Serpent Gate

Intelligence information needed to be updated on trafficking in southwestern New Mexico. Street dealers had to be rounded up and grilled. Palazzi was known to favor prostitutes as girlfriends. Local hookers should be contacted and interviewed.

He put together a few more facts on Palazzi, assembled the response team, sketched out the information, and fielded some questions before sending them on their way. A plane waited at the airport to fly the team on the forty-minute hop to Silver City.

He sank into a chair, thinking it was more than likely that-assuming Palazzi torched the van-he would be across the Mexican border before the plane touched down at the airport. But unless crime scene techs could develop some solid evidence from the van, searching for Palazzi was the only card he had to play.

He fleetingly thought about a good night's sleep, pushed himself upright, and went to make a pot of coffee.

His patched-together gut wouldn't like it, but the caffeine would keep him awake.

As he watched the coffee brew, Kerney brooded over the fact that tying Officer Rogoff's murder in with the art theft could have been a mistake on his part. If the two crimes weren't connected, it would mean starting over from square one. He carried a coffee cup back to the conference room and stared at the telephone. He doubted the team would have anything to report for at least several hours.

He sat and read through the agents' field interview reports, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing jumped out at him. He put the reports aside, picked up a clean sheet of paper, drew a line down the middle, and started separating out the facts of the two cases. If he had to give up the theory of connecting Palazzi to the theft, he needed to be ready to move as quickly as possible. kern by caught a quick nap on Andy's couch and at dawn went outside to dear his head. The reports from Silver City had been encouraging. The interior of the van had been badly burned, but fingerprints had been lifted from the vehicle and some human hairs had been found on a piece of unburned carpet.

On die lawn next to die law enforcement academy, a class of new recruits were preparing for an early mo ming run. A light dusting of snow covered me ground and the temperature hovered near freezing. High in die Sangre de Cristo Mountains, snow clouds masked me peaks, but die foothills were glistening pale pink in die early morning light.

Kerney walked to die memorial for slain police officers.

The state and national Hags bracketing the monument flapped lazily in a slight gust. Paul Gillespie's name had been chiseled into die marble.

He wondered if it truly belonged die re He walked back to headquarters thinking about die evidence found in die van. The discovery of human hair was particularly intriguing. But until he could identify a blond-haired woman who had access to die governor's suite, he wouldn't be any closer to solving die crime. gilbbrt mabtinez waited in me reception area of die law firm Roger Springer had joined after leaving his post at die governor's office.

The building, two blocks from the plaza, had a brass plaque listing the names of the partners.

All were prominent Anglos connected to the state's political machinery.

Born and raised in Santa Fe, Gilbert had been weaned on family accounts about Dawson Cobb, the founder of the firm; how Cobb had screwed Gilbert's ancestors out of a Spanish land grant after the Civil War with a court decision by an Anglo jury in Cobb's favor.

Only a few thousand acres remained in the family after Cobb took possession of the huge grant and the water rights that went with it.

Even those acres had been sold to pay the legal fees of the family's Anglo lawyer, who soon became Cobb's partner.

With no land to hold them, the family scattered. But the story of Dawson Cobb stuck in the minds of the Marrinez family like a cactus thorn festering for over 130 years.

Wasn't it Balzac who said behind every great fortune was a great crime?

Gilbert had done some additional research on Roger Springer. A Big Ten graduate with an Ivy League law degree, Springer had worked for one of the New Mexico senators in Washington before returning home with a new bride. He and his ex-wife, an architect, had no children, and the divorce settlement appeared to be amicable. However, a domestic court clerk told Gilbert that Springer and his wife had squabbled like brats over the division of the joint property, and the judge had privately chewed them out in his chambers.

Twenty minutes past the time of the appointment, Springer made his appearance, striding out of the double doors that led to the inner sanctum. He gave Gilbert the family glad hand, flashed his teeth in a winning candidate's smile, and added an apologetic shrug.

"Sorry to keep you waiting so long. Sergeant," Springer said.

"I just finished a telephone conference with the governor's chief counsel. It went on much longer than I thought it would."

"I hate to bother you, Mr. Springer. I know you're a busy man."

Gilbert studied Springer's eighty-dollar haircut and expensive Italian suit.

"Do you have time for me now?"

"Of course," Springer replied, gesturing toward the double doors.

"Are you making any headway with the investigation?" He took Gilbert down a wide hallway filled with framed photographs of old Santa Pc at the turn of the century.

"It's still in the preliminary stage," Gilbert replied.

"I thought it might be," Springer said, standing aside his open office door to let Martinez enter.

"No leads?"

"We're working on it," Gilbert answered.

The office, bigger than Chief Baca's, was uncluttered and functional, with expensive furniture and nice art on the walls. An older man sat in one of four chairs placed in front of a large window.

"Make yourself comfortable," Springer said.

"I'd like you to meet Sherman Cobb. Mr. Cobb is the senior partner in the firm."

Cobb smiled a greeting and Gilbert nodded in return.

"I don't have any questions for Mr. Cobb," Gilbert said.

Springer laughed.

"I didn't think you would. The firm likes to have another lawyer present whenever the police meet with an attorney. It helps avoid misunderstandings."

Springer dropped into a chair and gestured for Martinez to do the same.

"I had hoped to speak with you on a confidential basis," Gilbert said as he sat.

Springer flashed a smile.

"Feel free to do so."

"On matters of a personal nature," Gilbert added.

Springer raised an eyebrow.

"And what might those matters be. Sergeant Martinez?"

Gilbert shifted his weight.

"Issues which could create political repercussions for your uncle."

"You have my full attention," Springer said.

"Since leaving the governor's staff, have you ever made a visit to your uncle's office that was not either of a business or family nature?"

Springer's expression turned quizzical.

"I'm not sure I'm following your question, Sergeant."

"Several times you've been seen at the Roundhouse late at night accompanied by different women."

Springer laughed.

"Oh, that. Yes, I've taken some dates on impromptu tours of the governor's offices."

"Did you take anyone there last week?"

"No."

"Can you tell me me names of the women you took there in the past?"

"How can that information have any value to your investigation?"

Gilbert chose his words carefully: "It's possible that a man and a woman had a romantic interlude in Governor Springer's office last week while he was out of the state."

"A romantic interlude?" Springer repeated.

"Of a sexual nature. It would help if you could remember the names of the women who went with you on the tours, Mr. Springer."

"You're joking."

"No, I'm not," Gilbert replied.

"We need to talk to everybody who has had access to the governor's office, no matter what the circumstances."

Springer clasped his hands and tapped his index fingers together several times.

"Of course you do," he finally said. He got up, walked to his desk, opened a leather bound appointment book, flipped through the pages, wrote a note, and brought it to Gilbert.

Gilbert read the names.

"Do either of these ladies have blond hair?"

"No."

Are you presently dating any blondes?"

"No, I'm not dating any blondes."

Gilbert slipped Springer's note into a pocket and looked over at Sherman Cobb, who had been as quiet as a church mouse.

"Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Cobb?"

Cobb smiled cordially.

"I know you'll do your very best to bring the investigation to a successful conclusion," he said.

Gilbert decided he couldn't tell Cobb to stuff the patronizing attitude, and stood up.

"Thank you for your time."

"Not at all," Springer replied with a smile that seemed a little wary.

Outside Springer's office, Gilbert buttoned up. The snowstorm had moved off the mountains and into the city. The air was still, and a thick curtain of wet, fat snowflakes drifted slowly down from a low blanket of clouds. There wasn't much traffic and few people were out.

The city had a quiet, sleepy feel to it.

Gilbert walked to the corner, crossed the street against the light, and headed for the plaza. In the lobby of the La Fbnda Hotel he used a pay phone and tried without success to reach Springer's lady friends. He left messages on their answering machines and went back outside. He crossed through the plaza to the fine arts museum and stood for a moment by the old Spitz Clock on the corner.

All the old stores where the locals once shopped were gone, replaced by tourist shops and galleries. The lovely plaza and the beautiful old buildings surrounding it no longer served as the heart of the city for the citizens.

Instead, it had become nothing more than a charming, high-priced outdoor mall for the thousands of visitors pouring into the city to shop, vacation, and sightsee.

Gilbert let his resentment over the change surface.

But his irritation was really with Cobb and Springer, and their air of superiority and condescension.

He shrugged it off and went into the museum. It was time to find out who put the art collection together for the governor's suite. kbrnet had kicked off his blanket. Stretched out on his back on the twin bed in the guest house, his feet dangled over the edge. He wore only boxer shorts, and while the scar from the gunshot wound and the surgery on his stomach looked ghastly, Kerney's body was lean and muscular.

Reluctantly, Fletcher shook Kerney awake. His eyes opened instantly.

"You again?"

"With my deepest regrets," Fletcher answered with a smile.

"A very cranky prosecutor named Wesley Marshall gave me an urgent message for you."

Kerney sat up. Fletcher wore a paint-splattered apron over blue jeans and a shirt. He had obviously been at work in the studio.

"What was it?" Kerney asked.

Fletcher consulted the piece of paper in his hand.

"Mr. Marshall said that you are to be deposed by defense counsel at three this afternoon, and to meet him at his office."

"What time is it now?"

"Noon."

Kerney got to his feet. Three hours sleep was better than none, but he still felt stiff and groggy.

"Aren't you overdoing it a bit?" Fletcher asked.

"You look haggard and wrung out."

"It was a long night."

"So I gather. I tried to wait up for you. I have information that might be of value to our investigation."

Kerney walked toward the bathroom.

"First things first, Fletcher. Do you have any food in your refrigerator?"

"Would a nice omelette do?"

"Perfect. I'll be there in five minutes."

The kitchen, a wide room at the front of the house, had an arched entryway leading to the dining room, and a cobalt blue Mexican tile splash guard on the wall behind the sink, stove, and countertops. There were no cupboards in the kitchen. A series of open shelves held glasses, plates, canisters, and jars. Pots and pans hung from suspended racks, and a huge pantry enclosed by hand-carved doors filled most of the far wall. In the middle of the kitchen sat an antique Spanish Colonial table with thick hand-turned legs, big enough for a family to eat at one end after the meal had been prepared at the other.

In front of a woven place mat was a small Waterford vase containing a single, showy bronze chrysanthemum.

Fletcher's best silverware and a fresh linen napkin completed the arrangement.

Kerney sat as Fletcher eased the omelette onto a plate and brought it to him.

"All this for me?" Kerney asked.

"It's far too elegant."

"Meals should be civilized events," Fletcher replied.

"And it's just my small way of saying thank you for all the fun I had yesterday. I honestly think I would have made a superb detective."

"What brings you to this modest opinion?" Kerney asked, as he took a bite of the omelette. It was perfectly done.

"Because I believe-modestly, as you put it-that I have uncovered new information which may further our investigation."

"You have my full attention."

Fletcher beamed a smile at Kerney.

"Good. My informant, Frank Bailey, owns a gallery on Canyon Road. He recently attended a social function where he overheard a woman named Amanda Talley complain about the lack of protection for the art collection in the governor's office. Bailey said that la Talley went on at some length about how easy it would be to steal it."

"That's excellent work, Pletcher. Just who is Amanda Talley?"

"Ms. Talley works at the fine arts museum. She supervised the selection of the art for the governor's offices."

Kerney swallowed another bite.

"Maybe you should have been a detective. Did you get a description of the woman? Is she a blonde?"

Fletcher nodded.

"Indeed, she is. Frank Bailey seems to know a good deal about her personal life."

"I'll have somebody talk to him."

The doorbell rang and Kerney took the opportunity to finish his meal while Fletcher went to answer it.

Fletcher returned towing Sergeant Gilbert Martinez by the hand.

"Do you know this dear boy?" he asked Kerney. He guided Gilbert to a chair.

"He's come looking for you."

"Yes, I do."

Martinez flushed slightly and sat.

"Well, I've known him all his life," Fletcher announced.

"He grew up across the lane in that lovely two-story home. It broke my heart when his parents sold it and moved away. Such a delightful family."

Fletcher dipped into the chair next to Gilbert and patted his hand.

"It's so good to see you. How do you know this Irish cop, Gilbert?" He waved Gilbert off before he could answer.

"No, don't tell me. Let me guess. You must be the police chaplain.

Although the fact that you're wearing a suit and tie raises some doubts in my mind."

"Chaplain?" Kerney asked.

Fletcher nodded.

"Yes. The last time I saw Gilbert he was going off to a seminary in the Midwest to study for the priesthood. That was twenty years ago."

Gilbert smiled.

"Well, I am a father. I have two daughters."

"Were you defrocked?" Fletcher asked.

"Excommunicated?

Tell me everything."

"Nothing that dramatic, Fletcher. I changed career paths. I'm a state police sergeant in criminal investigations."

"Unbelievable." Fletcher turned his gaze to Kerney.

"He was the perfect altar boy. Angelic."

"Stop exaggerating," Gilbert said.

"The old neighborhood doesn't look like it has changed too much."

"I try to keep the riffraff out."

"Who lives in my parents' old house?"

"It has changed hands five or six times since you moved away. The current owners are a New York couple.

They use it as a vacation home. He's a book publisher and she's a literary agent. I've been thinking of approaching them with a proposal to write my memoirs."

"Maybe I should try to buy it back the next time it comes on the market."

"Would that you could."

"You don't think a sergeant's salary could swing it?"

"Perhaps you might want to wait until you get another promotion or two," Fletcher said.

Gilbert's laugh was bitter.

"That, along with another full-time job, would probably get me a mortgage on the garage my father built." He turned to Kerney.

"I'd like to bring you up to speed, Chief."

"What have you got. Sergeant?"

"My conversation with Roger Springer went basically nowhere, although I did get the names of two women he took on unofficial, late-night tours of the Roundhouse. He swears he wasn't there last week after hours, and the two women aren't blondes."

"What else?"

"A curator at the fine arts museum by the name of Amanda Talley-she's a blonde, by the way-picked out the art for the governor's office."

"I've already told Kevin about her," Fletcher announced.

Gilbert gave Kerney a perplexed look.

"Fletcher made a round of the galleries yesterday at my request,"

Kerney explained, "and Amanda Talley's name came up. It seems she did some public complaining about lax security for the art in the governor's office, and talked about how easy it would be to rip it off.

What did you learn from her?"

"Nothing," Gilbert answered.

"Talley started a vacation late last week. She's in Belize. She left a hotel number where she could be reached, and I called. She's on a three-day boat expedition, touring some wildlife sanctuaries off the coast. The boat's not due back until the day after tomorrow.

"One more thing. Chief," Gilbert added.

"The three O'Keeffe paintings were due to be sent to the O'Keeffe Museum this week."

"Find out where Talley lives," Kerney ordered.

"She has an apartment on Yucca Road. I have the address. It's one of those big rental units."

"Have the apartment manager let you in. If you're questioned, treat it like a missing person case. See what you can turn up."

"Without a search warrant, whatever we find will be fruit from the poisoned tree. The courts won't admit it into evidence."

"Do a plain-view search only. Bring back a sample of any hairs you can find."

Gilbert nodded as Kerney stood. Fletcher held up a hand to keep Kerney from departing.

"Frank Bailey said that Amanda Talley was with Roger Springer and some other people the night she made her little speech," he said.

"That's very interesting," Kerney replied.

"Did you get the names of the other people?"

"There was a local couple who dabble in collecting art, Bucky Watson, and a Spanish or Mexican gentleman.

Frank wasn't sure which nationality he was."

"I need their names, Pletcher," Kerney said.

Fletcher made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"I have them written down somewhere."

Kerney nodded.

"Give them to the sergeant." He switched his attention to Martinez.

"I want deep background checks done on everybody who may have overheard what Talley said."

"You've got it. Chief."

"Allegedly, she was tipsy at the time," Pletcher added.

"Fletcher, tell Sergeant Martinez everything you learned from Frank Bailey."

"Of course."

"Meet with Bailey personally, Sergeant. Find out what else he knows and go over everything in detail with him."

"It's already on my list, Chief."

"Hook up with Chief Baca and fill him in."

"Will do."

"What's my next assignment?" Fletcher asked.

"Have you finished talking to gallery owners?" Kerney replied.

"The local ones are covered, but I need to start calling Albuquerque dealers."

"Do that, but pass any leads on to Sergeant Martinez.

He'll assign men to do the follow-up interviews, if anything looks promising."

Fletcher's unhappiness showed on his face.

"So, am I to be consigned to the back room with a telephone?"

Kerney stepped around the table and squeezed his old friend's shoulder.

"Don't fuss, Pletcher. You're still my expert consultant on this case.

I'd be lost without your help."

Kerney nodded at Gilbert and left the kitchen.

Gilbert waited until Kerney's footsteps faded away before he asked the irresistible question that had formed in his mind.

"Tell me, Fletcher," he said in a low voice, "is Chief Kerney gay?"

Fletcher laughed deeply.

"Not in this lifetime, I'm sorry to say," he answered. after burning the van, retrieving Amanda Talley's body at Emory Pass, and recrossing the border, Carlos dropped Facundo and the body at the rancho in the desert De Leon used as a landing field for drug shipments arriving from South America. Pacundo knew what to do with the body; he'd disposed of several in the past.

