened as Kerney approached, hands clasped behind his back in an at ease position. Kerney introduced himself.

"How can I help you. Lieutenant?" Steiner's formal tone indicated he was not a happy volunteer.

"I understand Specialist Yazzi worked for you."

"That's correct."

"What test facility do you work at?" Kerney added.

"It's an up range site," Steiner replied brusquely.

"Can you tell me about Sammy's work?"

"Not specifically."

"Can you give me a thumbnail sketch without revealing any secrets?"

"In general terms, I can. We work with a new ordnance designed for armored units. We study the products under laboratory and simulated field conditions. I can't say any more than that."

"That's good enough," Kerney said.

"How large is your contingent at the test site?"

"Thirty-two, including civilians. We operate twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Gulf War bumped the project to the top of the priority list."

"I was told that Yazzi wanted to change his schedule so he could take some art courses. Did he talk to you about it?"

"He certainly did," Steiner replied emphatically.

"I had no problem with the request if it added to his technical skills. I didn't think art courses qualified. I turned him down."

"Was he disappointed?"

"Maybe a little bit," Steiner responded, "but he knew that the job came first. Is that all. Lieutenant?"

"Did you ever have any reason to informally discipline Sammy?"

"Sammy never gave me any problems."

"When did you notice him absent from duty?"

"He failed to report back to work after his rest period."

"He wasn't missed until then?"

"The facility covers a lot of territory. Think of it like an outpost. We have full dining, sleeping, and recreational accommodations, supply and support buildings, plus a number of secure structures."

"What did Sammy like to do on his downtime?"

Steiner ran his finger over the brim of his fatigue cap and hesitated before answering.

"He liked to draw."

"And that was okay for him to do?" He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and didn't answer.

"You liked Sammy, didn't you?" Kerney said with an understanding smile.

Steiner relaxed a bit.

"Sure I did. He was damn good at his job and easy to get along with."

"And you couldn't change the schedule for one man," Kerney added sympathetically. "I understand that. I bet Sammy did, too. Police work is the same way. You just can't afford to play favorites."

"That's right," Steiner agreed.

"But somebody like Sammy," Kerney continued, "a good worker, a team player-if it was me, I'd try to keep him happy, keep him productive."

Steiner nodded in agreement.

"That's what being a good supervisor is all about. Is this conversation off the record?"

"Absolutely. I don't work for the Army, Sergeant. I'll make sure it doesn't get back to anybody on the post."

Steiner thought about that for a minute, removed his fatigue hat, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

"Okay. Technically, any kind of drawing or photography isn't allowed up range He knew I wasn't going to change my mind about the duty roster, and I knew he wasn't going to draw pictures that jeopardized national security. Sometimes the regulations just don't match the individual circumstance. So when he asked if he could do his artwork on his free time, I said I would allow it, as long as he turned the drawings over to me when he returned."

"Returned from where?"

"I told him he could only sketch away from the compound. He'd hike into the desert and come back in a couple of hours with some drawings. It was all harmless stuff."

"What did you do with pictures?"

"I destroyed them. That was part of the deal." Steiner put his fatigue cap back on his head and looked at his wristwatch.

"I've got a long drive ahead of me. Is that all. Lieutenant?"

"Was Sammy on a hike the day he turned up missing?"

"Yeah. He always checked in with me before he took off. He was real good about it."

"Who went looking for him when he didn't return?"

"Half the MPS on the post, plus myself and all the off-duty people at the facility."

"How long was he gone before you started looking?"

"Almost the full twelve hours." Kerney didn't hold Steiner back from leaving. He ran the information through his mind, his spirits sinking. From what Steiner told him, the probability that Sammy had gone

A.W.O.L., no matter what the Army believed, was highly unlikely. *** Kerney cooled his heels in the company orderly room outside Captain James Meehan's office. Master Sergeant Roy Enloe was at his desk, reading reports and ignoring him. Finally, the phone on Enloe's desk rang. After answering it, Enloe sent Kerney into the captain's office.

The captain, young and engaging, had a thin nose, a dimpled chin, and sandy hair cut short. His uniform was sharply tailored, with airborne jump wings pinned above two rows of service ribbons.

