Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Three

July and August were the busiest months in the summer tourist season and placed a heavy burden on the Santa Fe Police Department. Early in July, before things heated up, Crystal Hurley was arraigned on multiple felony charges, including carrying a concealed weapon, and entered a not-guilty plea. She paid a hefty cash bond, surrendered her passport, agreed to remain in the state, and underwent a court-ordered psychological evaluation. Immediately thereafter she entered a private psychiatric hospital for treatment.

If convicted on all counts Hurley faced the possibility of fifteen to twenty years in prison, although Kerney doubted such a sentence would be handed down. According to Ramona Pino, who was doing follow-up legwork for the prosecutors, Hurley’s lawyers and shrinks were busy building a case based on their client’s long-standing emotional problems.

Although in principal everyone was equal before the law, the scales of justice always seemed to tip in favor of those people with money, power, or influence. Kerney had seen it played out time and again during his law-enforcement career. Hurley’s money might not buy her love, happiness, or peace of mind, but it could go a hell of a long way to lessen the legal consequences of her criminal behavior.

During the last weekend in July the annual Spanish Market was held on the Plaza. The largest exhibition of traditional and contemporary Hispanic arts in the country, it remained one of the few major events in the city that still drew the locals downtown. It had grown in size and scope over the past thirty-odd years, but from a policing standpoint the crowds and the congestion remained manageable.

For the major Plaza events Kerney put on his uniform and worked side by side with his officers. Throughout the weekend mariachi bands played, flamenco dancers whirled, politicians made speeches, processions circled the Plaza, arts-and-crafts people sold their wares, and folks lined up at the food booths, drawn by the spicy aromas of New Mexico cuisine.

August brought Indian Market, an event where upwards of a hundred thousand people converged on Santa Fe. To manage the congestion and chaos Kerney saturated the downtown area with all available officers. When time allowed, he would relinquish his command responsibilities to his deputy chief, Larry Otero, and spend an hour or two on foot patrol, relieving his supervisors for meal breaks or walking a beat through the hundreds of white tents that ringed the Plaza and spread down the side streets. It was a weekend of extra shifts for every officer on duty.

The population of Santa Fe more than doubled during Indian Market and stretched his department’s resources to the limit. The number of sworn personnel Kerney had was barely adequate to cope with the resident population of Santa Fe, and the possibility of a disaster or major crime during Indian Market always worried him. Fortunately, the weekend wound down with nothing more than a few purse snatchings, several cases of heatstroke, some lost children safely returned to their parents, one shoplifting arrest, and a few fender benders.

In late August the mayor publicly announced that he would not stand for reelection in March. As the candidates lined up to announce their intention to run for the office, a stream of concerned, curious, and ambitious senior commanders sought Kerney out to question him about his plans. He made it clear to all that he would step down and retire, although he didn’t say when. He needed to discuss it with Sara first, and not by telephone.

On a Friday morning Kerney took an early flight from Albuquerque to Washington, D.C., where Sara was to meet him at the airport. After he arrived, he spotted her outside the passenger screening area with Patrick at her side. His son, now three, had grown again and looked more and more like his mother each time Kerney saw him. The same strawberry-blond hair, eyes more green than blue, the same line of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and a smile that melted Kerney’s heart.

Patrick broke away from his mother and ran to Kerney, who picked him up and gave him a bear hug.

“Can I have a pony?” Patrick asked, after Kerney smooched him.

“What does your mother say?” Kerney asked as Sara stepped up, gave him a kiss, stroked his cheek, and smiled her wonderful smile. She was wearing her Class A army uniform, which surprised Kerney. On the phone last night she’d said she was taking the day off.

Patrick raised four fingers. “I have to be this old.”

“How old are you now?”

Patrick glumly held up three fingers.

“You’ll be four soon enough,” Kerney said.

Patrick shook his head, as though such a day was an eternity away.

“Don’t pout,” Kerney said. “Soon you’ll be back in New Mexico and you can ride with me every day.”

Patrick’s eyes lit up. “Every day, forever?”

Kerney laughed. “How long is that?”

Patrick pondered the question seriously and spread his arms wide. “This much is forever.”

“Forever it is,” Kerney agreed with a laugh. “Are you working?” he asked Sara.

Sara nodded. “I’ll tell you about it on the ride home.”

In her SUV, Sara explained that she’d been called a few hours ago and told to report to her Pentagon boss at sixteen hundred hours.

“I don’t know why,” she added. “But my orders for embassy duty have been rescinded. I’m to remain at the Pentagon until further notice.”

“In the same job?” Kerney asked.

“God, I hope not,” Sara said. For three years she’d worked for a one-star general, a petty tyrant who’d given her nothing but grief. It was a distinct possibility that her orders had been canceled as a payback for standing up to him time and time again.