Carlos finished the long drive back to Santa Pc, parked the Range Rover in the garage, and climbed the stairs with tired, heavy feet, hoping De Leon would be satisfied with his report. One could never be sure how the patron would react.

He found De Leon at his desk in the library.

Enrique looked at Carlos kindly before smiling and gesturing to an empty chair.

"Sit down, Carlos, and relax. You look very tired."

Only somewhat relieved by thejefe's reaction, Carlos sat and waited for De Leon to question him.

"Did all go well?" De Leon asked.

"Yes, patron. All matters have been attended to. Nick is dead, the woman's body has been disposed of, and me van has been destroyed."

"I am pleased," Enrique said.

"Thank you, patron."

"I have additional work for you after you have rested.

You are to assemble a complete dossier on Kevin Kerney. I want to know where he lives, where his office is, and who his friends are. Full particulars are essential.

What is the arrangement of his living quarters? His office? Is either place accessible? Does he maintain a routine schedule? Does he travel the same route to and from work? Is he seeing a woman? If so, would he be vulnerable when he is with her?"

Carlos nodded.

"I understand."

De Leon pushed an envelope across the desk. There is sufficient cash in the envelope to purchase a car which will not attract attention.

Buy it from a private party, so that you do not have to register it immediately. Follow Kerney closely and take exacting notes. Remember, he knows you. Do not expose yourself to him."

"I will be careful," Carlos replied, pushing his thumb against his upper plate.

De Leon saw hate flash in Carlos's eyes.

"You are to take no action against Kerney."

"As you wish, patron."

"Go now and get some sleep."

Carlos rose, picked up the envelope, and departed.

Enrique leaned back and thought about Kerney. His last attempt to have the policeman killed injuarez failed when Kerney had been rescued by an undercover army investigator posing as a hunchback. That failure meant that Kerney had to be killed in just the right way to make everything balance out. Retaliation against an enemy was a normal part of doing business. But in this case, the reprisal would be all the more satisfying to achieve. the snowstorm parked over the city stopped before it reached the Galisteo Basin. The escarpment that broke across the valley stood like a vast, ominous battlement looming over the rangeland.

For several years, while he recovered from the wounds that had forced him to retire from the Santa Fe PD, Kerney had lived and worked on a ranch in the basin with a view of the escarpment and the Ortiz Mountains in the far distance. He had never tired of the sweep of the land against the sky, and the ever-changing colors that painted the scenery new again each passing day.

Kerney made good time on a dear road. He arrived at the Torrance County courthouse in Estanda and went looking for Wesley Marshall, who wasn't in his office. He found Marshall, Bradley Pollings, and Gary Dalquist waiting for him in an empty jury room.

Puffings had brought in a co-counsel with impressive credentials.

Dalquist specialized in capital murder cases.

He was a short, older man with a deep, rumbling voice and a cherubic face. Criticized as a flamboyant showman, he had a strong track record of acquittals, dismissed cases, and reduced felony plea bargain agreements.

Prosecutors hated to go up against him.

Marshall got up and walked to the door.

"Aren't you staying?" Kerney asked.

"Can't," Wesley replied.

"I meet with the grand jury in ten minutes. You can handle it without me."

Kerney handed him a copy of Robert Cordova's statement.

"What's this?" Marshall asked in a surly tone as he stuffed the papers in a jacket pocket.

"Something you might want to read." He nodded in Dalquist's direction.

"Looks like you have some serious opposition, Counselor."

Marshall grunted and walked away.

After a quick introduction, Kerney gave another copy of Robert's statement to Dalquist before the actual Q and A began. Dalquist read it, glanced at Kerney with a gleam in his eye, and passed the document to Puffings.

"Shall we get started?" Dalquist asked, his finger poised over the tape recorder.

"By all means," Kerney replied.

Dalquist was thorough in his questioning. He concentrated on the arrest procedure, Nita's mental state at the time both confessions were made, and the fact that Nita's first confession preceded Kerney's Miranda warning.

He was looking for screwups he could use to have the confession thrown out.

Kerney's answers didn't please Dalquist.

Dalquist moved on to Nita and asked whether or not Kerney thought she knew what she was doing the night she shot Gillespie; Rerney declined the bait.

Finally, Dalquist turned to Robert's statement and grilled Kerney about Cordova. Kerney obliged with the facts he had at hand.

"Do you think Mr. Cordova would make a competent witness?" Dalquist asked as he hit the stop button to the tape recorder.

"I'm not a psychiatrist," Kerney said.

"But along that same line, has the psychological evaluation on Ms.

Lassiter been completed?"

"The report will be in the judge's hands in the morning," Dalquist said.

"I expect Ms. Lassiter to be released on bail by noon."

"That's good to know."

"Do you plan to force Robert Cordova to corroborate Ms. Lassiter's statement that he saw her leaving the murder scene?" Dalquist asked.

"I don't think I can force Robert to do anything," Kerney replied. wesley marshall waylaid Kerney on his way out of the building.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you planned to interview Robert Cordova? The case fell under my jurisdiction when I signed off on the paperwork. You don't take this kind of action without my approval."

"Robert found me. I didn't go looking for him. Do you want all the facts. Counselor, or just those that will help you win the case?"

"I want them all, of course," Marshall said.

"But you may have given Dalquist an early Christmas present."

"Wouldn't it be helpful to have Robert put Lassiter at the scene of the crime?"

"I'm not railing him as a witness. He's a mental case, for chrissake.

Totally unreliable."

"Then impeach him on the witness stand, if Dalquist decides to use him for the defense."

"Don't do this again, Kerney. This is the second time you've messed with me."

"I think you're fairly new at the game, Mr. Marshall, so let me remind you of the drill. My responsibility to you consists of gathering all the facts, and that doesn't end until a decision is reached in a court of law."

"Whose side are you on?"

"This isn't about taking sides." andy baca was waiting for Kerney when he got back to the office. The clerical staff and most of the civilian workers were gone for the day and the building was quiet.

"You look wrecked," Andy said.

"I am." Kerney flopped on the couch and stretched his right leg. The throbbing in his reconstructed knee felt like sharp hammer blows.

"Bring me up to speed," Andy said as he sat with Kerney.

"What don't you know?"

"How did your meeting with the governor go?"

"I survived it," Kerney answered.

"Springer is determined to keep any hint of staff sexual misconduct buried under the rug. Correction-buried under the carpet."

"He called and gave me the same marching orders."

"Did he sweeten the pot with money to pay for all the overtime we're burning?"

"He did. And he ordered me to reinstate Howell and the security detail to duty immediately."

Kerney grunted.

"Then the only thing I can add is a warning: Vance Howell is in the governor's hip pocket.

Only tell him things you want Springer to know."

"Is it that bad?"

"You bet," Kerney said.

"How did the Lassiter deposition go?"

"Aside from pissing off the ADA, it went well. I turned over a witness statement that the defense counsel loved and the ADA hated. He might call you up and bitch about me. Did Martinez stop by to brief you?"

"Yes. He dropped off some hair samples from Amanda Talley's apartment.

The lab report came in an hour ago. They're a perfect match with the hairs found in the governor's office and the van. You should be pleased. It ties the two crimes together."

"It also means that Amanda Talley is probably dead," Kerney noted.

"So who in the hell is using her name and vacationing in Belize?"

"Beats me. Let's get a search warrant and have Martinez take a closer look at Talley's apartment."

The supervisor of the fingerprint unit, a bookish looking man carrying some papers in his hand, stepped tentatively into the office with a pleased expression on his face.

"Chief Baca. Chief Kerney. Got a minute?"

"What is it, Stan?" Andy asked.

"We got a hit back on a clean thumbprint from the van. The ID didn't come through normal channels.

Army Intelligence made the guy. His name is Carlos Ruiz. He works for a Mexican national named Enrique De Leon who operates out of Juarez.

Interpol says De Leon is a major international smuggler; drugs, an, rare artifacts, anything with a big-ticket value. I've got Ruiz's mug shot and rap sheet."

"I'll be damned," Andy said.

Kerney had gone up against De Leon and Ruiz once before, and Andy knew the case well. He had put a badge in Kerney's pocket when he was the Dona Ana County sheriff, on what appeared to be nothing more than a missing person case involving Kerney's godson.

By the time the dust settled, Kerney had uncovered murders, a major smuggling scheme, and a rogue military intelligence agent in league with De Leon "Bring it here," Kerney said. He took the photograph from the supervisor's hand and studied it. Carlos Ruiz's ugly, pockmarked face stared back at him.

"Can you run the investigation without me for a day?" he asked.

"Where do you think you're going?" Andy asked.

"Juarez. The art theft is just De Leon kind of caper.

Ruiz's involvement cinches it. I need to find out where De Leon is and where the goodies are stashed. I'll need some money."

Andy bit his lip and thought about it. Kerney had tracked De Leon down before using a paid Juarez informant, and he knew the lay of the land better than anyone else.

"Okay," he finally said.

"We got some confiscated drug funds you can use. I'll have you flown to El Paso on our plane. But get some sleep before you cross the border, and for chrissake be careful. De Leon will take you out if he has the chance. You hit him hard in the pocketbook on the White Sands case, and I don't think he's inclined to be forgiving."

"I'm leaving now," Kerney said.

"Call the pilot."

After spending a night at an El Paso motel, Kerney got up early and took a taxi across the border to Juarez. He had the driver pull to a stop at Plaza Cervantine, a bohemian enclave for writers, artists, and community activists. Well away from the Juarez tourist strip, the plaza consisted of a mixture of apartment houses, cafes, artist studios, neighborhood businesses, and offices.

Kerney paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. A street vendor was opening his food cart for business.

The rich smell of tortillas, beans, and dark Mexican coffee filled the air. The business signs, posters, and murals that peppered the walls of the buildings were a riot of hot colors: bright yellow, brash pink, and screaming orange.

The only other person on the plaza aside from the vendor was a man walking a dog. Wearing a wool scarf thrown casually around his neck, a beret set at a cocky angle, and a V-neck sweater, the man hurried his pet into one of the doors of a walk-up apartment building.

Kerney followed a passageway through an office building to a courtyard cafe where several people sat smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the chilly early morning air. From the serving counter under the landing to the second story he could hear the clatter of dishes and the chatter of kitchen workers as they prepared for the breakfast rush.

Upstairs, he found the office to the small weekly newspaper locked. He returned to the courtyard cafe, ordered coffee, and asked the server when Rose Moya usually arrived for work. He was told that she kept to no fixed schedule.

Rose had been a source of information for Kerney during the White Sands case, and put him on the trail to Enrique De Leon An investigative reporter, she had written a series of articles for her left-wing newspaper that exposed government collusion with the Juarez underworld.

While Kerney waited, the patio cafe filled with neighborhood locals, who flashed him inquisitive looks as they sipped cofiee and talked. The man with the beret came into the courtyard without his dog, and joined a group of friends at a nearby table. A lively discussion sprang up on the political importance of street theater.

Rose Moya arrived and Kerney intercepted her at the foot of the stairs.

She wore pleated brown cord slacks and a ribbed off-white wool sweater, and carried a canvas laptop computer case. An attractive woman with high cheekbones and full lips. Rose looked at Kerney with serious dark eyes.

"Senor Kerney," she said.

"Surely you must know that Enrique De Leon will try to kill you if he learns you are injuarez."

"I will not be in Juarez long," Kerney said.

"Please join me for a coffee."

Rose brushed her dark hair back from her forehead, searched Kerney's face, gave a quick glance at his table, and waited for more of an explanation. Behind Kerney the customers' chatter faded away.

"Is there a problem if you're seen talking to me?"

Kerney asked.

Rose laughed sharply.

"I do not have a death wish, Senor Kerney."

"Does my presence place you in danger?"

"Apparently Francisco Posada made it known that you reached him through me. I was questioned extensively after your visit by a high-ranking police official with ties to the Mafiosios. The meeting was cordial, but the threat was dear. It would be unwise for me to continue to cooperate with any mjrtea.menca.no police officers or drug agents."

"Have the Mafiosios silenced your reporting?"

Rose forced a small smile.

"Not completely, but I walk a fine line. They like to read about themselves. They expect to have their political assassinations reported-it reinforces the terror and fear they spread. And they enjoy articles about their wealth and influence as long as any account of government corruption is not too specific."

"Have you been instructed to report any contact by nortea.merica.no agents or police?"

"Of course," Rose replied, looking over Kerney's shoulder at the cafe patrons.

"And if I don't, someone else will."

"Give me a few minutes to tell you why I'm here. If you cannot help me, I'll understand. Disclose everything to the Mafiosios' police official when you make your report. Hold nothing back."

"What do you want, Senor Kerney?"

"Enrique De Leon And this time I plan to get him."

Rose's eyes widened with curiosity.

"You make an appealing offer. Buy me a coffee, and I will listen to your story."

At the table, Rose drank coffee while Kerney filled her in on the art theft and the facts pointing to De Leon complicity.

De Leon enjoys stealing from norteamericanos," Rose said, touching the small mole under her right eye.

"He delights in it, and has been very successful over the years. Not once has he been charged with any crime on either side of the border."

"I understand that."

"If you truly wish to put De Leon out of business, you face much more difficult obstacles than before. He is virtually untouchable."

"Has he hired more bodyguards and goons?" Kerney asked.

Rose laughed.

"Nothing quite so commonplace. In our last national election, several Juarez politicians won prominent government positions. They benefited from major Mafiosios' campaign financing. De Leon donated several million dollars and was rewarded with a minor cultural affairs appointment and a diplomatic passport."

"That's unbelievable."

"I thought you were better acquainted with our country, Senor Kerney.

You can buy anything in Mexico.

We have a fugitive ex-president living in Dublin who has millions of stolen dollars in a Swiss account. He cannot be touched; we have no extradition treaty with Ireland. At one time, he was compared to your Jack Kennedy. He turned out to be nothing but a common thief."

"So what is De Leon doing with his new diplomatic status?"

"Business as usual, only more so. I understand he is now investing in foreign real estate and buying into many maquiladora enterprises, businesses jointly owned by American and Mexican corporations."

"Is he going legitimate?"

"That, and diversifying."

"Do you have any specifics on his holdings?"

Rose shook her head.

"I'm afraid not."

"Does he still usejuarez as his base of operations?"

"When he's here," Rose replied.

"Do you know where he is?"

"Traveling, I've heard, but I have no idea where.

Allegedly he has houses in the United States, the Caribbean, Central America, and Spain. But he could be at his hacienda outside of Juarez, or at one of his ranches. He won't be easy to find. You aren't planning to go to the Little Turtle, are you?"

"No," Kerney answered.

"Is Francisco Posada still alive?" Posada was the information broker who had set up Kerney's first and only face-to-face meeting with De Leon Kerney had finessed Posada into connecting him with De Leon by posing as a rogue ex-cop trying to smuggle valuable merchandise across the border. He had hooked Posada with some up-front money and the promise of a percentage from the proceeds.

"Barely. His niece now lives with him. She will inherit his estate. A private nurse cares for him. I don't think it would be wise for you to try to see him."

"I learned that firsthand a while back," Kerney said.

"Does Juan Diaz still work for him?"

"The houseboy? No. He moved out and is now brokering for the contrabandistas in El Paso. He specializes in the low-end trade to avoid any conflicts with the drug jefes. He arranges buyers for smuggled cigarettes, liquor, cosmetics, and pharmaceuticals."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"He rents a cottage in a development near the Casa Grande Highway. He should be easy to find."

"Gracias," Kerney said as he slid five one-hundred dollar bills into Rose's hand.

"What's this?" she demanded warily.

"It's confiscated drug money taken from a Mexican smuggler," Kerney answered.

"I read your article on homeless refugees. Use the money to help some of them."

Rose's hand closed over the bills.

"Are you a policeman with a sense of poetic justice, Senor Kerney?"

"A character flaw, no doubt," Kerney replied.

"No doubt," Rose echoed, as she picked up the laptop computer case.

"Move quickly, Senor Kerney. I have a telephone call I must make."

"Will you say that you told me how to find Juan?"

"I believe that would be in my best interest."

"it is good to see you again, Senor Kerney," Juan said.

"I owe you a great deal." He sat behind an expensive tubular-steel-and-glass desk, which held a computer and a laser printer. The rest of the home office furnishings consisted of a chair and love seat with plush cushions and bolsters, some sleek brushed-metal floor lamps, and a large Guatemalan folk art weaving on one wall.

Kerney sat in the chair across from the desk.

"You owe me nothing, Juan," he said.

Juan's cottage was in a middle-class subdivision outside the Juarez city limits. The area had an Americanized look to it, with neatly tended houses on small lots.

Juan no longer dressed like a domestic houseboy: His white linen costume had been replaced by a button down broadcloth shirt and a pair of twill slacks. The change in attire was a striking contrast that heightened Juan's full-blooded Indian features. His long, thick black hair was pulled tight against his temples and tied with a band so that it draped down the back of his neck.

"But you're doing well, I take it," Kerney added.

"Very well. And I have you to thank, in part, senor.

The customs agent you put me in touch with was able to get me a green card. I now have an apartment in El Paso and, in return for information I pass along now and then, I cross freely over the border.