Like Sara Brannon, he wore a West Point ring. Meehan leaned back in his chair and studied Kerney, his expression somewhat perplexed.

"I'm a little confused here, Lieutenant. Is Specialist Yazzi wanted by the civilian authorities?"

"No. Sammy's parents are worried about their son. They asked Sheriff Baca to make inquiries. He sent me." Meehan shook his head and smiled.

"I don't see how I can help you. You've talked with my first sergeant. I share his opinion that Sammy was a good soldier. Right now he faces company punishment: loss of rank, confinement to barracks. He can still salvage an honorable discharge if he gets his butt back here soon and doesn't fuck up again." Meehan smiled.

"Let the Army sort it out, Lieutenant."

"That's good advice," Kerney replied. "Have you been informed that Sammy's roommate died in an auto accident early this morning?" Meehan nodded, a grave look crossing his face.

"Yes, I have. Tragic."

"Did Jaeger have a drinking problem?" Meehan bent forward, arms resting on the desk, his expression filled with candor.

"Look, Lieutenant, I can bend the rules a bit and talk to you about Specialist Yazzi, but I'm really in no position to talk about PFC Jaeger. I wish I could be more helpful, but you'll have to speak with

Captain Brannon about the matter." Meehan's telephone rang, and Kerney used the interruption as his cue to leave.

At the main gate he turned in his visitor's badge and headed for Las Cruces, hoping for better luck in the city. So far, he had fragments of information that added up to a big fat zero. *** James Meehan sat in Sara's office, looking at her eyes, which, at the moment, were filled with indignation.

"I don't work for you, Jim," Sara said in response to his comment that letting a civilian cop conduct an investigation on the base wasn't very wise.

"It was my call to make."

"All I'm saying is I wish you had told me about it before he showed up in my office. Do you have any background on this Lieutenant Kerney?"

Sara pushed a thin file to the far edge of her desk. Meehan collected it and started reading. Aside from his regular duties as a company commander, Meehan ran a covert intelligence operation that was completely separate from Army intelligence. Meehan and his people-whoever they were, Sara thought sullenly-watched everything and everybody, and reported directly to the Pentagon. Sara was one of a few officers at the missile range who knew what Meehan really did. When necessary, he used her resources. It might consist of detaining a suspect, conducting a search, or arranging for a traffic stop. Most of the time, Sara had no idea why, but she had standing orders from the highest authority to cooperate. With A.W.O.L. cases, however, the cooperation was supposed to be mutual, up to a point.

Meehan laughed when he finished reading Kerney's biography.

"This is ludicrous," he said, replacing the folder on the desk.

"It serves no purpose to have him on the base. He's just a loose cannon."

"He may well be," Sara replied, "but it was my decision to make."

"I thought we were cooperating on the A.W.O.L. cases, Sara."

"Are we? As far as I can tell, it's a pretty one-sided arrangement. My team does all the grunt work while you stonewall me with need-to-know bullshit. Is Yazzi a security risk or isn't he? Do you have anything to suggest he may have compromised national security?"

"That's not fair, Sara. You know the conditions I have to work under. I'll answer those questions if and when I can. If your people could find Yazzi, things would go a lot faster." Sara wrinkled her nose.

"Right."

"I'm not criticizing. I realize it's a tough case." Meehan stood up.

"I do have some good news for you. You can close the Benton file." Sara arched an eyebrow. Benton was the missing civilian employee.

"Really? Tell me about it."

"That's all you get," Meehan responded.

"That stinks."

"All right, I'll tell you this. We have Benton in custody, but the situation involves a possible security breach at another research installation. It should be cleared up in a week." Sara gave Meehan a sour look.

"That's better than nothing, I suppose." She walked to the door and held it open.

"Jim, don't ever come into my office again and try to tell me how to do my job. Understood?"

"Feeling a little testy?" Meehan asked with a chuckle.

"Just setting the ground rules. Captain." Meehan smirked.

"You really can be a bitch, Sara."