“So we’re in limbo,” Kerney said.

“For now. Have you officially resigned?”

“Not yet,” Kerney replied. “The mayor asked me to stay on until the end of his term. I wanted to talk to you about it before I gave him my answer.”

Sara sighed.

“What?” Kerney asked.

“It seems like reality is again interfering in our lives.”

“I will retire, Sara. In fact, I’ve already announced it.”

“Well, that’s one piece of the puzzle.”

“What are the other pieces?”

They’d reached Arlington, Virginia, where Sara and Patrick lived in the house Kerney had bought as an investment when Sara had started her tour of duty at the Pentagon. She turned onto the street that led to the Cape Cod-style cottage and pulled into the driveway.

“Will we ever get to the point where we can live together as a family?” Sara asked as she killed the engine.

Kerney avoided Sara’s questioning look, removed Patrick from his child’s seat, hoisted him into the front of the SUV, and put him on his lap. The last thing he wanted was to start the weekend with an argument.

Sara put the SUV into reverse and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not picking a fight. Patrick has a brand-new book he’s been saving for you to read to him, and guess what? It’s about a horse.”

Patrick grinned and tugged Kerney’s hand. “It’s about a pony,” he said emphatically, “not a horse. I’ll show it to you.”

Kerney opened the door. “Let’s go, champ. I’ve got to see this book.”

As Sara drove away, Patrick scooted toward the cottage, urging Kerney to hurry. He followed Patrick up the path, delighted by his smart, self-confident son and disconcerted about Sara’s situation. Would new orders place her in harm’s way, separated from Kerney and Patrick for the duration?

Except for Kerney’s pending retirement all plans were now on hold. There was some solace knowing that at least he’d be free to be a full-time parent if circumstances required it. But the thought of not seeing Sara for an indefinite period of time was gut wrenching.

“Come on, Daddy,” Patrick said.

Kerney smiled and hurried to his son.

Brigadier General Stuart Thatcher delighted in keeping subordinates off guard and anxious. He routinely called his staff in for impromptu meetings or one-on-one confabs without specifying an agenda, and took great pleasure in making them wait interminably outside his office.

To deal with the man, Sara tried hard to control her feisty nature but at times found it impossible to do so. With appropriate deference to his rank she would occasionally point out to Thatcher that she would be better prepared to meet with him if she knew in advance what he needed to talk to her about. The suggestion always brought color to Thatcher’s cheeks.

Additionally, Sara had taken to asking Thatcher’s secretary to buzz her when the general was ready to meet, so she could work at her desk rather than waste time cooling her heals outside his office. Although it raised Thatcher’s ire, he couldn’t fault her working instead of waiting.

How Thatcher had earned his one-star rank had always confounded Sara, until she’d learned he was a third-generation West Pointer with a senior U.S. senator in his extended family.

Sara shared an office with three other officers. She sat at her cubicle desk and listened as her colleagues got ready to leave for the day. Twelve-to sixteen-hour workdays were not uncommon at the Pentagon. But when Friday came, everybody who wasn’t scheduled for weekend duty bailed out as soon as possible.

On her desk stood a photograph of Kerney and Patrick astride a horse at the Santa Fe ranch. From the grins on their faces both of them looked like they were in heaven. Sara marveled at how much Patrick and Kerney were alike in personality, temperament, and looks. They had the same square shoulders, gentle strong hands, and narrow waists. They shared a dogged determination to do things well and a capacity to be bullheaded.

Two sides of the same coin, she thought with a smile.

She said good-night as her office mates filtered out, wondering how long Thatcher would keep her waiting. An hour later, after she had cleared out some routine paperwork, Sara’s phone rang and she was summoned to Thatcher’s office, where she found him sitting ramrod straight in his chair, hands clasped on the obsessively tidy desk.

Sara snapped to and said, “Sir.”

Thatcher raised his egg-shaped head that was punctuated by a pointy nose, thin lips, and a seriously receding hairline. “You are to be held over at the Pentagon pending reassignment.”

“Sir, I am aware of that,” Sara said, wondering if Thatcher had called her in to repeat old news simply as a way to jack her around.

Thatcher forced a smile and waved her into a chair. “Of course you are. But I’ve been asked to determine if you’ll accept a TDY assignment in the training branch.”

Sara sat. TDY meant temporary duty. “What would the job entail, General?”

“You’d serve as a member of a special project team tasked with preparing an advanced military-police-officer curriculum for reserve and National Guard units. It must be accomplished in six months.”

Sara nodded, wondering why the training branch would be given a project that rightly fell under Thatcher’s purview.