It has made doing business much less complicated."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"How can I help you, senor?"

"I need to locate Enrique De Leon I want to know exactly where he is."

Even before Kerney had finished speaking, Juan shook his head.

"As much as I would like to, I cannot help you. De Leon is out of the country. He travels often and does not announce his itinerary."

"Does he fly out ofjuarez?"

"No. El Paso. It is much less suspicious to the norteamericanos for him to do so."

"I understand he owns houses in many countries.

Can you get me exact locations?"

"Your friend at Customs asked for the same information, and as much as I tried, I was unable to supply it. It is my belief that whatever property De Leon owns outside of Mexico is not in his name."

"You have no sources of information that you can tap into?" Kerney prodded.

"There must be some information on his whereabouts floating around."

"Do you wish to have us killed, senor? De Leon has bought more than diplomatic immunity from our government with his riches. He now has former federal intelligence agents on his payroll. Simply asking questions could make us both targets for assassination. And if the former ruraks didn't murder us, either De Leon gangsters, the Juarez policia, or one of your corrupt Drug Enforcement Agency operatives surely would."

"That's not what I want to hear."

Juan raised his hands in an expression of helplessness.

Frustrated, Kerney changed the subject.

"There may be a shipment of stolen art moving into Mexico sometime soon." Kerney handed Juan the inventory.

De Leon is behind the theft. Will you keep your eyes and ears open?"

"That, I will gladly do," Juan replied.

Kerney extracted an envelope and laid out three thousand dollars.

Juan's long, dark eyelashes fluttered.

"You pay me more than my normal fee," he said, "and I have given you very little in return."

"Use what you need to buy information, and consider the balance a retainer."

"As you wish, senor."

"You may be questioned about my visit."

"Do you have a cover story you wish me to use?"

"Tell them about the art theft, but try not to disclose that I'm looking for De Leon "I will do my best to maintain the confidentiality of our conversation." the road to the Rancho Caballo clubhouse where the O'Keefie Museum fund-raiser had been held was barred by electronic security gates.

Gilbert Martinez pulled to a stop next to the guard station. A young Hispanic male wearing a green sweater and khaki pants popped out of the small building, flashed Gilbert a big smile, and informed him that he needed a visitor's pass to get in.

Gilbert flashed his shield in response. After a few minutes of bickering with the kid over whether or not he had the right to proceed with police business on private property, Gilbert got testy. He made dear the implications of interfering with an officer in the performance of his dudes, and the guard grudgingly opened the gate.

Gilbert drove a mile down a paved private road to the clubhouse and coasted to a stop, his mind disbelieving what he saw. The clubhouse had a two-story central core with single-story wings that stretched out on either side. At the front of the building, stone walkways wandered through landscaped rock gardens to a wroughtiron bridge that spanned a man-made pond. A flagstone driveway led to a portal reserved for valet parking.

Behind the clubhouse, the lush green of a fairway flowed up to pinon-studded hills. With a Spanish-tile pitched roof, the place had the feel of a Palm Springs resort. It was uncommonly glitzy looking, and the fact that Santa Pc had become just another trendy resort destination for the wealthy depressed Gilbert.

The sprinklers were on, pumping fine streams of water in arches over the golf course, and the grass glistened in the soft light from a hazy sun. As he parked and walked toward the entrance, Gilbert wondered what bureaucratic idiot had approved such a waste of water. Arid New Mexico survived on groundwater and snowpack runoff; it was not a commodity to be wasted on a rich man's playground.

Before he reached the entrance, the door opened and a stylish woman in her late forties stepped out to meet him. Her blond hair was carefully curled and tinted. She wore a long Santa Fe-style dress that accentuated her trim figure and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. She held a cellular telephone in her hand.

"I'm afraid we're closed today," she said, before Gilbert could introduce himself.

"I need to speak to the concierge," he replied.

"I'm the concierge," the woman replied with a casual glance at Gilbert's badge and ID.

"I can't talk to you right now. I'm very busy."

"I'd like to ask you about the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum benefit event held here last month."

"What do you want to know?"

"Who attended the function?"

"I'm sorry, I can't help you."

"Don't you keep a guest list?"

"Of course we do. But this is a private club. We don't release any information without the permission of the board of directors."

"Your cooperation would be helpful," Gilbert replied.

"Could you bend the rules this time?"

"Certainly not," the woman said.

"If you want access to any information, you'll have to talk to our legal counsel. If your request is approved, I'll be glad to cooperate with you."

"And who is that?"

"Cobb, Owens, and Mackintosh."

"Is there anyone else besides your lawyers who might be able to help me?"

"The staff at the Museum of New Mexico Foundation co-sponsored the event and sent out invitations to their members. You might want to talk to them."

"Would they have a complete list of all the guests?"

"Only the museum foundation members, I would imagine," the woman said.

"A blanket invitation went out to all Rancho Caballo residents through our monthly newsletter."

"I'm particularly interested in talking to a gentleman with a Hispanic surname. Supposedly, he owns a home here. He may be Spanish or Mexican." Gilbert consulted his notebook and read off the description Prank Bailey had provided him.

"Do you know anyone like that?"

"As I said before, I'm afraid I can't help you."

Gilbert got the concierge's name, thanked her, and walked back to his car. Nothing about this case seemed to come easy. He checked the time. First, he would try the two women Roger Springer had admitted taking on late-night tours of the Roundhouse. He had been unable to reach either of them yesterday. After that, he would stop at the county assessor's office and get a listing of who owned lots and homes in Rancho Caballo.

He doubted that too many Hispanic surnames would pop up on the tax records for the subdivision. gilbert's interviews with the women confirmed Roger Springer's account of impromptu, innocent after hours tours of the governor's suite. But Gilbert came away with the sense that he'd heard a canned, rehearsed story from each woman. Neither had struck him as the type who would be thrilled by the opportunity to have just a private tour of the Roundhouse. He couldn't help but harbor the suspicion that Springer and the women might have had a completely different agenda for the late-night visits-like having sex on the floor in the governor's private office.

It wasn't all that kinky. Once, when investigating a report of fraud at a state agency, Gilbert had walked in on a manager who had forgotten to lock his office door while he was performing oral sex on his girlfriend.

He walked down the long wide hallway of the old county courthouse, a lovely WPA building two blocks from the plaza. The hand-carved beams, finely crafted corbels, delicate tin light fixtures, and the sweeping staircases had been retained, but the guts of the building had been ripped out and modernized after the district court and sheriff's department had moved to other locations.

As a child, Gilbert had occasionally accompanied his father to the courthouse when it still housed all the county services. Back then, his father knew most of the people who worked there on a first-name basis. Gilbert knew none of the workers he passed in the hallway, and it only deepened his feeling that he was a stranger in his hometown.

Maybe it had been a mistake to take the promotion to sergeant and move back to Santa Pc. So far, it had been nothing but a painful, disconnected experience.

He found the assessor's office and asked for the Rancho Caballo subdivision property tax records. The printout he got wasn't helpful at all. No Hispanicsurnamed owners were listed, but a sizable number of the houses were owned by out-of-state corporations and foreign companies.

He compared the records with the names Fletcher Hartley and Frank Bailey had given him. None were listed as Rancho Caballo owners. But one local business, Kokopelli Design Studio, was carried on the books as a corporate owner of two homes.

Gilbert noted the address for the studio. It was one block off the plaza.

On his way out of the building, he stopped at the land-use planning office and asked to speak to the director.

Gilbert had one question to ask, of purely personal interest.

"How much water does the Rancho Caballo golf course use?" Gilbert asked, after introducing himself to the head of the planning office.

The director, a nearly bald, gray-faced older man, scowled at the question.

"On the average, between three hundred thousand and four hundred thousand gallons a day."

"How did that kind of consumption get approved?"

"Rancho Caballo was initially approved to use only recycled gray water for the golf course," the man answered.

"That was part of the original subdivision master plan."

"That's impossible," Gilbert said.

"There isn't enough development in the area to supply that volume of gray water."

"Rancho Caballo bought additional water rights from an adjoining landowner last year. They can legally pump hundreds of acre-feet of groundwater from now until the wells run dry."

"Who sold the rights?"

The man chuckled sourly.

"You don't follow local politics much, I take it. Sherman Cobb sold the water rights to the corporation. He owns a couple of sections of land that butt up against the subdivision. It caused quite a stink in the press, and the environmentalists raised hell about the depletion of the underground aquifer. But it got approved anyway."

"I see," Gilbert replied, thinking maybe not much had changed in the 150 years since the end of the Mexican-American War, when the Stars and Stripes were first raised over Santa Fe. at the museum foundation offices, just behind the fine arts museum, Gilbert was directed by a receptionist to the publicist's office on the second floor. He climbed the stairs and found Fletcher Hartley sitting at a cluttered table in a small staff lounge near the stairwell, poring over photographs.

"What are you doing here?" Gilbert asked.

Fletcher waved off the implied censure.

"I'm doing research. The publicity director is an old friend. She was more than willing to share the guest list for the O'Keeffe benefit, as well as photographs she took at the gala."

"Aren't you supposed to be calling art dealers?"

"I've done that, to no avail. Now I'm gazing at candid snapshots of smug art patrons. Care to join me? From the look of it, there are untold numbers of potential suspects. So far, I have ten shots taken of Amanda Talley with distinctly different groups of people. She appears to be quite the social butterfly."

"Hand me a stack," Gilbert said as he sat down at the table.

They sorted through the pictures and assembled two piles of photos. One accumulation featured Amanda Talley in every shot, while a larger stack included everyone else who had been photographed at the gathering.

With the help of the publicist, they whittled down the number of unidentified people in the photographs to slightly under twenty.

"What's next?" Fletcher asked.

"Do you know who owns a company called Kokopelli Design Studio?"

Gilbert asked. He stretched to ease the stiffness in his shoulders, and started stuffing the two sets of pictures into envelopes.

"Bucky Watson owns it. Buckley is his given name.

He's unscrupulous. Once he made me an absurd offer to buy my inventory of completed works. I threw him out of my studio."

Gilbert picked through the Amanda Talley photographs until he found one with Watson, Roger Springer, and Frank Bailey standing in front of the dub- house bar with two unidentified men. He studied the picture.

"Watson's design studio owns two houses in Rancho Caballo," Gilbert said.

"Both in the million-dollar range."

"My, my, Bucky's doing quite well for himself."

"Can a design studio generate that kind of cash flow?"

"Bucky is really a small conglomerate. He owns the design studio, a gallery on Canyon Road, and an art crating company. And he also dabbles quite a bit in commercial real estate."

"So, he's got big bucks. I get the feeling you don't like him,"

Gilbert said.

"I do not," Hetcher replied, as he reached for his topcoat.

"Besides being greedy, he has no aesthetic sense and a shallow charm that wears thin."

"Why do people like Watson come here?" Gilbert asked.

"I see we share the same resentments about the new pioneers," Hetcher noted.

"While Santa Pc still has appeal, it is not the place we once loved."

Outside, in the lateness of the day, Gilbert said goodbye to Hetcher, who waved his umbrella in response, and jaywalked to the plaza.

Gilbert smiled as he watched. He remembered the image of Hetcher sitting in the deep shade under the portal of his house on summer evenings, sipping his single malt scotch, and entertaining the endless stream of friends who dropped by.

Gilbert's family had a standing invitation to Fletcher's informal soirees, and the gatherings sparkled with eccentrics, bohemians, artists, writers, and the intelligentsia. Fletcher's friends were men and women of every imaginable persuasion and inclination who loved the city with a passion that made them a vital part of the community.

For Gilbert, going to Fletcher's house had been like opening a window on the world. He smiled at the memory of Pletcher and his pals leading everybody off on a walk to the plaza for band concerts and other festivities.

Those were magical evenings when Gilbert was young.

What did Fletcher call the people who had recently migrated to Santa Fe? New pioneers-that was it. The dry was glutted with affluent colonists busy discarding identities, leaving relationships, abandoning careers, forging new lifestyles, pursuing New Age aspirations, and picking through the Santa Fe scene like shoppers at an outlet mall.

There were probably more psychic healers, spirit guides, psychotherapists, and self-help gurus per square foot in Santa Pc than anywhere else in the country.

Stolen art and stolen culture, Gilbert thought. He pushed back the sour feeling. It was close to the end of the business day. Maybe Bucky Watson would still be at his design studio on Water Street.

"I felt like I was the target of an investigation," Bucky Watson said.

He'd been bitching from the minute he'd arrived in Roger Springer's office to discuss his meeting with Sergeant Marrinez.

"Stop worrying," Springer said. He sat across from Bucky, who drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair and shifted nervously.

"I told you on the telephone the state police would be asking questions," he added.

"About the O'Keefle fund-raiser," Bucky shot back.

"Not my property holdings."

"It's no big deal. I talked to Vance Howell at the governor's office.

They've got no leads, so the cops are taking a scattergun approach to the case, hoping something will turn up."

"I still don't like it." Bucky ran a hand through his hair.

"Is Amanda really a suspect?"

"Howell says the working assumption is that her loose talk may have planted the idea for the robbery."

"Can't she straighten this thing out?"

"She's on vacation in Belize."

"Do the cops know about you and Amanda?" Bucky asked.

Roger laughed.

"Amanda likes to keep her trysts secret."

"And I like to keep my business affairs private," Bucky snapped.

"Relax. I can ask the governor to flex a little political muscle, if need be. Given the size of your contribution to his reelection campaign, I'm sure he'd oblige."

"That would help," Bucky said.

Tm always glad to be of service to a friend."

Bucky changed the subject.

"I need to move more money into Rancho Caballo. What's the status on the equestrian center plans?"

Springer got up and went to the desk.

"It's ready to go. All I need is a signature and a check." He picked up a document and walked back to Bucky.

"Now that we've attracted the wealthy golfers, it's time to bring in the rich horsy set."

"How much?" Bucky asked, taking the papers.

"Nine million, to cover design, planning, and land acquisition. Can you swing it? The corporation is cash poor until we finish selling the remaining lots. We went overbudget on the clubhouse and golf course."

Bucky scanned the papers for the bottom line.

"Cobb stands to make a hell of a profit on the land sale to the corporation," he remarked.

"Stop complaining, Bucky. You get what you need out of the arrangement."

Bucky scrawled his signature and handed the papers back to Springer.

"When do you want the check?"

"Anytime this week will do." neil ordway fumed as he slugged back the double shot of whiskey. He wanted to grind the shot glass into the face of the owner of the Cottonwood Bar, who stood behind the counter smirking. His scuffle with Kerney had been reported to the town council, and instead of accepting his resignation, the council had fired him instead. His chances of getting another law enforcement job were now less than zero.

It had taken all of thirty minutes for the news to spread throughout the village.

After turning in his equipment, the keys to the office and patrol car, and his badge and commission card, Ordway had walked from the town hall to the bar brooding over ways he could get back at Kerney.

He glared at the proprietor, a chunky man who always dressed Western and prided himself on looking like Kenny Rogers, the country singer.

Ordway was sure the man dyed his carefully trimmed white beard and razor-cut long hair to intensify the similarity.

He pointed at his empty glass. The owner filled it quickly and moved away.

It was dinnertime and Ordway was the lone customer in the bar. The Cottonwood, a sleazy joint that smelled of sweat, stale liquor, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, catered to hard-core boozers. The crappy, dingy atmosphere suited Ordway's shitty mood perfectly.

He downed his drink, ordered one more for the road, drank it quickly, bought a fifth to carry home, and stepped out into a cold night wind.

There was no one in sight, and the main drag was virtually empty except for a few cars parked across the street in front of the Laundromat.

Ordway buttoned up against the cold and started walking. A car passed by and he stiffened with embarrassment as the glare of the headlights caught him.

Even though his rented house trailer behind the Shaffer Hotel was just a few minutes' walk away, Ordway felt humiliated at the thought of being seen hoofing it home. He hurried across the main drag before another car cruised by, and ducked down a side street.

At the corner where Pop Shaffer's old, long-deserted motor lodge cabins stood, Ordway stopped and looked down the sidewalk toward the hotel. He smiled wickedly at the sight of Robert Cordova parading up and down in front of the weird concrete fence next to the hotel.

Half drunk, Ordway remembered getting a message earlier in the day that the county jail had released Cordova from protective custody. He stuffed the paper bag with the whiskey bottle inside his jacket, walked to Cordova, reached out, and yanked Robert's hands away from his ears.

"Hey, Robert," he said pleasantly.

Robert opened his eyes.

"Puck you," he snarled, trying to pull away.

"Be nice. I got something for you."

"You ain't got nothing I want," Robert said, still struggling to free himself from Ordway's grip.

"It's from Kerney. He sent you a present, a carton of smokes. Asked me to make sure you got them."

Cordova relaxed and Ordway released his hold.

"Where are they?" Robert asked.

"In my police car around the corner. Come on. Let's go get them." He patted Cordova on the shoulder and walked him away from the hotel lights.

When they reached the darkness of the motor lodge, Ordway pushed Cordova into die small courtyard that separated the stone cabins and slammed his fist into Robert's mouth. He heard Cordova's rotten teeth crack. He hit him again and felt some teeth break free.