"You bring it out in me," she answered sweetly, closing the door behind him. She hoped Meehan's assessment of Kerney was wrong. It would give her great pleasure if Kerney turned up something she could stuff it down Jim Meehan's throat, bit by bit. *** "You're not walking with your tail between your legs," Andy observed, as Kerney came into his office.

"I thought for sure Sara would rough you up a bit."

"She did," he said, sinking into the chair in front of the desk. "The lady is an expert butt-chewer." Andy nodded sympathetically.

"Don't feel bad. She jumped down my throat with both feet." He shrugged philosophically.

"Trying to finesse the captain wasn't such a good idea. I think I underestimated her. After living with Connie for twenty-two years, I should know better. Did she send you packing?"

"No."

"Amazing."

"I need your help, Andy. I have one slim lead that may go nowhere and not much time to run it down."

"Tell me what you've got." Kerney filled him in on everything he knew before getting to his request.

The most disquieting fact, Sammy's disappearance in the middle of the desert from a highly secret test site, raised the chances that the boy was dead. Unhappy with the thought, Andy got out of his chair and walked to the window, wondering what pressures Sara Brannon was facing. It was a standing joke in the community that the missile range had more garden-variety spooks, spies, and intelligence operatives than the Pentagon had two-star generals. He turned to Kerney, who was making his pitch.

"I want to find the Toyota Sammy was driving and talk to the man who was with him the night Carla Montoya saw them together."

"That's a long shot," Andy noted.

"I know it."

Andy decided swiftly.

"It's worth a try. I'll give you two deputies for the remainder of the day. Both are fresh out of the academy. That's the best I can do." He picked up the phone and asked for two officers to report to his office.

Kerney's temporary detail arrived quickly. Both of the boys, one with peach fuzz on his chin and the other with the gangly look of an awkward adolescent, looked much too young to hold commissions. Andy filled the deputies in on their assignment and told Kerney to use a small office near the radio room. Kerney put himself and the team to work immediately, reviewing computerized motor vehicle records on the off chance that Sammy had bought and registered another car, and calling all the dealers in the city to see if anyone remembered Sammy as a customer. It was boring, repetitious work, and after hours on the phone with no success the initial enthusiasm of the deputies had waned. He looked at the wall clock. The lunch hour had come and gone. Maybe his guys were simply running out of fuel.

He ordered pizza to be delivered and got appreciative smiles. When the food arrived, they kept at it, chasing down car salesmen who were at home on days off. Kerney hung up on his last call and rubbed his ear. His team was back to looking wilted.

"Let's try insurance agents," Kerney suggested, as he flipped through a phone book and reached for the telephone.

"Hit the ones that cater to military personnel. Call the national offices if you have to. Ask if Sammy inquired about car insurance or got a rate quote." The deputies nodded dully and got back to work. Kerney was in the middle of his list when the gangly deputy put the mouthpiece against his chest.

"I've got something," he said.

Kerney waited impatiently as the deputy asked questions, scribbled some notes, and finally hung up. He almost yanked the piece of paper out of the officer's hand. At the door, he stopped and remembered his manners.

"Thanks. I'll let the sheriff know that you both did good work."

"Any time. Lieutenant," the gangly kid replied, his face breaking into a big smile. The officers watched the door slam shut behind Kerney, looked at each other, and went to find the incoming shift. The troops would definitely want to hear about the new lieutenant with the bad leg, searching for a missing soldier, who seemed to be the sheriffs friend. *** According to the insurance agent, Sammy had asked for a rate quote for a Toyota he planned to buy from D amp;B Auto Sales. Kerney found the used-car dealership along a four-lane highway on the outskirts of the city. The business, situated on a long, narrow lot, consisted of an old residence converted to an office, a detached single-car garage that served as a repair shop, and fifty or so cars parked under pennants strung between light poles. On top of the office a billboard announced that the dealer would finance any car with a low down payment.

Kerney parked on the street and walked between tightly packed rows of cars to the office. It was unoccupied. At the far corner of the lot, a portly older man was talking to a young Hispanic couple and gesturing at a black Pontiac Firebird with a customized paint job. He spied Kerney and waved. Kerney waved back and waited, his attention drawn to the angry yellow sky.