“However, if you choose, you could remain in your present position until your permanent orders come through. That would allow you to take your scheduled thirty-day leave next month.”

“Sir,” Sara said, “would it be possible for me to start on the TDY project after my return from leave?”

Thatcher almost sneered with delight. “I rather doubt it. The assignment has the highest priority. What shall it be, Colonel?”

Stone faced, Sara parried Thatcher’s squeeze play. “If possible, General, I would appreciate it if you would query the training branch on my behalf to determine if I could begin the assignment after I return from leave.”

Thatcher shook his head. “I’m afraid I need a yes or a no from you, Colonel.”

Sara stood and snapped to attention. “With all due respect, you have my answer, General.”

“I doubt your answer will be well received,” Thatcher said. He looked decidedly pleased with the prospect of keeping Sara under his thumb for a while longer. “But I will pass your request along. You’re dismissed, Colonel.”

Sara saluted, did an abrupt about-face, and left Thatcher’s office. He waited a few minutes before dialing the number of the aide-de-camp to the vice chief of staff, who was organizing the special team.

“General Thatcher here,” he said when the aide answered.

“Yes, General.”

“I’m calling about Lieutenant Colonel Brannon.”

“Sir, will you hold for the vice chief?”

Taken aback, Thatcher said, “Of course.” He’d had no inkling of the vice chief’s personal interest in Brannon or the project.

Quickly, General Henry Powhatan Clarke came on the line. “What did the colonel decide, Stuart?” he asked.

“I believe Colonel Brannon would rather remain in her current position, sir.”

“What makes you say that?” Clarke asked.

“She seems quite satisfied here, General.”

Henry Powhatan Clarke knew better. As a four-star general recently installed as the vice chief of staff, he’d checked up on Sara Brannon without her knowledge. She’d been one of the best young officers to serve under him in Korea, winning the prestigious Distinguished Service Medal and a meritorious field promotion to her present rank. Under Thatcher, a man who should never have been allowed to pin a star on his collar, she was languishing, not being used to her full abilities.

“Did she turn down the assignment?” Clarke asked.

“Not in so many words.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“She asked if she could take the TDY assignment after completing her leave. I told her it was unlikely.”

“Did you, now? Well, you tell her I want her bright eyed and bushy tailed when she reports to the training branch after her leave is over.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where in the hell did you get this notion she had to start the job immediately?”

“I believe that’s what your aide told me, General,” Thatcher replied.

“Negative, Thatcher. My aide made the call to you from my office, and he said no such thing.”

“I must have misunderstood, General.”

“Indeed you did,” Clarke snapped. “When does Colonel Brannon start her leave?”

“In about two or three weeks, sir.”

“Very well. Before she departs, make sure you’ve done her efficiency rating and forward a copy of it to me immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And let Colonel Brannon know ASAP that she’s good to go as the team leader of the TDY assignment.”

The line went dead before Thatcher could respond. His hands were sticky with sweat. He dropped the receiver in the cradle, rubbed a hand through his buzz-cut hair, stared at the palm print on the desktop, wiped it dry with his shirtsleeve, and let the reality sink in that he’d screwed up big time with the new vice chief.

Sara eased to a stop in the driveway of the Aurora Heights cottage, killed the engine, and sat behind the wheel, trying to purge the last of her negative feelings about her meeting with General Thatcher before she went inside. She didn’t want to start the weekend with Kerney ranting and raving about her boss.

She gazed at the small brick house with its pitched shingled roof, gabled second-story windows, and formal pilasters that bracketed the front entrance. She loved the house, loved the man and boy who waited for her inside, loved the fact that Kerney had bought it for her and Patrick. It was the first true home she’d lived in since the day she entered West Point.

Inside, she called out to Kerney and Patrick and got no response. On the kitchen stove a pot of spaghetti sauce simmered, one of Kerney’s specialties he frequently fixed when he came to Arlington. She walked to the small enclosed back porch, heard the sound of Patrick’s laughter, and looked out through the screen door to see father and son playing baseball. Patrick stood with a small plastic bat on his shoulder, watching Kerney chase down a large rubber ball that rolled across the lawn.

“Home run!” Patrick said.

“Home run,” Kerney echoed, returning with the ball. He lobbed it underhand to Patrick, who swung and missed.

The last of Sara’s snit about the meeting with Thatcher washed away as she watched her husband and son at play for another minute, before stepping to the bedroom to change out of her uniform. Last night, anticipating Kerney’s arrival, she’d shaved her legs and taken a long soak in the tub. She dressed in a pair of shorts that accentuated her legs and pulled on a scoop-necked short-sleeve top that revealed the tiniest bit of cleavage.