Robert sank to his knees, blood bubbling out of his lips.

"How do you like your present, you crazy little motherfucker?" Ordway asked as he brought his knee up to Cordova's chin.

Robert collapsed on his side and Ordway started kicking him with his steel-toed boots.

Carlos Ruiz found planes nerve shattering. During the flight, he stayed glued to his seat while the three men with him oiled weapons, loaded ammunition clips, and chatted with one another. He tensed up when De Leon pilot announced through the open cockpit door that they would touch down at the Santa Pc Airport ten minutes behind Kerney.

Takeoffs and landings bothered Carlos most of all.

After Carlos had followed Kerney to the airport the night before, De Leon had ordered him to continue the surveillance, no matter where the gringo went.

Fortunately, it didn't take long to round up De Leon pilot and tail Kerney to El Paso. Once Carlos was back on the ground, shadowing the gringo had been easy. Kerney had no idea he had been followed.

Carlos had stayed in contact with the patron by telephone, advising him of Kerney's movements. As soon as Kerney crossed into Juarez, De Leon ordered Carlos to find out what the gringo was up to. That too proved to be a simple task. First, Kerney spoke with Rose Moya, and then immediately moved on to meet with Francisco Posada's former houseboy, Juan Diaz. After Kerney left, Carlos put another man on Kerney while he paid a visit to Juan.

Experience had taught Carlos that men feared the loss of physical capacity. If you threatened to cripple a man, blind him, or cut off his cock, most became cooperative within a very short time. Juan proved to be no exception.

Carlos didn't need to rough up Juan to learn that Kerney was investigating the Santa Fe art theft. But when Juan hesitated to say more, Carlos loosened his tongue by smashing the bones in his right hand. It alarmed Carlos to discover that Kerney suspected De Leon He reported Juan's disclosures to the patron. Don Enrique seemed unsurprised, which probably meant Carlos had simply confirmed information already at De Leon disposal. The jefe ordered continued surveillance.

Kerney spent the rest of the day meeting with norteamericano law enforcement officials in El Paso. As luck would have it, Kerney spoke with a DEA agent on De Leon payroll. Carlos talked to the agent after Kerney and learned that fingerprint evidence from the burned van had led the gringo to suspect De Leon organization.

That was all the agent knew. Carlos passed on the news to De Leon who once again seemed unperturbed.

Carlos ran over the torching of the van in his mind.

He thought he had destroyed the vehicle sufficiently to erase all the evidence. Would De Leon hold him responsible for the oversight?

He would find out soon enough, and although the thought of fating De Leon anger chilled him, he knew better than to try to run or hide.

Carlos switched his attention to the three men in the plane. He wondered what plans the patron had for them. Hopefully, they were coming to Santa Pc only to kill Kerney. But De Leon could also use them to mete out punishment. Carlos needed to remain mindful of that possibility.

The wheels thudded over the runway, and for the first time during the flight Carlos looked out the window.

The bright lights of the small control tower were a welcome sight. He let go of the armrests and grunted in relief only when the plane touched down and the pilot applied the brakes. nita lassiter stood at the railing on the second floor of the state police headquarters and watched Kerney walk slowly up the stairs. With his head lowered, he didn't see her. She had noticed Kerney's limp previously, but now it seemed much more pronounced; he was almost dragging his right leg up each step. He saw her, masked a small smile, and picked up his pace.

"I see you made bail," Kerney said as he reached the top of the landing.

"Yesterday," Nita replied. Dressed in blue jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and work boots, Nita held a brown leather bomber jacket in her hand.

Her arm was no longer in a sling.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Lassiter?" Kerney asked, concentrating on her worried expression. Even in casual attire Nita looked feminine and elegant.

"I'm here about Robert," Nita replied.

"He's been severely beaten. He wants you to visit him at the hospital."

"What happened?"

"He won't talk about it. He has a fractured arm, a broken rib, and he lost some front teeth."

"Who found him?"

"A deputy sheriff."

"Where?"

"Near the Shaffer Hotel in Mountainair. He was lying in the courtyard of the old motor lodge."

"What hospital is he in?"

"The university hospital in Albuquerque."

"How did you find out about it?"

"Robert carries my business card in his wallet. The hospital called to see if I was his next of kin."

"No wonder Robert thinks of you as his sister."

"He really has no one else," Nita answered with a slight shrug and small smile.

"Will you go and see him?"

"Of course I will. As soon as I finish up here."

"Thank you." Nita dropped her gaze as Kerney's blue eyes studied her.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"If you have another question, just ask it."

"You don't seem to like my questions," Kerney replied.

"I'm not going to apologize for being upset when you came to take me to jail."

"Why should you? I've watched hard cases break down and cry when the jail door slammed shut behind them. You held up very well."

"Is that a compliment?"

"You bet it is."

"Why do I get the feeling you don't think of me as a criminal?" Nita asked.

"Extenuating circumstances make some people less guilty than others."

"Your compassion surprises me."

Kerney grimaced at the sarcasm.

"I sound like I'm spoiling for a fight, don't I?" Nita said.

"You're angry."

"Mostly with myself. That doesn't mean I have to take it out on you."

Kerney extended his hand.

"I hope things work out for you."

"So do I." Nita slipped her hand into Kerney's and didn't let go.

"You're a rare breed, Mr. Kerney. Under different circumstances, I think I would enjoy knowing you."

"I share the feeling," Kerney replied.

"Take care of yourself."

Nita smiled and let go of Kerney's hand.

"I plan to.

Addie is about to have her baby. She went into labor an hour ago. I'm on my way to Socorro."

"Will you tell her the truth about Paul Gillespie?"

Nita shook her head.

"There's no need. She's agreed to put the baby up for adoption."

She walked down the stairs with her back straight and her head up, and Kerney fought off the unpleasant image of Nita dressed in prison garb, locked in a cell. He wondered if there was anything he could do to help her. *** "How did it go?" Andy asked from behind his desk as Kerney entered his office.

"Nobody seems to know where De Leon is, but I did learn that he now has a diplomatic passport and he's buying into legitimate businesses along the border."

Kerney sat, gave Andy the details, and finished up.

"I've got an informant injuarez trying to scour up some more facts."

"By the name of Juan Diaz," Andy noted.

"He called looking for you."

"Did he leave a message?"

"It's not one you're going to like to hear. Carlos Ruiz laid some heavy muscle on him after your visit. Ruiz roughed Diaz up and forced him to snitch you off."

"How the hell did Carlos get on to me?"

"You were probably tailed as soon as you crossed the border," Andy ventured.

"I never should have let you go down there."

"If De Leon knows I'm looking for him, it might force him out into the open."

"What an optimist you are. De Leon has any number of resources he can use to kill you, without exposing himself."

"Should I go into hiding?" Kerney asked sharply.

"Don't get testy on me," Andy answered gruffly.

"But until the dust settles I've put Fletcher's house under a close patrol, and Sergeant Martinez will be your partner. Where you go, he goes."

Kerney opened his mouth to protest and Andy cut him off.

"No arguments, Kerney."

Kerney clamped his mouth shut and nodded.

"Has Gilbert made any progress while I was gone?"

"He's got his team working hard on the Amanda Talley connection, and he's searching records on the companies that own Rancho Caballo property to see what might be lurking behind the corporate veil."

"No breakthroughs," Kerney summarized.

"We're running with one foot nailed to the floor," Andy groused in agreement. He pointed to the open door to the conference room.

"But if it will make you feel any better, there are a shitload of inconclusive field reports you need to read through."

Kerney pulled himself out of his chair with a rueful look on his face.

"In the morning," Andy ordered, holding up a hand.

Kerney nodded.

"Yeah. In my current state, I'd just have to read them all over again anyway."

"Go home. Better yet, get a home."

"Hetcher would be heartbroken to know that you don't approve of my living arrangements."

"Hetcher may not want you staying in his guest quarters for the next couple of years."

"I doubt the investigation will last that long."

"I didn't make you my chief deputy to work one case. As soon as we get through this mess, I'm going to fill your plate. There's a hell of a lot of work we need to do in this department."

"Don't try to shanghai me for the long haul, Andy."

"You're in for the duration."

"We'll just have to see about that," Kerney noted as he left the office. carlos found De Leon in the living room, sitting in his favorite chair, reading some papers. The patron was dressed to go out. He wore a lightweight camel hair jacket, a silk shirt buttoned easily at the collar, and a pair of charcoal trousers.

Carlos hesitated before entering. The preserved head of a fighting bull, famous for its performance in the Plaza de Toros in Mexico City, looked over the room from above the fireplace. It glared at Carlos forebodingly with its glass eyes. He composed himself and walked toward De Leon Enrique waited for Carlos to draw near.

"A sus ordenes, Don Enrique," Carlos said.

"Ingles," Enrique snapped.

"Speak English."

"I am sorry, patron," Carlos said, lowering his head slightly. "I am at your service."

"That's much better. Are the men in the guest quarters?"

"They are. With orders to stay out of sight until instructed otherwise."

"Very good."

"Do you have orders for them?" Carlos asked.

"Not yet. Why do you look so troubled, Carlos?"

"Because I failed to completely destroy the van, Don Enrique."

De Leon flashed a reassuring smile.

"No blame attaches to you. Palazzi's stupidity created the circumstance.

You did all that I asked to correct the situation."

"But now you are exposed to Kerney," Carlos replied.

"It is Kerney who is at risk. You must complete the dossier on him. I want to know where he is the most vulnerable."

"Do you wish to kill him yourself?"

"I may allow you that privilege."

"I am glad that you still retain confidence in me, patron."

"As always, Carlos. Go now. You have work to do."

Carlos departed with the feeling that he might soon be a dead man lifted from his shoulders. plbtchbr's reputation as an artist who sold his work at high prices had given him sufficient cachet to arrange a late dinner meeting at the clubhouse with the exclusive broker who worked for Rancho Caballo. The broker had a visitor's pass waiting for him at the security gate.

He met her in the lobby. She was a cheery, perfectly dressed young woman with a big hairdo that framed her glossy face and cascaded down to her decolletage.

She oozed with the desire to find the perfect Rancho Caballo home to meet his every need.

Over dinner, the woman patted his hand and talked about the host of contractors who could build a house exactly to his specifications if there was nothing available that he liked.

The food and service were excellent and the large number of dinner guests surprised Pletcher. He had expected far fewer people. He knew not a soul, nor did he want to. But it was dear that the rich had made Rancho Caballo a haven from the rigors of the outside world.

The dining room had a California decor, with two walls of windows that looked out over the golf course, where the lights along the golf cart paths cast a glow over the fairways. A fireplace crackled with cedar and pinon logs, and a series of wrought-iron chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling. The paintings on the wall were mundane pastel watercolors that Fletcher's trained eye had immediately dismissed as bogus hackwork.

"Do you plan to sell your home in town?" Heather Griffin asked as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. Fletcher could see the wheels turning as she contemplated the possibility of two fat commissions.

"Oh, I suppose my accountant will insist on it, if I decide to buy in Rancho Caballo," he replied.

"Rancho Caballo is blessed with many talented people," Heather crooned.

She named two prominent entertainers who owned vacation homes.

"You would fit right in."

"An elite community in every way, I'm sure," Fletcher said, eyeing a tableful of richly dressed young matrons wearing squash blossom necklaces, concho belts, and turquoise earrings.

"The ambiance must draw them here."

"Exactly," Heather replied gaily.

"I suppose it would be best to have one broker handle the sale of my house and the purchase of a new one."

"That's the most efficient way," Heather agreed as she leaned forward to give Pletcher her pitch.

Half-listening, Fletcher nodded and smiled every so often to keep her talking. His visit to Rancho Caballo, which Kerney would most certainly reproach him for, had yielded nothing. He had hoped to come away with something useful. He eyed the young woman across the table and thought what a nice warm blaze it would make if all Santa Pc realtors were burned at the stake, the fires fueled by the catalogs, brochures, and marketing material they spewed out to attract potential buyers. Next summer's annual city fiesta would be the perfect time to do it.

After dinner, Pletcher made his excuses and said good night. He arrived in the lobby just as Bucky Watson entered with a male companion-one of the unidentified guests in the O'Keefie benefit photographs.

He approached Watson with a smile, hand outstretched.

"My dear Bucky, how are you? It's been so very long since I've seen you."

"I'm fine, Pletcher," Bucky answered, shaking Hartley's hand, a little perplexed by the cordiality. He knew the old queer didn't like him.

"Who is your friend?" Pletcher asked, turning to look squarely at the man for the first time. He was definitely Hispanic, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, with a fair complexion, blue eyes, and curly light brown hair.

"Vicente Fuentes, meet Fletcher Hartley," Bucky replied.

"Pletcher is one of our living treasures."

"Ah," De Leon said.

"I have heard of this custom.

Your city honors elders who have contributed their talents to the community. It is an admirable idea."

"I've enjoyed the distinction," Fletcher said.

"Have you been with us long in Santa Pc, Senor Fuentes?"

"I am only an occasional visitor," De Leon answered.

"I believe you've met a friend of mine, Frank Bailey.

At the O'Keeffe benefit last month."

"I don't recall the name," De Leon said.

"I've met so many people since I arrived, it is hard to keep everyone sorted in my mind."

"Of course. Perhaps I am mistaken," Fletcher said.

"Perhaps," De Leon replied. He touched Watson's back in a signal to move on.

"Good night, Mr. Hartley."

"Good night, Senor Fuentes."

Hetcher drove home in great anticipation of his next conversation with Kerney. He would reveal a tidbit that, he hoped, would be new and helpful information. at a corner table in the clubhouse bar, Bucky Watson waited for De Leon to speak. De Leon expected to be treated with deference, and while Bucky privately resented the attitude, he knew better than to confront it. He took a sip of his drink and remained silent.

Aside from the hostess behind the bar and an older couple about to leave, the room was empty. De Leon watched the man hold the woman's coat as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. When they walked out the door, he glanced over at Bucky.

Bucky looked like an athlete, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and a trim waist, but his petulant face spoiled the image.

After the hostess left to deliver drinks in the dining room, De Leon finally spoke.

"How much inventory do you have on hand?"

Bucky did a quick calculation in his head.

"A six-week supply of cocaine," he answered.

"Maybe a little less than that in heroin. Smack has been moving well lately."

"Send everything to Chicago immediately."

"That's a lot of product to put on the road at one time."

De Leon answered with an icy look.

"I'll have it shipped out by morning," Bucky said, recovering quickly.

It would mean calling in the crew to build special containers at the crating shop, packing the drugs in with some cheap art, forging lading bills, and putting two large trucks on the road. It was an all-night job.

"When will I be resupplied?" Bucky asked.

"You won't be, for a time."

"I've got people who expect product waiting out there."

"They can wait," De Leon said, thinking how tiresome Bucky could be.

"They may start moving to other suppliers."

"Or they'll cut back on bulk sales and raise their prices. When can more of my funds be moved into Rancho Caballo?"

"We can wash an additional nine million right away," Bucky answered.

"Do Springer and Cobb continue to believe it is your money they are using?"

Bucky snickered.

"Yeah. They don't seem to care where it comes from, as long as they get their slice."

"Excellent. There is a shopping mall south of the city that is about to come on the market. When it does, offer the asking price and secure the largest mortgage possible. I'll transfer funds to cover the down payment and closing costs."

Bucky masked his surprise. If De Leon was right about the mall, no one else in the city knew anything about it.

"I'll take care of it."

"Have the police returned to question you further about the art theft?"

"No," Bucky replied.

"Roger Springer will ask the governor to intervene if the cops get too nosey."

"Since you had nothing to do with the theft, you should have no worries."

"I'd love to know who pulled it off. It was a slick piece of work."

"So it seems," Enrique said.

"What have you learned about it?"

"The police are operating on the assumption that Amanda Talley was somehow involved in the heist. I introduced you to her at the O'Keeffe benefit. The cops think she may have been murdered."

"How interesting. Is this information reliable?"

"It comes right from the governor's chief of security, a state police captain."

"Police make such excellent informants. The gentleman you introduced me to in the lobby. Tell me about him."

"Pletcher? He's local color. He's a very successful artist, collected on a national level."

"Does he own property in Rancho Caballo?"

"Not as far as I know. He lives near the Roundhouse, in one of the older neighborhoods. He was probably someone's dinner guest."

"I did not like the degree of interest he showed in me. Who are his friends?"

Bucky chuckled.

"Every queen, queer, transvestite, and transsexual in Santa Pc. The latest Fletcher story I heard is that he has a gay cop living with him."

"Really?"

"I don't know who it is. But knowing Fletcher, he's probably young and good-looking."

"He sounds harmless," De Leon noted, glancing at his wristwatch.

Bucky took the cue, stood up, and smiled at his boss.

"I'll stay in touch," he said.

"Make sure that you do."

Bucky left the bar feeling mined. Working for De Leon had made him a rich man, but he didn't have to like the son of a bitch's condescending attitude. aftbr learning a bit more about Amanda Talley, Gilbert Martinez believed his hunch about Roger Springer and his after-hours trysts with women at the governor's office deserved to be tested. Although it was fairly late, lights burned inside Roger Springer's house.

Gilbert was pleased; he had timed the visit to catch Springer away from the office and off guard, if possible.