The evening winds were kicking up a dust storm on the desert beyond the river valley. Billowing plumes of sand diffused the sunlight, creating a false sense of coolness. It was still hot as hell and dry as a bone, but the clouds told of a big blow and the promise of rain sometime soon.

As a boy Kerney had stretched his imagination in those clouds, even as he learned to read them from his father, who ranched with one eye on the stock and the other on the weather. The salesman walked the young couple to their car, talking vigorously and pointing back at the Firebird. The man shook his hand, got the girl in the car, and drove away. Kerney met the salesman halfway across the lot.

He was a roly-poly fellow with a chubby face burned bright pink by the sun.

"How you doing today?" The man asked, extending his hand.

"I'm Dewey Boursard." Kerney identified himself and showed Boursard his badge.

"My lot boy said the police had called here a while ago. I was picking up a new battery at the time. He doesn't speak very good English, so he didn't tell me very much."

"Do you remember a soldier by the name of Sammy Yazzi who wanted to buy a Toyota?" Dewey smiled.

"Almost closed the deal. He was interested in a nice little Toyota subcompact. Came in twice to look at it. Second time I knocked the price down a little and he gave me a hundred dollars in earnest money to hold it until he could arrange financing.

"I sure thought I had a sale. Those Army boys don't get paid enough to give up a hundred dollars that easy. I held that car way past the delivery date. Cherry little vehicle. Low mileage. One owner. I even tried to call him at the base to let him know I'd finance the contract myself if he was having trouble getting a loan."

"Did you get through to him?"

"No. I left a message. He never called back."

"Do you still have the car?" Dewey smiled and shook his head.

"That puppy sold real fast. A college kid from the university bought it. I advertise in the student newspaper. Get a lot of my business from the kids out there."

"Did he ever drive the vehicle?"

"Both times he was here," Dewey replied.

"The second time he came in, he brought a buddy along with him."

"Tell me about the buddy," Kerney invited. Dewey pursed his lips.

"I didn't catch his name. He was a black man. A little shorter than you. Maybe six feet tall. He looked to be twenty-five or so, I'd guess. Had an East Coast accent. A mechanic."

"Why do you say that?"

"He drove a '68 Ford Mustang he restored himself. I offered to buy it. Mint condition. Real collector's car."

"That doesn't make him a mechanic."

"He knew cars. Went over that Toyota real careful-like. I think he tagged along to check the Toyota out for his friend. I'll bet you a dollar to a doughnut he's a wrench jockey at the missile range."

"What makes you think so?" Dewey held out both hands, palms down. His nails were dull and dingy.

"Grease," he explained.

"I do all the minor work on my inventory. Saves a few dollars. You never get that gunk completely cleaned off. His hands looked worse than mine. Stuffs like dye almost."

"Anything else?"

"He had a base vehicle sticker on the Mustang."

"Do you remember what kind?"

"Enlisted personnel. I see a lot of those on trade ins "Did Sammy talk to you about anything besides the Toyota?"

"Not that I recall," Dewey answered. He changed his mind quickly. "As a matter of fact, he did. I thought he wanted to use an old Chevy for part of his down payment. We'd talked about it the first time he came in. Wasn't worth much, but I could wholesale it and make a few bucks. When I asked, he said the black guy was gonna buy it."

"Thanks for your time." Dewey smiled and glanced at Kerney's truck.

"No problem. If you want to sell that truck, bring it by for an appraisal. If it runs good, I can sell it in a week. Lot of people can't afford the new ones. I could move a dozen late-model trucks a month if I had them. They go like hotcakes."

"I'll keep that in mind," Kerney said. *** The dust storm intensified near the mountains that separated the missile range from the rest of the world. An updraft blew sand against the rear window with a faint hissing sound. Kerney topped out at the San Andres Pass. The Tularosa Basin was hidden from view by a grimy sky. He turned off the highway onto the access road to the missile range and checked the time. His twenty-four hours had expired. Captain Sara Brannon wouldn't be any too pleased at his checking in late, but maybe new information just might cut him some slack.