In the kitchen Patrick and Kerney were at the table, reading Pablito the Pony. Sara nuzzled Patrick’s cheek and stroked the back of Kerney’s neck.

“Are you just now reading the book?” she asked.

“For the third time,” Kerney said, glancing at Sara. “You look yummy.”

“Yummy means good,” Patrick announced as he turned the page.

“Can you hold that thought until later?” Sara asked.

Kerney grinned. “Easily. How did your meeting go?”

“Okay.”

Patrick poked his finger on the book to get Kerney’s attention. “This is where Pablito gets his hoof stuck in the fence, Daddy.”

“Right you are,” Kerney said.

“I’ll get the noodles started,” Sara said, “while you men finish reading.”

The phone rang. Sara went to the living room and answered. Kerney paused, hoping it wasn’t the Pentagon calling her back to work. She was still on the phone when he finished reading the story. He closed the book, sent Patrick off to his bedroom to put it away, and found Sara in the living room, her eyes dancing with excitement.

“Good news?” he asked.

“I’m staying at the Pentagon for at least six more months,” Sara said, “in a new temporary assignment, with a new boss.”

“What’s the job?”

“I’m supposed to develop a military-police training course for reserve and National Guard units.”

“How did you pull that off?”

Sara shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Does this mean your leave is canceled?”

Sara snuggled up to him. “No way. We’re still going to the Bootheel with you to play Hollywood cowboy.”

Kerney grinned with relief, held her close, took in her scent. “Well, for now, that’s another piece of puzzle solved.”

“For now is good enough for me,” Sara replied.

“I’m hungry,” Patrick said, as he bounded into the living room and grabbed his parents by the legs.

After a great weekend with Sara and Patrick, Kerney returned to Santa Fe late Sunday night, caught a few hours of sleep, and arrived at work in time to convene an interagency planning meeting for the upcoming Santa Fe Fiesta.

Every year in September the city celebrated the Spanish reconquest of New Mexico with pageantry, religious services, music, dances, parties, and the public burning of Old Man Gloom. It was a time when a good number of the citizenry got drunk, started fistfights, brawled in bars, vandalized property, fought with spouses, drove under the influence, and occasionally shot or knifed each other. Additionally, the birthrate in the city always spiked nine months later.

Santa Fe’s finest hated fiestas so much that many officers counted their years to retirement by the number of remaining celebrations they would be forced to work before they turned in their pension papers.

The meeting, held in the council chambers at city hall, brought together supervisors and commanders of all local, county, and state law-enforcement agencies, plus fire department, EMT, county jail, and hospital ER personnel. Working through the full agenda took the whole morning. Decisions were made on the streets to be closed and manned by uniformed personnel, where first-aid stations would be set up, how many personnel would be assigned to saturation foot and roving traffic patrols, the number of plainclothes, undercover, and gang-unit teams that would operate during the long weekend, and where DWI checkpoints would be established.

After setting SWAT command-and-control protocols for crowd and riot control, the meeting moved on to a discussion of what bars, liquor establishments, and convenience stores would be targeted for alcohol sales to underage drinkers, and how transportation to the jail and hospital would be coordinated.

Kerney brought the meeting to a close with a word of thanks and the announcement that he would be on vacation during the fiesta, leaving Larry Otero, his second-in-command, in charge. Because his pending retirement was now common knowledge in all the cop shops, the news was greeted with a lot of grins, head shaking, and friendly catcalls.

When the last of the group dispersed, Kerney stopped by the mayor’s office and left word that he would stay on as chief until the new administration came into office. At the personnel office he picked up the application for pension forms that needed to be submitted at least sixty days in advance of his retirement.

Paperwork in hand, Kerney left the building. In six months he would become a civilian. For many cops retirement was a difficult milestone. But with Sara and Patrick in his life Kerney felt ready and eager for the future. He smiled at his good fortune as he walked to his unit.

In preparation for the tech scout Kerney read up on the history of the Bootheel, a part of New Mexico he’d never really explored. He also surfed the Internet for information and bought some maps of the area to study. In 1853, under the Gadsden Treaty, the United States bought from Mexico over twenty-nine-million acres along the border for a paltry ten million dollars. The land purchase stretched from the Rio Grande to the junction where the Colorado and Gila Rivers joined. The deal had been struck by the government on behalf of the railroad barons, who wanted a southern route to California. Thanks to political patronage a new international boundary was surveyed and the Bootheel was born.

Eventually, at the turn of the twentieth century, the railroad had been built not to California, but to the copper mines in Arizona. Just as eventually, some sixty years later, the tracks were abandoned and dismantled, thrusting the small towns that had grown up along the right of way into free-fall decay.