He stopped his unit next to a BMW in the driveway, and exterior floodlights controlled by motion sensors immediately switched on.

Average in size by neighborhood standards, the house was situated off Gonzales Road in the foothills, with Santa Fe aglow below it, spreading haphazardly across the valley floor.

A round structure low to the ground, the home seemed anchored to the hillside. The curved walls had large windows and doors separated by buttresses, and all the rooms appeared to open onto a semicircular patio. Gilbert found his way to double glass doors that allowed him to see into a sunken living room. A fireplace glowed in the center of the room, and a wine bottle and two glasses were on a coffee table in front of a couch.

No one was in sight, so he knocked and waited, his attention drawn back to the dtyscape below. He could remember a time when except for the highway strip into town, Santa Pc stopped at the private college on St.

Michaels Drive. Now the profusion of city lights ran for miles past the college and washed out the night sky.

He looked through the double glass doors just as Roger Springer yanked one open. Wearing a terry-doth robe and a waspish expression. Springer ran a hand through his rumpled hair and gave Gilbert an irritated look.

"What is it. Sergeant?"

"I have a few questions, Mr. Springer. May I come in?"

"At this hour?"

"Only for a minute."

Springer nodded brusquely and stood aside. Gilbert stepped into a wide arched foyer that opened onto the living room. Recessed lights along the back wall of the living room accentuated an arrangement of paintings and lithographs above a stereo sound system on a low, built-in bookcase.

"What questions do you have?" Springer asked as he closed the door.

He made no gesture for Gilbert to move into the living room.

"I understand you're a friend of Amanda Talley."

"I know Amanda."

"You were with her at the O'Keeffe benefit, I believe."

"I was hardly with her, Sergeant."

"But you saw her there," Gilbert countered.

"We had a drink together with several other people."

"Was Bucky Watson one of them?"

"I believe so."

"There was another man with the group. He may have been Hispanic or Mexican. Do you remember meeting him?"

"I can't say that I do."

Gilbert held out a photograph.

"Please look at the man at the extreme left of the picture with his head partially turned away, and tell me if you know him."

Roger leaned forward and looked.

"I don't know him."

"He may own a house in Rancho Caballo."

"I wouldn't know."

Gilbert put the photograph away.

"I understand that some time back you lost a key to the governor's private elevator and had to have it replaced. Did you ever find the key?"

"No."

"You didn't loan the key to anyone?"

"No."

"Did you ever date Amanda Talley?"

"Yes, we dated for a while, two years ago, soon after she came to town."

"But not recently?"

"I said it was two years ago."

"I'm a little confused about your answer. Last month you were seen in the governor's suite after hours with Amanda Talley."

"I may have run into Amanda at my uncle's office one evening, Sergeant, but that's all there was to it."

"Why would Ms. Talley be in the governor's office after hours?"

"Do you suspect Amanda, Sergeant?"

"What was your business there that night?"

"I believe I left a legal brief for the governor's chief of staff to review."

"You didn't rendezvous with Amanda at the governor's office that evening?"

"Are you suggesting a romantic interlude of a sexual nature? Isn't that how you referred to it in my office? I did not. As I told you, our relationship has been over for a long time."

"Several of Ms. Talley's closest friends suggest otherwise.

They report that you and Amanda continue to meet privately upon occasion."

Springer blinked.

"If you've spoken with Amanda, I'm sure you know that's simply not true."

"We haven't been able to reach her yet. She's out of the country."

"Isn't it premature to make accusations you can't substantiate?"

"We found some pubic hairs on the carpet in the governor's office.

Right in front of his desk."

"Did you?"

Gilbert reached out, plucked a loose hair off the collar of Springer's bathrobe, and inspected it.

"From two different individuals," he lied.

Springer paled considerably as he watched Gilbert place the hair between the pages of his notebook and close the cover.

"You just violated my constitutional rights," Springer said.

"You have no authority to collect physical evidence without a search warrant."

"Physical evidence?" Gilbert replied innocently.

"You're not a suspect, Mr. Springer. Didn't I make that dear? I don't think you have any reason to be concerned."

"It's time for you to leave. Sergeant."

Outside, Gilbert took a deep breath. A piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, although it probably didn't matter much, since he couldn't actually prove Roger Springer had jumped Amanda Talley's bones on the governor's carpet.

The whole thing had been a bluff, and the ploy could cost him, big time. Gilbert was sure the brass would hear about it in the morning, and the thought that he might get bounced off the investigation and stuck in some cubbyhole, sorting evidence inventories for die rest of his career, didn't sit well.

Gilbert doubted he would get much sleep when he got home. the doctors had given Robert painkillers. He woke up to Kerney's gentle shaking with a small groan. His beard had been shaved off, and there were bruises on his mouth and chin. His lip was split and two upper front teeth were missing.

Without the beard, Robert's face had an unused quality to it, except for his eyes, which looked very old.

His left arm was suspended in a cast, and his torso had been wrapped to immobilize a broken rib.

He looked at Kerney and said nothing. It made Kerney wonder if Robert was hearing voices in his head. Finally, Robert licked his lower lip and coughed.

"How are you, Robert?" Kerney asked.

"Un poco de agua, por favor," Robert said.

With great care, Kerney tilted Robert's head off the pillow and placed the straw protruding from the plastic water jug between Robert's lips.

Robert took several small sips and then pulled the straw from his lips.

"It hurts to use my mouth," he said.

"You don't have to talk now, if you don't want to."

"You understand Spanish, Kerney," Robert said.

"Who did this to you?"

"El Malo."

Kerney knew the term. It meant "the evil one," a colloquialism for the devil.

"How did he do this to you?"

Robert blinked and looked confused.

"My head feels better."

"I hope it stays that way."

"El Malo never stays with me. He's just non hatajo de mentiras."

"He lies to you?"

Robert smirked.

"He says I'm not crazy."

"That must be good to hear."

"It's a lie." Robert paused for a moment.

"Once I dreamed I was Jesus Christ. You know what I did in the dream?"

"What did you do?"

"I killed myself." Robert giggled.

"Isn't that funny?"

"That was some dream."

"El Malo makes me dream shit like that. It's bad luck to dream you're Jesus."

"Who beat you up, Robert?"

"I was naguitas, Kerney. A real sissy. I didn't even throw one punch.

Not one."

"Maybe you didn't have the chance."

"You're supposed to fight back. That's the rule."

"Even tofe bolos like you can get tricked," Kerney ventured.

Robert considered Kerney's statement.

"You got fucked up pretty bad, shot and everything. Isn't that right?"

"That's right."

"Were you scared when it happened?"

"Terrified. Who beat you up, Robert?"

"That fucker Ordway said you sent him some smokes to give to me."

"Ordway did this?"

"Yeah."

Kerney stayed with Robert until he closed his eyes and fell asleep. on the drive back to Santa Pc, Kerney made contact with the state cop who lived in Mountainair, and asked about Ordway's whereabouts. The officer reported Ordway had cleaned out his trailer, loaded up a small U-Haul, and left town.

Tired to the bone, Kerney turned down the squawk box volume and popped a Wynton Marsalis tape into the cassette deck. Some deep-down, throaty blues would carry him home. Or not exactly home, as Andy had so correctly pointed out.

He would love to put his cowboy boots on the coffee table at Harper Springer's ranch and call the place his own, but that was a pipe dream.

If he stayed in Santa Fe, reality would be a furnished box apartment with all the charm of a minimum-security federal prison. That just wouldn't do.

He was approaching the off-ramp to St. Francis Drive when the realization hit him that he wasn't thinking clearly. He switched his attention to the rearview mirror. The headlights of three cars behind him flickered in the mirror. He slowed to let them close, clicked on the turn signal, and continued past the exit. Two of the cars turned off while the third stayed behind him.

He didn't know if he was being followed or not, but it was time to start playing it safe. He moved into the left lane, swung the car off the pavement onto a dirt crossover that connected the divided highway, and merged with the southbound traffic. The northbound car continued on without slowing.

From now on, he would take alternate routes to and from work and vary his routine. With an eye on the rearview mirror, he got off the interstate, and took side streets to Fletcher's house.

At the house, he scanned the grounds for anything out of the ordinary before going inside. Everything looked perfectly peaceful.

Kerney turned on the table lamp in Fletcher's bedroom and found him curled up in a ball under an old hand stitched floral-wreath quilt. The bed, a massive nineteenth-century four-poster, was angled to provide a view of a walled garden at the rear of the house. Nichos carved in the adobe walls displayed an assortment of folk art animal figures that included Acoma Pueblo owls. Cochin storyteller bears, and mythical Mexican beasts. On the floor in the four corners of the room stood carefully grouped menageries of hand-carved, painted animals. Pigs, skunks, donkeys, lions, and chickens of various sizes were arranged facing the bed.

"Wake up, Fletcher," Kerney said.

Pletcher pulled a pillow over his head.

"It's much too early to wake up," he muttered.

"It's time for our run."

Kerney removed the pillow and Fletcher opened his eyes. Dressed to go running, Kerney wore a fanny pack around his waist.

"Why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?" Fletcher asked as he sat up.

The pouch, designed with a special sleeve for a quick draw, held Kerney's loaded semiautomatic and a spare dip, but Fletcher didn't need to know that.

"Dress," Kerney said, ignoring the question and tossing Fletcher's sweats on the foot of the bed.

"I'll wait for you outside."

When Pletcher joined him, Kerney took a different route for their morning run, half-expecting Fletcher to complain. But as Kerney led the way out of the neighborhood and up a narrow street mat gave them a view of the mountains, Fletcher said nothing.

The first full light of morning streaked speckled carmine on the flat underbelly of some stratus clouds, brushed the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and nickered against the peak of Sun Mountain. Sunlight tipped the mountaintops as though it were a hazy rivulet of gold spreading across the high summits.

"Why do you look so pleased with yourself?" Kerney asked as they jogged past an open field that gave mema better view of the mountains.

"No particular reason," Fletcher replied.

"Unless you might have some small interest in learning the identity of the mysterious man who was with Bucky Watson at the O'Keeffe benefit."

Kerney slowed to a trot.

"What have you been up to, Fletcher?"

"I happened to run into Bucky and his friend at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. The man's name is Vicente Puentes. He's Hispanic, with classic Castilian features-quite good-looking. A Mexican from his accent, I would say. Gilbert has a picture of him."

"What were you doing at Rancho Caballo?"

"Having dinner. The food was excellent."

"Did you learn anything more about Fuentes?"

"Only that he's an occasional visitor to Santa Pc. He looks to be quite wealthy."

"I want you to be careful, Pletcher."

"Careful about what?"

"The men we're looking for can be very dangerous."

"Have you identified the crooks?"

"We've got a line on them. Don't let any strangers into the house, and if you see anyone suspicious in the neighborhood, I want you to call me right away."

"Have you been sending patrol officers to check on my house?"

Kerney nodded.

"Andy has. It's just a precaution. Do you have to go anywhere during the next few days?"

"A trip to the grocery store. I need to fill my larder.

That's all."

"Do that, but otherwise stay home, and keep the doors and windows locked."

"You're scaring me a bit, Kerney. Whatever is the matter?"

"Just do as you're told," Kerney said.

"And no more playing Hercule Poirot. This isn't one of those cozy mystery novels you love to read."

The hurt look on Fletcher's face made Kerney stop. ^ don't want anything bad to happen to you."

Pletcher smiled wanly.

"I'll do as you've asked. But I must say you have a rather fierce way of showing your concern." buck? watson's art crating business was housed in a two-story Victorian, on a side street in the Guadalupe District of Santa Fe. A redbrick structure with a wide front porch and a gabled roof, it had a loading dock at the back of the building that led to an alley. Two other Victorians were on either side, one used as a dance studio, and the other rented by a high-end furniture maker.

Across the street stood an upscale nightclub and restaurant. It was one of the few buildings on the street Bucky's company. Matador Properties, didn't own.

The Guadalupe District, within walking distance of the plaza, had once been a blend of homes and family owned businesses. As the tourist industry expanded, and all the buildings on the plaza were fully leased to serve the growing market, the new galleries, boutiques, and specialty shops began spreading into the Guadalupe area. Using De Leon money, Bucky had started buying before other investors jumped on the bandwagon.

He stood on the loading dock and watched the trucks start off on the long haul to Chicago. His breath cut a ribbon through the frigid air of early morning. It had taken all night to put the shipment together.

Moving nearly a half ton of cocaine and an equal amount of smack was no easy proposition. It had to be hidden in specially constructed crates and loaded precisely in the trucks to avoid raising suspicion.

Bucky turned off the overhead lights and walked to the back of the crating room to the large tool closet.

The drivers had been the last employees to leave, and the building was empty. He flipped on the closet light and swung open a floor-to-ceiling shelf that led to a secret basement. Six wetbacks supplied by De Leon had built the hidden passageway and fashioned a cellar under the crawl space. All the excavation work had been done at night; dirt had been hauled up in buckets by hand, loaded into trucks, and carted away before daybreak.

Bucky walked down the stairs and checked his inventory.

He'd deliberately held back some product so he could fill two upcoming shipments, one for Colorado and one for Kansas. He saw no reason not to make the deliveries just because De Leon wanted to bolster the Chicago market. The drugs would be gone within a couple of days, and because the well would be dry for a while, Bucky planned to bump up the price of a kilo and skim the difference, with no one the wiser.

He turned off the light, locked up, went to his office, and logged on at the computer. Except for Kansas and Colorado, it was time to let the network know that the pipeline would be shut down until further notice. gilbert martinbz got to work early and found a memorandum tacked to the office door. The memo, signed by the vehicle maintenance supervisor, directed Gilbert to produce his unit for servicing immediately. It cited departmental policy, and noted that failure to comply could result in disciplinary action.

It was the second memo Gilbert had received in a week, and while he didn't expect to be reprimanded, the car badly needed a tune-up. He unlocked the office, dumped his briefcase on the desk, and walked down the hall to a back suite that looked out on the maintenance building.

The overhead doors were open and the lights were on. Maybe if he got the unit in immediately, he could have it back in a couple of hours.

He drove to the shop, parked by an open bay, found the vehicle supervisor in his office, dropped the car keys on the desk, and asked when he could pick up the unit.

"End of the day," the man said gruffly.

"I'm gonna have to fit you in where I can."

"I need another car," Gilbert said.

"Don't have one," the man replied.

"You'll have to borrow from somebody who isn't using their vehicle, or catch rides with one of the uniforms."

"That won't work," Gilbert said.

The man shrugged.

"You caused the problem, Sergeant, not me. I had you scheduled for maintenance last week. Next time, get your car in when you're supposed to and I'll have a leaner for you."

Back in his office, Gilbert discovered two manila envelopes on the seat of his desk chair containing information on Rancho Caballo sent over by the Environment Department and the Santa Fe county clerk.

He thumbed through the paperwork. One set was compliance documents for the effluent discharge and gray water system at me clubhouse. He set it aside.

The Santa Fe county clerk's packet contained release of mortgage documents, warranty deeds, and copies of the mortgages held on Rancho Caballo. Gilbert read the material carefully. Twelve liens against Rancho Caballo had been released by a company called Matador Properties, based in Santa Pc. The total amount paid off to Matador exceeded a hundred million dollars. Matador held another hundred million in paper against the corporation.

Gilbert checked the due dates on the release documents.

Each were ten-year notes that had been paid off way ahead of schedule.

Gilbert wasn't a financial expert, but paying off so much debt so quickly seemed unusual to him, especially for a real estate project with land and houses still unsold. He went through the forms again, this time scanning the signature blocks. Sherman Cobb, Roger Springer, and Bucky Watson had signed off on each of them, Cobb for Rancho Caballo, Springer as corporate counsel, and Watson for Matador Properties.

It's such a small world, Gilbert thought, as he heard footsteps in the hallway. He looked up, expecting to see Chief Kerney appear in the doorway, ready to ream him out for his late-night visit to Roger Springer. He relaxed when the footsteps receded.

Gilbert leafed through the papers again. Matador Properties was taking a hard hit on interest earnings because of the accelerated payback on the notes. And while everything appeared legal, he wondered why Watson would keep financing a project that yielded such low returns. He needed some expert advice.

The official workday had begun, which meant that Joe Valdez should be in his office. Valdez, a senior investigator and a certified public accountant, specialized in white-collar and corporate crime. Gilbert picked up the paperwork and went looking for Valdez. He found him anchored behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his wide nose, punching the keys of a desk calculator.

Valdez had a full chin and big ears with thick lobes.

He wore his hair short with no part. He looked more like a prizefighter than a cop or a CPA.

"Hey, Sergeant," Joe said as Gilbert walked in.

"What's up?"

"Doing the monthly family budget?" Gilbert asked.

"There is no family budget," Joe grumbled, pushing the calculator aside.

"A budget assumes that I can actually plan for expenditures. That's impossible to do with two teenage daughters in high school."

"Marry them off," Gilbert suggested, sliding into a chair.

"Too young," Valdez replied with a shake of his head.

"Plus, they both want to go to college before they get married. As it is, I'm running a tax service out of the house in my spare time, trying to put some money aside for tuition. It costs a bundle to send kids to college.