The night before the tech scout was to start, Kerney drove to Deming, a small city on Interstate 10 west of Las Cruces, and stayed in a motel. Although he wasn’t due to meet up with Johnny and the movie-people party until late in the afternoon, he’d come down early so he could poke around and take a quick tour on his own.

On a bright, cloudless Friday morning Kerney rolled into Hachita, one of the Bootheel villages devastated by the loss of commerce after the railroad had pulled out. An old locomotive water tank perched on tall steel pillars stood next to the raised rubble of the railbed, still visible under the weeds and shrubby bushes that had gained a strong foothold amid the rocks. Fronting the highway that passed by the settlement stood a low-slung white building that housed a cafe and store. Next to it was a garage that sold gas, and a boarded-up structure that, according to the sign above the door, had once been a food mart.

The cafe consisted of a half-dozen tables crammed into a narrow room. At one end a passageway led to the kitchen, and a small area directly behind the diner served as a grocery store of sorts, offering a few basics such as sugar, flour, bread, and canned goods, and a wider selection of snack foods and soft drinks. On the wall of the cafe were sport plaques and framed certificates that had been awarded to teenagers from the village who attended high school in Animas, some thirty miles distant.

At a window table in the empty cafe, Kerney ate breakfast. From the time it took to place his order and finish his meal, not one vehicle passed along the two-lane blacktop. The bill came to pocket change, and Kerney tripled the tip for the young woman who had served as both waitress and cook.

Back in his pickup truck he made a quick tour of Hachita, which sat almost squarely on the Continental Divide. In among the derelict buildings, broken-down trailers, and trashed-out, sandy lots filled with the skeletal remains of cars, trucks, and miscellaneous pieces of cannibalized heavy equipment were a few tidy, well-tended, occupied dwellings. Kerney figured no more than sixty people lived in the village proper.

Aside from the post office, a small, stuccoed structure with a pitched roof, the only other buildings of substance were an old brick schoolhouse now used as an occasional community center, and a Catholic church with a mortared stone vestibule and bell tower that soared above whitewashed adobe walls.

Beyond the village, at a distance much farther than the eye imagined, the raw and barren-looking Little Hatchet Mountains jutted up from the valley. The mining town of Playas, where the film company would be headquartered, sat due west on the slope of desert scrub hills, out of sight.

With hours to kill, Kerney turned south, away from Playas, and drove the state road that would take him to Antelope Wells, the most remote port of entry into Mexico along the entire international boundary. The chill of the early desert morning had long passed and the day was heating up. Kerney rolled down the windows to allow the sharp smell of dry air to wash over him, cruised down the empty highway at a leisurely pace, and let his gaze wander over the valley.

By western standards Kerney’s two sections of rangeland outside Santa Fe hardly qualified as a ranch. Although it contained some good pastureland and live water, a great deal of it consisted of rocky soil that had been overgrazed and invaded by pinon and juniper woodlands.

Kerney had little knowledge of modern land conservation practices, so to get up to speed he’d enrolled in a series of weekend workshops on restoring western rangeland. Using what he’d learned, he had begun to institute changes on his ranch. Last year he’d cut, lopped, and bulldozed over a hundred acres of woodland that had intruded into a pasture. He would burn the piles later in the fall and reseed the acreage the following spring with cool-season grasses. With that accomplished he planned to create some swales at the lower end of a pond where an arroyo was forming, so the water could spread out slowly and allow the marsh grass and cattails to stabilize the banks.

What Kerney had in mind to do was only a start. He had a great deal more to learn about good stewardship of his land. But he’d met a number of smart, well-informed people he could turn to for advice and information.

Along the highway Kerney could see the effects of drought and over-grazing on parts of the valley. Vast acres of gray rabbitbrush and broom snakeweed stretched across the plain under thick stands of greasewood and mesquite. To the untrained eye the landscape looked lovely. But, in fact, it no longer resembled the open grasslands settlers had found over a hundred and twenty years ago.

At a pasture that had been brought back to life, Kerney stopped the truck and walked to the fence line. A rancher had restored the sandy soil as far as the eye could see with Indian rice grass, blue grama, little bluestem, burro grass, and a few varieties Kerney didn’t recognize. In some places grass stood in waist-high clumps, seed tips waving gently in a slight breeze. Close to the faraway mountains a herd of cattle moved slowly across the valley in the direction of a stand of trees that signaled a water source.

Only the song of a blue jay on a nearby fence post and the lowing of a cow broke the silence. The growing sound of an engine drew Kerney’s attention to the road and soon a noisy, rattletrap panel truck came into view, traveling at a high rate of speed. Headed north to Hachita, it passed Kerney without slowing.