Now that the wife is working, we just might be able to swing it."

"The rewards of police work come from the satisfaction of the job, not money."

"Don't give me that crap."

"You'll have both girls in college at the same time?"

"One right after the other, starting in two years."

"I'm looking forward to the same experience with my girls later down the line."

"You'll love it," Joe predicted sourly.

"What have you got?"

"Take a look at these and tell me what you think."

Gilbert handed Valdez the documents and waited for a reaction.

"I don't like what I'm seeing," Valdez finally said, flipping back and forth from document to document.

"These kind of real estate development projects usually attract more than one financing source, especially at this level. Two hundred million is a hell of a lot of money for one company to invest in this state, unless it's a banking institution."

"What about the accelerated loan payoffs?"

"That, too," Joe replied. He rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head.

"There's a lot of cash moving back and forth here over a short period of time."

"Between the same group of people."

"Exactly. I'd be looking hard at Matador Properties, if I were you.

Scope out the assets of the corporation."

"That's the place to start?"

Joe nodded.

"You bet. Track down the source of that money. What kind of income is generating that level of investment capital? If it looks clean, then jump over to Rancho Caballo. The corporate earnings to debt ratio might prove interesting, once you know what amounts from the loan proceeds were actually plowed into the development."

Valdez held out the paperwork for Gilbert to take back.

Gilbert didn't move.

"Would you do it? I don't know the first thing about all this crap."

Valdez dropped the papers on the desk.

"Have I just been suckered into something here?"

Gilbert grinned.

"Only if you think it's worth your time."

Joe scratched his chin.

"It may be. I'll make some calls. If I learn anything interesting, I'll let you know."

"Pair enough," Gilbert said.

"Are you using your unit today? If not, I'd like to borrow it. I'm stranded without a vehicle."

"No way," Joe answered with a snort.

"I only do one favor a day for newly anointed sergeants." caklos couldn't remember a time in the past when he had been invited to join the patron for a cup of coffee.

He sat at the dining room table holding the delicate cup carefully in his hands while the maid cleared away the breakfast dishes. De Leon gazed out the window at the snowcapped mountains and didn't speak until the woman departed.

"So Kerney has no girlfriend? No private life outside of his job?" De Leon asked, shifting his gaze to Carlos.

"No, patron. He works and goes home. That is all."

"What did he do in Albuquerque last night?"

"According to a nurse at the hospital, he visited a patient, a man who had been found beaten in a small village called Mountainair."

"What prompted Kerney to visit this man?"

"I do not know, patron. But he identified himself as a police officer to the nurse in charge of the unit."

"Where is this village?"

"South of Albuquerque, east of the mountains."

"Tell me about Kerney's workplace."

"The buildings are fenced, isolated from the highway, and on a small hill. There are many police around, including students and officers who stay at the police training academy. Those who work there must either pass through a reception area or use security cards to enter the exterior doors. Cards must also be used after hours to open the security gate."

"Could Kerney be killed from a distance as he leaves?"

"Yes, but at some risk," Carlos replied.

"The highway is very busy and there are nearby businesses along the strip that attract customers."

"What is the best vantage point?"

"There is a new car lot directly across the highway.

From there I can see who comes and goes, but only if I use binoculars.

I have been able to follow Kerney by identifying his vehicle. He parks in the same reserved space every day."

"Using a sniper won't work."

Carlos nodded.

"We would have better success where Kerney lives. He resides in the guest quarters of a house near the state capitol. It is on a private lane at the end of a street, shared by only one other residence.

The house is situated in a hollow, almost hidden from sight. From the lane, you can see only the roofline and part of the driveway. There are many places that can be used for concealment."

"Who is Kerney's host?"

Carlos pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket.

"His name is Fletcher Hartley."

De Leon eyes closed. Fletcher Hartley was the man at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse who had forced Bucky to make an introduction. Had Hartley been acting on Kerney's behalf?

"Can the house be entered easily?" Enrique asked.

"Yes, jefe. There is one door at the front, a patio door at a rear garden, and a separate entrance to the attached guest quarters. There are no alarm or security devices to contend with. Under cover of darkness, with three men to assist me, there should be no problem."

Enrique nodded, pleased with Ruiz's thoroughness.

He now had a clear picture of what needed to be done.

"Is the information sufficient?" Carlos asked.

"You've done well," De Leon replied as he refilled his coffee cup.

"Go to the house tonight. After Kerney arrives, send the men in. One through each entrance.

Have them kill Kerney and his host. When it is done, rendezvous with me at the airport."

"Are we returning home, patron?"

"For a time." gilbbkt dug through the sheaf of National Crime Information Center reports on the people who had been interviewed and questioned since the investigation began. There were no hits for arrests or convictions until he reached Bucky Watson. In the early seventies, Bucky had served eighteen months in a California state prison for drug dealing.

Gilbert reached for the telephone just as Chief Kerney appeared in the doorway.

"Chief," he said, pulling his hand away from the receiver.

"Sergeant," Kerney replied with a smile.

"I understand you've been assigned as my partner."

"I'll try not to cramp your style," Gilbert said, smiling back.

"Do you have anything new on Carlos Ruiz?"

"Nada. We don't even know where he is."

"What about Enrique De Leon

"Nothing."

"Fletcher met a man last night named Vicente Fuentes. He's pretty sure Fuentes is a Mexican national.

He said you have a snapshot of him that was taken at the O'Keeffe Museum benefit."

"Has Fletcher been playing detective again?" Gilbert asked, handing the photograph to Kerney.

"It would seem so." Kerney looked at the photograph and froze.

"What is it?"

"Enrique De Leon he said, tossing the picture on the desktop.

"Have this photo enlarged and cropped. Give it to every officer in the district. I want De Leon located ASAP. Hit Rancho Caballo hard. Put an entire team on it."

Gilbert slid the NCIC hit on Bucky across the desk.

Kerney scanned it.

"What eke do you have on Watson?"

"He's been funneling millions into Rancho Caballo through a company called Matador Properties, and getting it back in accelerated repayments."

"Put somebody on it to do a full probe," Kerney said.

"We need to know if Watson is linked to De Leon "Sherman Cobb and Roger Springer are officers in Rancho Caballo."

"Dig into it," Kerney said.

"Is that all?" Gilbert asked as Kerney stood in the doorway.

Kerney grinned.

"Try not to piss off Roger Springer again for a while."

"Don't make me wait for the other shoe to drop, Chief," Gilbert said.

"Give me the full skinny."

Tve been ordered to reprimand you."

Gilbert sighed.

"What should I expect?"

"Nothing. I refused to comply. What did you do to Springer, anyhow?"

Gilbert laid out the specifics.

"Springer's reaction sealed it," he concluded.

"If he wasn't screwing Amanda Talley on his uncle's office carpet, I'll eat my hat."

"Very slick. Sergeant," Kerney said.

"Slightly over the edge, but slick nonetheless."

Gilbert smiled at the compliment.

"I won't do it again, promise. Any word from Belize on the Amanda Talley double?"

"Yes, indeed," Kerney replied.

"The Belize authorities reported that Amanda Talley fell overboard from an excursion vessel and has presumably drowned. The body hasn't been recovered."

"This could turn into a very interesting day."

"It already has."

"Chief, can I borrow your unit, if you're not using it?

Mine's in the shop."

Kerney tossed him the keys.

"While you're out, check in on Fletcher occasionally, will you?"

"Sure thing," Gilbert said.

"Thanks for going to bat for me."

"What got into you with Springer?"

"It's a long story."

"Maybe you can tell me about it over a beer when the case is wrapped up."

"I'd like that," Gilbert said. kerney returned to the conference room and found a telephone message from Addie Randall, asking him to come to the Socorro hospital maternity ward to talk with her. He was about to call her back when Andy walked in looking very unhappy. He sat down, scratched his cheek, and scowled.

"Well, do you have to fire me?" Kerney asked.

"If the governor's chief of staff had his way, you'd be out the door on your ass for refusing to reprimand Sergeant Martinez."

"Did you get raked over the coals?"

"Big time. It's not nice to upset the governor's nephew. I told the chief of staff to put the request to terminate you and transfer Martinez in writing over Harper Springer's signature. I also told him if I was ordered to do it, he could have my shield."

"You put it on the line, didn't you?" Kerney said.

Andy grunted.

"It didn't win me any popularity contests at the Roundhouse."

"But the troops will love it when the word gets out," Kerney predicted.

He looked at the message in his hand.

"Can I use the helicopter for a quick trip to Socorro? I've got one last interview to conduct in the Gillespie murder case."

"Do it. Get out of my sight. Today, you'd be nothing but an albatross around my neck."

"You get so irritable when your butt gets chewed."

"I know it," Andy said.

"Don't waste time in Socorro.

I want these cases cleared before we both get the boot."

"Is that likely?" Kerney asked.

"Politics is the art of the possible." the state police helicopters and all the fixed wing aircraft were tied up on assignments until mid-mo ming When he finally boarded a chopper, Kerney expected to reach Socorro in under an hour. Instead, he found himself stranded at the Los Lunas Airport, fifty miles north of his destination. A winter squall had moved across the central plateau, bringing sleet, freezing rain, and wind gusts of fifty knots an hour.

By radio, Kerney asked for ground transportation, but all available units were out handling fender benders on the interstate.

The morning passed as he waited in the chopper with the pilot and listened to the sleet and rain pelt against the metal skin of the aircraft. There were no public facilities at the airport, and nowhere to go; Santa Fe and Albuquerque were socked in under heavy fog.

Every ten minutes the pilot checked by radio on weather updates. A young man with an easy, laid-back attitude, the kid had plucked two stranded hunters out of a remote canyon near the Colorado border before flying down to pick Kerney up for the trip to Socorro.

The pilot cracked chewing gum, hummed to himself, and kept looking for a break in the cloud cover.

"If the wind lets up and I see a hole, we can slip right through.

Chief," he promised.

During his tour in Vietnam-maybe about the time this kid was born, if he stretched it a bit-Kemey had decided that chopper pilots were a totally insane breed of adrenaline junkies. Over the years, his opinion hadn't changed.

"You think so?" Kerney asked.

The pilot nodded emphatically and rubbed his nose.

"No sweat. A little less wind, a little more sky, and we can cut right through the squall. Most of these low-level disturbances come in pulses. I can usually find a window to get through. But I've got to get airborne to see it."

Kerney knew that seasoned chopper pilots, aside from being crazy, were highly competent. They had to be to survive in such unforgiving flying machines.

"How long have you been a pilot?" he asked.

"Six years. Three in the army and three with the state police."

Kerney latched his seat belt.

"Find your window and get me to Socorro," he said.

"You got it, Chief," the kid replied as he hit the starter switch. after three abortive attempts and two hours in the air, Kerney arrived at the Socorro Airport a little green around the gills, where an obliging city cop waited to drive him to the hospital.

At the hospital, he almost ran over Nita Lassiter on his way to the maternity ward. She looked tired and her eyes were red from crying.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Did Addie have her baby?"

"A girl, early this morning. The adoption agency has guardianship.

Addie signed the papers." She searched Kerney's face with her eyes.

"Now, answer my question."

"Addie wants to see me."

"No," Nita snapped.

"I don't want you to see her."

"It's her decision."

"Please don't do this."

Kerney looked down at her.

"Addie can help you, Nita. Why don't you let her?"

"I don't want her damaged any more than she has been."

"Did you tell Addie that you're her mother?"

Nita bit her lip and nodded.

"How did she take it?"

"She cried a lot. We both did. Then she got angry with me."

"Is she still angry?"

"Drained. I've been forgiven. On a gut level, I dunk she already knew. I think she's glad to have the truth finally come out."

"Only part of the truth has come out," Kerney noted.

"Addie is young and resilient. Don't force her to live under another cloud."

"Let it be, Mr. Kerney Please."

"In ten or twenty years, if the parole board ever releases you from prison, your chance to help Addie make a life for herself will be long gone. Are you willing to throw that away?"

The thought hit Nita full force and her body stiffened.

"You make it so hard," she finally said, forcing a pinched smile.

"It is hard," Kerney replied.

"But I think you're up to it."

Nita searched Kerney's face with a probing look. His eyes were sympathetic, his expression concerned.

"Why do you care?"

He smiled.

"You make it hard not to."

"It makes my stomach hurt."

"You 11 doit?"

"Yes."

"Good for you."

"Only if you come with me for moral support."

"Of course," Kerney said.

In me hospital room Verdie Mae sat on the edge of the bed holding Addie's hand. Her eyes nickered from Kerney to Nita as they entered, and she squeezed Addie's hand before rising.

Addie looked pale and drained. The ruffled, high collared nightgown gave her face a touch of innocence that Kerney could only hope the girl retained.

Verdie Mae walked to Nita and touched her cheek.

"Is everything all right?" she asked Nita with a quick glance in Kerney's direction.

"Everything's fine," Nita said, looking past Verdie Mae at Addie.

"Give us a minute with Addie."

Verdie Mae held Nita's gaze with an unspoken question in her eyes.

Nita smiled tightly and nodded once.

Verdie smiled back, relief showing on her face, and patted Nita reassuringly on the arm.

"I'll wait outside."

She left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Hello, Addie," Kerney said.

"Hello," Addie replied.

"I wasn't sure if you would come."

"I got here as soon as I could," Kerney said.

"When we talked before, you said you wanted to help me."

"I did say that," Kerney replied, "and I meant it."

"Would it help Nita?" She switched her gaze to Nita.

"I mean, would it help my mother?"

"You know what your mother might be facing, don't you?"

"Maybe going to prison for a long time. You know what I think, Mr.

Kerney?"

"What's that, Addie?"

"I think rapists should be killed or castrated. Every one of them."

"The world would be a much better place without rapists," Kerney said.

"Did Paul Gillespie rape you?"

"Yes."

Kerney held up a hand to stop Addie from continuing.

"Before you say more, your mother has something to tell you."

Hesitantly, Nita approached Addie and sat on the edge of the bed.

"What is it?" Addie asked.

"A long time ago, Paul Gillespie raped me. I got pregnant and had a baby," Nita said.

"Do you know what that means?"

Addie's expression turned to stunned repulsion.

"Oh God, no."

"Yes," Nita said.

"It's true." She pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tightly.

Kerney slipped out of the room. Fifteen minutes passed before Nita opened the door and gestured for him to come in. Both Nita and Addie were red faced and teary eyed.

"You don't have to talk to me now," Kerney said.

"I want to," Addie answered flatly.

He turned on the tape recorder and started the session.

Addie answered Kerney's questions in a lifeless voice.

After it was over, Kerney left feeling as deadened as Addie had sounded during the interview.

A four-foot wall enclosed the front yard of the two story house across from Hetcher's residence. Mature pine trees fanned thick branches over the wall into the lane. Where the lane ended stood a six-foot cedar fence.

An old garage sat perpendicular to the house, close to the property line. There were no lights on inside the two-story house.

Carlos knew no one was home. Using his cellular phone, he'd called the residence every five minutes since arriving at the stakeout and putting the team in place.

He stood shivering in a dark recess between the fence and the garage.

From his vantage point he could see the locations of two of his men.

One was crouched behind the wall under a tree directly across from Fletcher Hartley's house. The other was in a prone position behind some large landscape boulders near the guest quarters. The third member of the team was at the back of the house, ready to climb the garden wall and storm the patio door as soon as Carlos gave the signal.

Each member of the team wore a radio headset with an attached microphone, a black hood, and a black police-style tactical duty outfit.

Headlights came into view on the street and slowed to enter the entrance to the narrow lane. He watched through binoculars as the car turned into Pletcher's driveway, and read the license plate. It was Kerney's police car.

"He has arrived," he whispered in Spanish into his headset.

"Wait for my command."

"this is the third time today you've checked up on me, Gilbert,"

Pletcher said.

"I'm starting to feel that I'm under house arrest."

"Has everything been quiet?" Gilbert asked, following Pletcher into the kitchen.

"I'm completely bored." Pletcher stood at the counter and poured coffee into two cups.

"There have been no strangers at the door, no mysterious phone calls, and the only traffic in the lane has been police cars driving back and forth every hour or so." He carried the cups to the table and joined Gilbert.

"This is all rather silly" "Probably," Gilbert said.

"Then why all the fuss?"

"Just a precaution," Gilbert answered.

"Piffle," Hetcher said.

"Piffle? Do you think you're Nero Wolfe?"

Before Fletcher could answer, the sound of shattering glass from the back of the house brought Gilbert to his feet. He heard wood splintering at the front door.

He pulled Hetcher out of his chair, put the cordless kitchen phone in Pletcher's hand, and pointed to the garage passageway.

"Go," he ordered.

"Crawl under your car and hide.

Call 911, give them the address, and say a crime is in progress and an officer needs assistance. Do it now" He pushed a panicked Hetcher toward the passageway, doused the kitchen lights, and drew his weapon.

Another cracking sound against the front door shattered the silence. He dropped into a low crouch, crept into the dining room, and killed the lights. He could feel cold air coursing along the floor from the front hallway.

Gilbert figured there were two, maybe three people inside, converging on him. The only possible escape would be through the garage, if it wasn't covered by somebody on the outside.