Back on the highway, Kerney continued in the direction of Antelope Wells with the Big Hatchet Mountains guiding his way south, announcing the border and Mexico beyond. The road curved sharply at Hatchet Gap. Kerney came through the pass and saw a small flock of crows converging over the blacktop. On the center stripe, a quarter mile distant, he spotted what appeared to be the carcass of a large animal, perhaps a yearling calf. Kerney drew near and hit the brakes as soon as he realized it was a body facedown on the pavement.

He grabbed his first-aid kit from under the seat of his truck, ran to the body, and rolled it over. Blood bubbled from the smashed mouth and nose, and the skull had been crushed at the temple, exposing the cranial cavity. Teeth protruded through the lower lip, and Kerney couldn’t force the mouth open. He ripped open the shirt, took a small penknife from the kit, probed for the soft spot beneath the trachea, and punched a hole in it. Bloody fluid gushed out, splattering Kerney’s hands and face.

He dropped the penknife and started CPR, but it was too late. He sat back on his haunches and stared at the body. From what Kerney could make out from the mangled features and the clothing the victim had been a young man, maybe a teenager, probably Mexican, and most likely an illegal immigrant worker.

Had he been dumped out or accidentally fallen from the back of the panel van?

In the silence of the sun-drenched morning, as the crows circled noiselessly above, Kerney sat next to the body for a moment on the empty highway, thinking that he’d seen, in both war and peace, far too many dead people.

He got slowly to his feet and used his cell phone to call for police assistance and an ambulance. He got a tarp and some road flares from the toolbox in the bed of his truck, covered the body, and set out the flares. Above him the crows called out in protest as they floated down to the side of the road and pranced noisily back and forth, while Kerney kept them away with his silent vigil.

Forty minutes later an EMT from Hachita arrived on the scene, closely followed by a Border Patrol officer up from Antelope Wells. Kerney identified himself to the men, and the officer took his statement while the EMT inspected the corpse. Soon after, a state police officer from Deming appeared with an Animas volunteer fire department ambulance trailing behind. Two cowboys in a pickup truck, hauling a horse trailer filled with hay, stopped to watch the proceedings.

Kerney gave another statement to the cop, a senior patrol officer named Flavio Sapian, whom Kerney knew from his days as deputy chief of the New Mexico State Police. Sapian put out a radio bulletin on the panel van and took photographs of the dead man. He checked the roadway, the shoulder, and Kerney’s truck for any sign of a collision before releasing the body for transport. As the ambulance pulled away and the Border Patrol Officer left, Sapian walked to Kerney, clipboard in hand.

“Does this happen often?” Kerney asked.

Sapian, a stocky man with a fleshy face and deep chest, waved at the cowboys as they drove off. “Not like this. Sometimes a rancher will find a body on his land, or the coyotes-the smugglers who bring the illegal immigrants across the border-will abandon them in the desert. But mostly that happens west of here, where the copper smelter is located. It’s forty miles north of the border. The coyotes and immigrants use the flashing lights on top of the smelter stack as a beacon to guide them into the United States. They call it the Star of the North.”

“Do you think the dead man fell or was pushed?” Kerney asked.

“It’s hard to say,” Sapian replied. “If he was riding in the panel van as you suggest, you’d think there would be skid marks or other evidence to indicate that something happened to cause the rear door to pop open and the victim to fall out. On the other hand the coyotes pack their customers in trucks like sardines to maximize their profits. The victim could have been leaning against the door and it just gave way.”

“That may not be what happened,” Kerney said as he walked to the spot where the body had landed on the highway. “He hit facedown, and the only bruising and blunt-force trauma was on the front of his head and torso. There’s nothing here or on the body that shows he either tumbled or slid along the pavement.”

“That doesn’t prove murder,” Sapian said.

Kerney looked at Sapian. “You’re right, but homicide can’t be ruled out either.”

Sapian shrugged. “Maybe the autopsy will tell us something.” “Yeah,” Kerney said as he stared at the bloodstained pavement.

“You did the best you could to save him,” Sapian said.

“He was just a kid.”

Sapian nodded solemnly. “When I was first married, I’d come home from work and my wife would ask me how my day went. Some days I’d just say that she didn’t want to know. Once she asked and I told her. She doesn’t ask that question anymore.”

“There are days it just gets to you.”

“I know that feeling, Chief,” Sapian replied, eyeing Kerney’s blood-splattered face, hands, and shirt.

“I look a mess, don’t I?” Kerney said. “Is there anyplace nearby where I can clean up?”

“Not until you get to Hachita. But there’s a ranch a few miles north of here. Sign on the highway says Granite Pass Cattle Company. I’m sure the owners wouldn’t mind if you used one of their water tanks. I’ll give them a call, if you like, so you don’t get run off for trespassing.”