He retreated to the kitchen, removed the cups, and quietly dropped the massive table on its side. He rotated it until the top could be used as a shield, and pulled it by the legs as he inched backward to the passageway.

He crouched down, took a quick glance above the barricade, and saw the hallway lights go out. He counted five seconds and took another look.

He could see the shapes of two men in the dining room, one with his back pressed against the wall, the other bent low.

Gilbert's options were limited. He could either make a stand or back off. Risking a break could put Fletcher in danger. He pulled his spare clip from the magazine holder. If he could take these two out, maybe he could protect Pletcher until help arrived.

He fixed the position of the two men in his mind's eye and stretched out on his back with his head up and the nine-millimeter clutched in both hands between his legs. He took one deep breath and kicked hard at the table to upend it. The shooters opened up on full automatic, rounds tearing into the wall and pantry inches above Gilbert's head. He double-fired repeatedly at the two targets until his clip emptied.

He ejected the spent magazine and loaded the spare.

As he readied to pull off more rounds, he realized the shooting had stopped. He looked at the target zones; there were two downed bodies. He fanned his weapon back and forth, ready to fire again if either moved.

Nothing happened. He slithered around, keeping the targets in sight.

Then he flipped quickly onto his stomach, belly-crawled to the bodies, and checked them.

Both were dead.

He hurried into the garage and found Fletcher hiding under his car, shaking like a leaf.

"Did you call?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Stay put. Where's the remote for the garage door opener?"

"On the visor in my car."

"Where are your car keys?"

"In the house."

"Dammit."

"What are you going to do?"

"There may be more people outside." Gilbert climbed on the hood of Fletcher's car, popped off the light cover to the opener, and unscrewed the bulb.

"Crawl to the front of the car and hide behind the tire.

Make yourself as small as possible."

"What can I do to help?"

"Do you have a gun in your glove box?" Gilbert asked as he jumped off the hood of the car.

"No, I don't own a gun."

"Too bad." In a crouch, he worked his way around the vehicle, opened both car doors, grabbed the remote door opener, and turned off the interior light.

"What are you doing?" Fletcher hissed.

"Trying to buy us some time." Prom the driver's side with the doors open, Gilbert had a dear shot if someone stormed through the passageway door, and a good field of fire into the driveway once he opened the overhead door.

He hoped to God only one shooter was left. He didn't have enough ammunition to take one man out and keep up a running gun battle with another.

He steadied himself and waited. *** ramon slipped into the dining room and checked the bodies.

"Javier and Raul are dead," he whispered into his headset.

"The house is empty."

"Are the targets down?" Carlos demanded.

"No."

"Where are they?"

"In the garage."

"Do you have an advantage?" Carlos asked.

"No."

"Can you see into the garage?"

"No. The door is closed."

Carlos moved down the driveway. The exterior garage door had a row of shoulder-high small windows.

"When I tell you, put heavy fire into the garage through the door. I will do the same from outside."

"We haven't much time," Ramon said.

"Then we must do it quickly," Carlos replied. He stopped near the garage, pulled a night-vision viewer from the pouch at his waist, and scanned through the windows. The device could not magnify, but it did show a man's outline behind an open car door.

"I have him," Carlos said into his headset. He kept the viewer fixed on Kerney and braced the assault rifle against his shoulder.

"Move down the passageway. Aim high and to the right. Tell me when you're in position."

"I'm there," Ramon whispered.

"Fire now," Carlos said as he squeezed the trigger.

OpncBR Yronne Rasmussen heard automatic-weapons fire as she rolled into the lane with the unit headlights off and the window open. She ground to a stop, hit the quick-release button to the racked shotgun, grabbed the weapon, and tumbled out of her unit. She keyed her handheld radio as she ran down the lane.

"Shots fired," she said.

"Officer needs assistance."

She gave her location and asked for backup.

The automatic-weapons fire continued to come from the direction of Pletcher Hartley's house. She cut across the property at an angle and stopped before she broke cover at the driveway. A man in tactical garb wearing a headset stood spraying the garage door with an AK-47.

She chambered a round into the shotgun and dropped to a kneeling position. The distance was too great to be effective, but maybe she could draw fire away from Sergeant Martinez. She pulled off a round, and the shooter wheeled and fired back. She felt something slam into her thigh, lost her balance, and fell. She looked down at her leg in stunned surprise. Her uniform trousers had a bloody hole in them. It was a brand-new pair. When she looked up, the man was gone.

"Get out, now," Carlos said into the headset as he ran to the back of the house.

"The police are here."

"Did we get them?" Ramon asked.

"It's done," Carlos replied.

"Meet me at the car."

Rasmussen limped across the driveway and down the path to the front door. She could feel blood dripping down her leg. The front door was smashed and almost off the hinges. She got on her belly, cradled the shotgun in her arms, and started crawling down the dark hallway.

The numbness in her leg was gone, replaced by a hot pain that made her clench her teeth to keep from groaning aloud.

A silhouette entered the hallway from a side room.

Rasmussen stopped crawling and aimed the shotgun.

"Don't move."

The figure turned toward her and the barrel of a weapon swung around.

She fired once and the blast caught the man full force in the chest., She keyed her handheld radio.

"Officer down," she mumbled. From outside she could hear sirens in the distance.

She crawled to the body and checked it. The man was dead. She moved over the body into a dining room and switched on her flashlight. The beam caught two more bodies under the kitchen archway. She checked them both before moving into the kitchen. An overturned table, thick legs peppered with bullet holes, blocked a short passageway. At the end of the hall, a door had been virtually blown apart by heavy fire.

Yvonne switched off the flashlight and pulled herself down the passageway.

"Police officer," she called out.

"In here," Hetcher said.

"Identify yourself."

"Fletcher Hartley."

"Are you alone?"

"No. Gilbert Martinez is with me. He's been shot."

"Are you all right?"

"I think so."

"Are you armed?"

"No."

"Stay where you are. I'm coming in."

She pulled her handgun, hobbled to the garage, and fumbled for the light switch. She searched low and saw Pletcher Hartley huddled at the front tire of a bullet riddled car. The arm of a man holding a nine-millimeter was draped over Hartley's back. She approached cautiously.

The man was lying on his side with his face blown away.

As shock from her wound kicked in. Officer Rasmussen realized the faceless dead man was Sergeant Martinez.

Carlos finished briefing De Leon just as the jefe's airplane reached cruising altitude. The takeoff, which he hated as much as landings, had distracted Carlos and sweat trickled down his armpits. He jiggled his false teeth with a thumb and tried to remember if he'd forgotten anything in his report.

De Leon sat at the desk in the private compartment of his airplane examining the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He seemed more interested in the statue than he did in the details of the firefight.

Carlos waited for a reaction from De Leon as he turned the bulto in his hands and carefully inspected it. All the other stolen items had been left locked in the wine cellar of the Santa Fe house.

Finally, De Leon spoke.

"I did not think Kerney would be so easy to kill."

"I could not determine if the old man is dead," Carlos said.

"The police arrived too quickly. Ramon may also be alive."

"Ramon is dead and Fletcher Hartley is alive," De Leon said as he concentrated on the intricate elements of the statue.

The statement came as no surprise to Carlos. The jefe frequently had important information at his disposal within a very short period of time.

"You are not dismayed?" Carlos asked.

De Leon placed the bulto on the desktop.

"The most important goal of killing Kerney was accomplished.

The loss of the team is of no consequence. None of them can be traced to me. They were men without identities. Did you enjoy your assignment?"

"It gave me great pleasure, patron."

"I am glad." De Leon waved a hand in the direction of the compartment door.

"You are sweating heavily, Carlos. This fear you have of flying makes your smell intolerable. Go have a drink, relax, and ask Our Lady of Guadalupe to carry you safely home."

Carlos nodded apologetically and left.

Enrique turned his attention back to the wooden statue. It was beautifully fashioned and wore an elaborate blue-colored robe. A gesso over the wood smoothed out the figure, and tempera paints created a creamy flesh tone to the face and hands. The woodcarver had added arched eyebrows and wide, staring eyes. The circular base contained a filigree of delicate flowers and stems.

The unknown New Mexico artist had followed the Spanish tradition of Grafting an esplendor-a rayed nimbus of gold prongs-around her head, which made the statue exceedingly rare.

De Leon estimated the piece to be three hundred years old. A treasure, he thought. It would add much to the chapel at his hacienda. flbtcher's studio was the only room in the house not overflowing with cops, medical examiners, and crime scene technicians. He sat in a paint-splattered armchair in front of an easel that held an unfinished painting of fluttering magpies alighting on a tree branch. He had a thousand-yard stare in his eyes and a drained, empty expression.

Kerney stood by quietly.

"Did you see Gilbert?" Pletcher finally said.

"Yes."

"His face is gone." Pletcher shuddered slightly at the thought.

"Yes."

"Who will tell his parents?"

"It will be taken care of."

"He has a wife. Do you know her?"

"No," Kerney answered.

"I don't."

"And children. Two girls."

"I know."

"I have his blood all over me. Why did this happen, Kevin?"

"Because of my stupidity."

A plainclothes officer holding a notebook knocked at the studio door and stepped inside.

"What is it?" Kerney asked.

"The police chaplain wants to know if Mr. Hartley would like to see him." He smiled sympathetically in Pletcher's direction.

Pletcher shook his head.

"Send him away," Kerney said.

"I need to take Mr. Hartley's statement," me officer added.

"Do it tomorrow," Kerney replied.

The officer nodded, turned on his heel, and retreated.

"I can't stay here tonight," Fletcher said.

"We'll find you a place."

"No need. I'll make arrangements with friends.

Someone will take me in. Why do you blame yourself for Gilbert's death?"

"Because the men who came here wanted to kill me, not Gilbert."

"I don't understand."

"I'll tell you about it later. Let's get you ready to go.

You need to clean up and change your clothes."

Pletcher nodded sluggishly, got to his feet, and tried to pull himself together. An expression of self-loathing crossed his face. He looked at Kerney and shook his head as color rose on his cheeks.

"What's wrong?"

"I started worrying about die mess that needed to be cleaned up. Isn't that crass of me?"

"Not at all."

"I think it is."

Kerney stayed with Fletcher until the body in the hallway had been removed, and Fletcher could get to his bedroom without distraction.

Fletcher made telephone arrangements to stay with a friend, picked out some fresh clothes from the closet, placed them under his arm, and walked toward the bathroom. He paused at the door.

"I may stay away for a while," he said.

"There will be officers posted here round-the-clock, while you are gone and after you return."

"Thank you." in the hallway, near a pool of blood on the floor under the shattered frames of the Peter Hurd lithographs hanging on the wall that had been damaged by Rasmussen's shotgun blast, Kerney corralled an officer.

He asked the uniform to keep Pletcher sequestered and get him quietly out of the house without fanfare.

"Wait until the reporters are gone," he added.

Crime scene tape blocked Kerney's passage into the dining room. A technician working near the bodies by the kitchen archway bagged and tagged spent shell casings and empty ammunition dips. Blood stained the carpet and walls near the bodies. A photographer took pictures of the corpses.

Kerney could see into the kitchen. Bullet holes riddled the pantry next to the passageway, and the garage door had taken sustained heavy fire. Outgunned and outnumbered, Gilbert had put up one hell of a fight.

Outside, the driveway had been cordoned off and the garage door was open. Portable gas-operated klieg lights washed away the night.

Officers and technicians swept the grounds, searching for additional evidence.

Inside the garage, Pletcher's car looked as though it had been attacked by a heavy-weapons squad. The windows were shattered and dozens of bullet holes pierced the vehicle. A storage shelf had been strafed, and paint and solvent from demolished cans dripped onto the bloodstain on the concrete pad- Gilbert's body had been moved to an ambulance.

Kerney looked inside the open doors. The body bag was zipped shut.

Without thinking, Kerney reached in and gently touched Gilbert's leg.

He pushed away the thought that he was the one who needed some consolation, not Gilbert.

At the entrance to the lane, television crews stood in a semicircle around Andy, their camera-mounted lights raw beacons in the night.

Kerney checked by radio with the hospital on Officer Rasmussen's condition while he waited for Andy to finish with the media. An ER nurse reported that Rasmussen required surgery, but a full recovery was expected. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise terrible night The camera lights went dark and Kerney spotted Andy coming down the lane toward the house. He met him halfway.

"Thank God, that's over," Andy said.

"Do you want me to notify Gilbert's wife?" Kerney asked.

Andy paused momentarily.

"I'll do it. Do you know what pisses me off, Kerney?"

"What's mat?"

"I don't even know her name. What does that tell you?"

"I don't know her name, either."

"That makes us both shitheads. Will you be able to tie the hit men to De Leon "I don't think De Leon is that sloppy. But I'll find a way to get to him."

"Squeeze Bucky Watson," Andy said.

"I plan to, just as soon as I get all my ducks lined up." agent Joe Valdez sat in the conference room and watched Kerney read through the file on Matador Properties. Kerney had called Joe at home and pulled him back to the office without explanation. He had heard about Gilbert's murder from the radio traffic on his drive to headquarters, and the news had stunned him into an angry silence.

His silence didn't matter; Chief Kerney wasn't asking any questions or talking. He had his elbows on the table, fingers at his temples, head lowered, and his eyes focused on Joe's paperwork- His mouth was a hard, thin line. He finished reading, closed the file, and looked up.

"What else have you got?" he asked tersely.

Valdez consulted his notebook.

"Matador Properties owns some thirty commercial buildings in the city.

Mostly high-end or historic buildings on the plaza, Canyon Road, and in the Guadalupe District. The company leases space to galleries, restaurants, retail shops, and various professionals. It owns two major apartment complexes on St. Prands Drive."

"What's Watson's ballpark net worth?"

"I'm still digging to get those numbers. But it appears Matador has had sufficient cash assets to lend big bucks to Rancho Caballo. If Matador controls any subsidiary companies, Watson's total net worth could jump considerably."

"Is Watson carrying a heavy debt on his businesses?"

"If he is, I haven't found it yet."

"Is that unusual?"

"I'd say so. I've talked to all the commercial lenders in the area who offer jumbo mortgages. None of them are doing business with Matador.

But he may be using out-of-state financing."

"What do you think?" Kerney asked.

"Money laundering would be a good guess."

"How can you get a handle on it?"

"If Matador is a holding company, it might have one master casualty-and-loss policy with an insurance underwriter for all its properties, including subsidiaries."

Joe reached for the file, tapped the papers into a neat pile, and stood up.

"Once I know exactly what the corporate structure is, I'll start looking at how the money gets moved around."

"Keep me informed."

"I'll start calling insurance agents right away."

"Do we have a list of local security companies?"

Kerney asked.

"I've got one in my office."

"Get it for me, would you?"

"Sure thing. Chief." Joe hesitated.

"I'd like to start a collection for Gilbert's family. They're going to have a lot of expenses."

Kerney dug for his wallet, extracted all the currency, and put the bills in Joe's hand. retired city police officer Toby Apodaca watched the unmarked police cruiser stop in front of his Cemllos Road office. He unlocked the door and held it open as Kerney got out of the car and approached.

"There aren't too many people who can get me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night," Toby said after Kerney stepped inside the Guardsafe Security office.

"How are you, Kerney?"

"Pine, Toby," Kerney answered.

"And yourself?" Tm doing okay," Toby said, brushing an errant eyebrow hair back into place. His bushy eyebrows flared wildly in every direction. He scratched the thick stubble on his chin and ushered Kerney around a counter, past a bullpen for security guards that was shielded by portable partitions, and into a back office.

"I heard you were back in harness," Toby said.

"Do you like it?"

"I can't seem to avoid it," Kerney answered as he studied Apodaca. Toby had spent his last ten years as a cop on the Santa Pc Plaza, chasing purse snatchers and giving directions to disoriented tourists. He'd retired a few years before Kerney's shoot-out with a drug dealer.

"And carrying a deputy chief's shield," Toby noted.

"That's pretty impressive."

"We'll see how long it lasts."

Toby had aged well, Kerney decided. In his late fifties, he carried about 150 pounds on a five-six frame.

He had a full head of hair, and light brown eyes accentuated by wire-run glasses.

Toby chuckled.

"I hear you. The thing I hated most about the job was the chickenshit politics. I don't miss being a cop at all. Now I've got my own company, with regular hours, weekends off, and a personal life again.

Well, most of the time, anyway."

"Sounds sweet."

"It is. So what's up with Matador Properties?"

"The owner may be a target of an investigation," Kerney said.

"That doesn't tell me jackshit," Toby said with a smile.

"Deputy chiefs don't pull peace-loving private citizens out of bed after midnight to talk about the possibility that a rich guy like Bucky Watson may have done something illegal."

"We think Bucky may be connected to a Mexican drug lord."

"Connected how?"

"I'm not sure. But if he is, it means he's working with a man who just had one of my officers assassinated."

"You lost an officerF "Several hours ago. Gunned down at a south capitol residence. I can't tell you more than that right now."

"What a damn shame." Toby shook his head.

"Tell me about your contract with Matador."

"It brings in a good third of my gross annual billings.

I've had the contract for five years."

"Does the contract cover all his properties?"