“Who are the owners?”

“Joe and Bessie Jordan,” Sapian replied. “An older couple, pretty much retired now. Joe’s gotta be pushing eighty. Their manager, Walter Shaw, and their daughter run the operation.”

Kerney smiled at the thought of seeing Johnny’s parents and sister. “Joe, Bessie, and Julia.”

“You know them?”

“You could say that,” Kerney replied. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give them a holler for me.”

A mile in on the ranch road the mesquite and greasewood shrubland gave way to open range that swept north and south along the flank of the Little Hatchet Mountains. Just off the road on the edge of a grassy pasture stood a rodeo grounds, complete with an elevated crow’s nest. A sign on it read: JORDAN ARENA.

The arena, enclosed by sturdy railroad ties and wire, had chutes at one end, gates at the other, and electric light poles outside the perimeter. Not that many years ago ranch rodeo arenas were a common sight in many rural areas of the state. Once or twice a year ranch families and working cowboys would come together to socialize and show off their skills in friendly competition. Folks would back their pickups against the fence and set up folding chairs in the truck beds to view the action. Events usually consisted of team penning, wild-horse catching, team branding, team roping, and wild-cow milking.

Kerney was glad to see that Joe and Bessie Jordan were keeping the old tradition alive.

Behind the holding pens was a stock tank fed by a windmill. Kerney stripped off his shirt and stuck his head and arms into the clear water, raised up, and started scrubbing off the dried blood with his hands. His moist skin dried almost immediately in the arid heat of the day. He stuck his head in the tank again and splashed water on his chest, shoulders, and back. He came up for air and a voice behind him said, “Remember when we used to go swimming in the stock tanks on Daddy’s Jornada ranch?”

He turned and looked at the woman who stood in front of a three-quarter-ton flatbed truck. “Hello, Julia.”

“Hello, yourself,” Julia Jordan said. “I understand you tried to save somebody who died on the highway.”

Kerney nodded as he gazed at Julia. Although now a bit more full figured, she still retained her good looks, and her laughing eyes, which always seemed to be a bit mocking, hadn’t lost any luster. Her long, curly hair, more gray than dark brown, cascaded onto her shoulders.

“I didn’t help much.”

“You look good with your shirt off,” Julia said slyly. “Care to go skinny-dipping with me?”

“I don’t think so.”

Julia laughed as she glanced at Kerney’s wedding band. “I’m not surprised. You always were the straight-arrow type.”

Quickly, Kerney slipped into his blood-splattered shirt. “Was I, now?”

“My God, were you hurt?”

Kerney buttoned up. “No, it’s not my blood.”

“Do you have a fresh shirt to wear?”

Kerney nodded.

Julia stepped to the three-quarter-ton. “Good. Follow me home. My parents can’t wait to see you. Mom’s in the kitchen cooking up a storm for you. You were always the one friend Johnny had that Mom favored the most. Me too.”

“Why didn’t I know this back then?”

Julia grinned as she climbed into the three-quarter-ton. “I’ve often wondered that myself.”

The drive to the ranch headquarters was a straight shot to low, grassy hills that rolled on toward the mountains. Four houses, all of them white pitch-roofed structures with screened front porches painted in green trim, sat in a large grove of shade trees within easy walking distance of a horse barn. A water tank, windmill, and feed storage bins stood behind the barn next to a large metal shop and garage. Everything about the place was spic and span. Even the heavy equipment parked outside the garage was lined up in a neat row.

Julia stopped in front of the largest house in the compound, a long ranch-style home with a big picture window that looked out on the porch. She led him through the unoccupied front room, a comfortable space filled with art, books, and easy chairs, to a spare room, and left him there to change his shirt. When he returned to the front room, Joe and Bessie greeted him, both smiling broadly.

Bessie wiped her hands on her apron and gave Kerney a hug. She felt like a feather in his arms, so tiny now and stooped of shoulder. The top of her snow-white head barely reached his chest. Joe Jordan’s handshake was hearty and firm. He also was white haired, but still ramrod straight and lean. Wire-rim spectacles sat low on the bridge of his nose, and his face was wind-burned a deep red, accenting the furrows of crow’s feet at the corners of his blue eyes.

Julia stepped out of the kitchen holding a tall glass of water, which Kerney gratefully accepted and quickly drained.

“Since I found him on the ranch,” Julia said with a grin, “can I keep him?”

“Not from the looks of the wedding ring he’s wearing,” Joe replied with a laugh as he herded Kerney into the kitchen.

At the kitchen table Bessie passed around a platter of sliced cold beef, a basket of hot fresh biscuits, a bowl of sauce for the beef, a salad, and a pitcher of lemonade. She’d set the table with her best flatware and linen napkins.

Over lunch Joe questioned Kerney about the fatality on the highway. He answered but left out the gory details.

Joe shook his head as he cut a small piece of beef and dipped it in the dollop of sauce on his plate. “Those Mexicans are so damn poor, not even the fear of death stops them from crossing the border. A neighbor south of here found two dead bodies on his land just last year. A young woman and a middle-aged man.”

“I guess it isn’t a problem that’s going away anytime soon,” Kerney replied.

“Not in my lifetime,” Joe said. “Best we can do is try to keep them off the ranch. Walt Shaw does a pretty good job of that.”

The conversation switched to old times on the Jornada, and they reminisced and caught up. Kerney learned that Bessie had survived breast cancer, Joe had undergone a hip replacement, and Julia was divorced and now dividing her time between the ranch and her house in Tucson.

Kerney told them about Sara and Patrick. Only Joe and Bessie seemed genuinely pleased to hear him talk about his family.

Julia changed the subject as soon as politely possible. “Johnny says you’re ranching up in Santa Fe,” she said.

Kerney noticed the hint of a scowl cross Joe’s face at the mention of his son’s name. “Only in a small way,” he replied. “I’ve partnered with a neighbor to raise and train cutting horses.”

Joe nodded as he passed Kerney the platter of meat. “If you can pay the bills, there’s no better life than ranching.”

“True enough,” Kerney said.

Bessie smiled appreciatively as Kerney forked another slice of beef onto his plate. “I can’t resist your cooking,” he said to her.

After lunch Julia took Kerney on a tour of the ranch headquarters, the sun hot against their backs, the ground warm underfoot. Under a shade tree in front of Julia’s house, Kerney asked if she and Johnny were planning to keep the ranch in the family.

“It’s all mine,” Julia said. “That’s why I’m here so much of the time now.”

“Well, I guess Johnny has his own life to lead.”

Julia leaned against the tree and laughed. “It’s not that, Kerney. No matter how much he makes, money runs through Johnny’s fingers like a sieve. He’s always been that way. Daddy has bailed him out financially time and time again and has never once been repaid. So the deal is, I get the ranch, Johnny gets his debts forgiven, and we divide up what’s left equally.”

“That sounds fair.”

“Johnny doesn’t think so. That’s why he got the production company to film on location at the ranch. He figures the payment Daddy receives will change his mind about cutting him out of the ranch. It won’t.”

“I hope it doesn’t cause you any problems.”

Julia waved away Kerney’s concern. “Johnny will move on to some other scheme. He always does. Come on, I want to show you my little casa.”

The inside of Julia’s house was done up in light, cool shades of beige and ivory upholstered furniture. A choice collection of Navajo textiles, including a large chief’s blanket, were displayed on the living room walls. Kerney could tell that the house had been gutted and completely renovated. A stacked-stone fireplace divided the living room from the dining area, and the kitchen was ultramodern. A professional chef’s stove beneath a copper range hood stood at one end of the room, surrounded by maple cabinets with black marble countertops. A large antique drop-leaf table sat in the middle of the kitchen.

Julia’s master suite contained a king-size four-poster bed and a large Oriental rug that complemented the floral draperies. An alcove with a built-in desk served as a small office and reading area.

In the guest room on the opposite side of the house, Julia said, “Why don’t you come back here after your meeting in Playas with those Hollywood boys and spend the night? I’ll fix you a good meal.”

“It’s kind of you to offer,” Kerney said, “but we’re due to get an early start in the morning to scout all the locations.”

“The first few stops are here on the ranch,” Julia said, “at the rodeo arena and then on the route Johnny’s picked for the cattle drive.”

She stepped close to Kerney, rubbed his arm, and smiled coquettishly. “I promise to kick you out of bed in time for you to make it to work.”

Kerney took Julia’s hand off his arm and patted it. “It’s a delightful invitation, but not a good idea, Julia. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She smiled to hide her disappointment, escorted Kerney to the front door, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and watched him walk to his truck. He cut a handsome figure in his jeans, long-sleeved cowboy shirt, boots, and hat. He was six foot one, square shouldered, blue eyed, and had a cute, firm butt and the most absolutely beautiful hands she’d ever seen on a man.

Both her ex-husbands had been studs in bed, but totally amoral, charming alley cats. She wondered why it had taken her so long to learn the difference between men and boys. She’d hoped to find Kerney in an unhappy marriage and susceptible to the possibility of an affair that might lead to something more. But so far it didn’t look promising.

She waved as Kerney honked the horn and drove away, thinking that he’d be back for three weeks when the film started shooting. That would give her plenty of time to test Kerney’s matrimonial fidelity.