"Just about. He lives in Rancho Caballo, and the subdivision provides security, so we don't cover his home."

"How many separate buildings do you patrol?"

"Forty-six, but it's more than just patrol work. At the apartment complexes I provide twenty-four-hour security.

And I staff the larger retail outlets with round-the- clock personnel."

"How many properties does Watson own?"

"A bunch of them," Toby said. Tve got two contracts with Watson, one for his Matador Properties and one for his Magia Corporation."

"What do you cover for Magia?"

"Shopping malls, mini-malls, strip malls, discount malls, warehouses, self-storage units-that sort of stuff."

"Is there anything you don't cover'?"

"Well, not really" "Meaning?"

"Bucky owns an art crating business in an old Victorian house. He said it didn't need any security."

"He told you about it?"

"No, I asked him. We patrol a nightclub and restaurant across the street for another company. My night man who works that sector saw Bucky at the house a couple of times and told me about it. I asked Watson if he wanted to add the building to the contract, and he said no. But I have my man keep an eye on the place, anyway."

"Have you gotten any reports of unusual activity at the shop?"

"Nope."

"How long has your man worked for you?"

"Over four years. He's an ex-correctional officer from the state pen."

"Reliable?"

"Absolutely."

"Is he on duty now?"

"He sure is."

"What's his name?"

"MaxOlguin."

"Can you have him meet me outside the nightclub?"

"Can do." Toby wrote down the address and gave it to Rerney.

"I'll have him there in ten minutes." max olguin opened the passenger door to Kerney's unit and got in. The bench seat sagged under his bulk.

An overweight man somewhere in his late thirties, with a chubby face and a crew cut, Olguin shook Kerney's outstretched hand.

"I'm Kevin Kerney."

"I know," Max said.

"I used to see you at the pen when you were still with the city police."

"It wasn't my favorite place to visit."

"Or work at," Max added.

"They ought to send the staff home, seal the perimeter, give each convict a loaded assault rifle, and let them have at it. Those sons of bitches would be killing each other within minutes.

That would solve prison overcrowding, big time."

"Until the courts filled them up again," Kerney noted.

Max grunted in agreement.

"But still, it would give us a break from the scumbags for a while.

Toby said you needed to talk to me."

"I understand you keep an eye on the art crating business."

"Yeah. It's not official or anything. I check it when I patrol the nightclub. Just a visual from my car."^ "Have you noticed anything suspicious or unusual?"

"Not really. A couple of times I got a little concerned."

"About what?"

"Trucks in the alley late at night."

"Was there any activity around the trucks?"

"Yeah. Guys loading and unloading crates. Watson's car was always there, so I figured everything was cool."

"You know Watson's car?"

"Sure do. I give it special attention, so it doesn't get broken into or stolen. The boss says it doesn't hurt to keep the clients happy with a little extra service."

"Describe the trucks to me."

"One time they unloaded a panel truck and a minivan, and another time they were loading a ten-ton Ford."

"Did you ever get a look at the cargo?"

"Nope. I just saw them carrying crates. All different sizes."

"Have you seen Watson at the crating shop recently?"

"Last night I saw his car parked outside on the street."

"Did you see Watson?"

"No, just his car and two other vehicles parked in front of the building. The inside lights were on, so I figured Watson was there and had some of his people working."

"What other kind of vehicles were parked there?"

"A pickup and a subcompact. I've seen both before."

"No large trucks?"

"Nope. But trucks could have come and gone before I came back on my next round."

"Thanks, Max."

"Sure thing," Max said, easing his bulk out of the unit.

Kerney sat in the unit mulling over what Max had told him. He had a strong hunch Bucky wasn't shipping only fine art. He needed to find a way to prove it without conducting an illegal search.

He waited until Olguin drove away, got a flashlight from the glove box, walked across the street, and stood in front of the Victorian house. It had a deep porch supported by white-painted columns with two large windows flanking the front entrance. He walked around the building. A concrete loading dock jutted out from the rear entrance with steps on one side and a ramp on the other. A power line ran from a pole to an electric meter mounted on the corner of the building. The junction box below the meter caught Kerney's attention.

A circuit had been added to the house, and a conduit ran from the box into the ground. Kerney wondered if the building had a basement.

At the front, he inspected the latticework grille that bordered the porch. A side section was hinged to provide access. He crawled under the porch and found a wooden insert covering a hole cut in the rock foundation, wide enough for a man to crawl through.

He pulled the insert loose, set it aside, and swept the darkness with the beam of the flashlight. About a quarter of the crawl space was sectioned off by walls that disappeared below grade. The electrical conduit at the back of the house ran straight into it.

Kerney crawled in for a better look. A three-sided stud-and-plywood enclosure butted up against the foundation.

It was sloppy, substandard construction, and Kerney had no doubt it had been built without a permit.

Outside, Kerney dusted himself off. He wanted to know what was in the basement. If his hunch about the permit was right, it might be possible to find out without risking an illegal break-in.

alex cast illo a customs narcotics agent called up from Albuquerque, held a Vietnamese potbellied pig in his arms and eyed the state cop.

"What's the pig's name?" Kerney asked.

"Mabel."

"Does she have a good sense of smell?"

Castillo grimaced. It was four o'clock in the morning and he wasn't in a mood for pig jokes. Every cop who met Mabel for the first time turned into a stand-up comic.

"If the narcotics are there, Mabel will tell me," Castillo replied. He scratched the pig behind the ears.

Mabel snorted.

"Can she detect drug residue?"

"Mabel has a great nose, Chief. Bury it, bag it, sweep it up-it doesn't matter to Mabel. She'll sniff it out.

Where do you want her?"

"Under the porch in the crawl space to the house."

"Do you have a search warrant?" Castillo asked.

"I have reason to believe there are controlled substances stored inside."

Castillo shook his head in disagreement.

"Anything we find will be considered an illegal search and seizure."

"I plan to find the stash legally," Kerney said.

"How arc you going to do that?"

"Whatever I do won't involve you or Mabel."

"That's what I wanted to hear," Castillo said as he dropped to his knees.

"Give me your flashlight, Chief."

Kerney handed it over, and Castillo tugged gently at Mabel's leash before disappearing under the porch. The pig lowered her snout and waddled willingly along.

Kerney spent an anxious five minutes waiting for Castillo to reappear.

Mabel came out first. She snorted once and gave herself a good shake.

"Bingo," Castillo said as he crawled out. He stood up, reached into a pocket, and fed Mabel a treat.

"Mabel tells me you've got a lot of product in there."

"She told you that?"

"She gets real exdted when she snifis out a big stash."

"That's not possible. You and Mabel were never here," Kerney said with a smile.

"I like your style. Chief," Alex said.

"Good luck catching the bad guys." at the office, Kerney called the city building code supervisor, woke him up, and asked to meet him in person as soon as possible. Morris Wadley grudgingly agreed, and Kerney drove the predawn empty streets to a small residential subdivision that bordered Cerrillos Road. Built soon after World War II, it was a respectable middle-class neighborhood of pueblo-style, flat-roofed houses on good-size lots. Like most post-war developments, many of the homes had been expanded with second stories and additions as the baby boom swept the country.

Wadley opened the door dressed in a robe and slippers.

A pale, short fellow with baby-fine blond hair, he had sleep-filled eyes and a prominent vein in his forehead that caught Kerney's attention.

In a dining area off the living room, Kerney joined Wadley at the table.

"You said on the phone that you needed some information immediately,"

Wadley said through a yawn.

"And perhaps your help," Kerney added.

"I want to take a look inside a building without violating anybody's constitutional rights."

"Is the building under construction or being renovated?"

"No, but I believe a basement has been added without benefit of a permit. Does your office accept anonymous complaints from citizens?"

"All the time. Most neighbors don't like to get in squabbles with each other. Let's say some guy is building a carport without a permit.

We'll get a call and go check it out."

"What about commercial remodeling and renovation?"

"We inspect every commercial project in the city."

"Do you have unrestricted access to the site?"

"You bet we do. The city ordinance gives code enforcement inspectors the authority to enter any structure for the purposes of determining compliance with building standards. It's part of the health, safety, and welfare laws."

"What if you're denied entry?"

"That happens a couple of times a year," Wadley replied.

"I usually refer the problem to the city attorney and let the lawyers fight it out. In the end, we always get inside."

"Have you ever asked for police assistance to enter a property?"

"Once, I had to. State statutes allow it. Any structure under construction or being remodeled must pass an inspection. Police officers can be called upon to render assistance."

"What if the construction or remodeling was completed sometime in the past?"

Wadley smiled for the first time.

"That doesn't matter.

We can still inspect, if it's brought to our attention."

"What kind of inspection do you do?" Kerney probed.

"We go through the skin, down to the studs, into the footings if we have to-you name it. We can check the composition of the concrete pour, the wiring, plumbing, heating, the rafters-whatever. We can even order a structure to be demolished if it's deemed unsafe for occupation. That's especially important in times of a natural disaster or catastrophe."

"Would you be willing to use a state police officer to assist in gaining entry to a building?"

"You want to take a look around, do you?"

"That's the idea."

"I don't see why we can't use your people. What building do you want to take a look at?"

Kerney filled Wadley in on the building's location.

Wadley nodded.

"That structure is in the Guadalupe Historic District. I know exactly where it is. I don't remember any review hearing for a building permit."

"You'd remember?"

"You bet I would. The code is strict when it comes to historic preservation. We're constantly battling owners who want the rules bent for old structures. We stay on top of those projects. Have to."

"I believe the passageway to the basement may be concealed."

"That sounds interesting," Wadley said with a smile.

"I may do this inspection myself. If it's there, I'll find it. You still haven't told me what you're looking for."

"Faulty wiring," Kerney answered with a grin.

Wadley laughed.

"When do you want to meet?"

"The business opens at nine o'clock. I'll have a patrol officer standing by to assist you. He'll be fully briefed."

"I'll be there with bells on." kernhy checked with his personnel before going to talk to Andy. Two agents were keeping tabs on Bucky Watson. As soon as Watson had settled into his Rancho Caballo house for the night, one agent had taken up a position at the gated entrance road, while the second kept close surveillance on Watson's house with nightvision goggles. Watson hadn't moved.

At the art crating shop, a patrol officer watched the premises from a discreet distance. Everything was quiet.

Kerney briefed Andy on the scheme.

"How many men do you want to use?" Andy asked.

"Just three," Kerney replied.

"Two agents stationed out of sight, and a uniformed officer to accompany Wadley into the premises."

"Narcotics agents?" Andy asked.

"No. I don't want the slightest hint to crop up that we expected to find drugs."

"This Wadley guy; he's willing to say the complaint was anonymous?"

"If everything goes right, he won't have to say anything."

"But if he's called as a witness in court, we can kiss the case against Watson good-bye."

"Do you have a better way to squeeze Bucky?"

"What about the money laundering angle?"

"Joe Valdez is working on it, but it could take time."

"What if all you find in the basement is some drug residue?"

"My friend Mabel the pig assures me there's more than residue inside.

I'll set up a meeting with Watson, tell him I need to ask him about Amanda Talley, and time it to coincide with the building inspection at the shop. If all goes well, I'll arrest him as soon as the drugs are uncovered."

"You have a lot of faith in Mabel."

"She's got a great nose."

Joe Valdez, looking decidedly rumpled and glassy eyed from his all-night stint at work, appeared in the doorway.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Sure, Joe," Andy said.

"What have you got?"

"I've located the insurance agent who handles Bucky Watson's commercial accounts. He's faxing me a list of all the Matador holdings insured by his company."

"Good work," Kerney said.

Joe nodded his thanks.

"This agent also insures Bucky's Rancho Caballo homes. Just as a matter of interest, I asked him if he insured any other Rancho Caballo homeowners. He carries one other policy in the subdivision, for a client Bucky referred to him. It's a Mexican corporation called Tortuga International."

"Tortuga?" Kerney said. The word meant "turtle" in Spanish, and De Leon Juarez casino was called the Little Turtle.

"That's right," Joe replied.

"Anyway, I asked a buddy who works at the corporation commission to go in early and do a search on Tortuga. It's a real estate holding company with an office in the southern part of the state. The CEO's name is Vicente Fuentes, aka Enrique De Leon "Do you have an address for the property?" Kerney asked.

"I wrote everything down," Valdez said, handing Kerney a piece of paper.

"That's damn good work, Joe," Kerney said.

"I just asked the right question, Chief. By the way, Watson controls two corporations: Matador and Magia.

I'd like to follow up to see if there's any connection to Tortuga. It may take me a while."

"Hit it as hard as you can," Andy said, "and keep Chief Kerney informed."

"Okay," Joe said as he cracked a tired smile and left the room.

Andy got out of his chair, walked to the front of the desk, and perched against it.

"I'm assuming you have everyone briefed and ready to go."

"They're on station," Kerney answered, unwinding from his chair. His knee felt stiff and cranky. He stretched it out to ease the muscles.

"Well, then, have at it," Andy said as he plucked the piece of paper with De Leon Rancho Caballo address from Kerney's hand.

"I'll put a surveillance team on De Leon house."

"Remember, De Leon got diplomatic immunity."

"Yeah, but Vicente Fuentes doesn't. I'll think of a way to get us inside."

"That would be nice."

"Cut the sarcasm, Kerney." senior Patrol Officer Clyde Pratt knew exactly who was inside the art crating shop. Using the onboard computer in his unit, he'd run a record check on the vehicles as soon as each of the two men drove up, parked, and went into the house.

It was amazing what could be learned from a license plate number these days. The registered owners were Skip Cornell and Kiko Segura, and his screen even displayed driver's license photos, which allowed Pratt to confirm their identities.

There were no wants, warrants, or rap sheets on either man, but that didn't mean shit.

A seventeen-year veteran of the force, Pratt had come to appreciate the new technology. It sometimes made it possible to know in advance whom you would be dealing with. Clyde thought that was fucking marvelous.

The more you knew, the less the danger, if you stayed prepared for the unexpected.

He released the thumb snap to his holster as he followed Morris Wadley up the stairs of the loading dock. Prom inside, Pratt could hear the harsh whine of a table saw.

Wadley went in first, carrying a clipboard. As soon as Skip and Kiko saw Pratt, they shut down the saw.

Interior walls in the back of the house had been removed to create an open workspace. Floor-to-ceiling racks along one wall held lumber, and there were various drills and machine tools on stands near the saw. A small office and an adjacent walk-in storage locker ran along another wall.

Pratt noticed a lot of hand tools on tables and workbenches.

Each could be used as a weapon.

"What's up. Officer?" Skip asked as he pulled off his ear protectors.

Clyde smiled and shrugged nonchalantly.

"Nothing to worry about."

He closed in slowly, visually scanning the men for hidden weapons. Both wore blue jeans and T-shirts with no obvious bulges. Exactly as he'd been told to do, Wadley stepped off to one side and waited. Pratt stopped walking when he reached the angle he wanted between the two men. He glanced at the hammer on a table within Kiko's reach and stayed well out of striking range.

"We just need a few minutes of your time," Clyde said.

"What for?" Skip demanded.

Kiko looked ready to bolt for the front door. Pratt put his hand on his holster and Kiko froze. It was time to move Kiko and Skip outside.

"Let's go outside," Pratt suggested.

"I'm allergic to sawdust."

"What in the fuck is this all about?" Skip asked.

"Building inspection," Pratt answered.

"Do you have a problem with that, Skippy?"

Pratt's use of his diminutive nickname, which he hated, made Skip's face turn red.

"You know me?"

"I sure do. I know your friend Kiko, too. Now, let's go outside."

Clyde smiled broadly at Kiko.

"Don't even think of reaching for that hammer."

Outside, Pratt stood them with their backs against the loading dock.

Skip wanted to smoke a cigarette and Clyde suggested he could do without. Kiko kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Every time he moved, Clyde clamped a hand on his pistol grip and Kiko froze.

Finally, Wadley appeared on the dock with a flushed, excited look on his face and looked down at Pratt.

"This place is a building code disaster," he said.

"The first floor has been ruined."

"That's a shame," Pratt replied, staying focused on the two men in front of him.

"There's something I think you should see, Officer," he said.

"I'm no expert, but it looks like drugs to me. A lot of drugs in a hidden basement."

"Don't touch anything." Clyde took his handheld radio out of the belt case and called for assistance.

"Turn around, boys," he ordered, after he ended the transmission.

He cuffed and frisked them while he read them their rights, and sat them both on the ground.

"Are there really drugs inside, Skippy?" Clyde asked as he stepped back.

"I don't know nothing about that shit," Skip replied, his face turning red.

"How about you, Kiko? Do you know anything about drugs?"

"I just build shipping crates. That's all."

"Well, you're both going to have to answer a lot of questions."

"I want a lawyer," Skip said.

"Me too," echoed Kiko.

"Fair enough," Clyde said.

"But first you get a ride in a shiny new police car."

Pratt turned the men over to an arriving patrol officer and waited for the agents to appear. As the arresting officer, Clyde needed to confirm the presence of narcotics in the building. He went in with the agents, and Wadley led them to the storage locker and a built-in shelf that swung open to reveal steps to the secret basement.

Bundles of crack cocaine and heroin were stacked on pallets. It was a hell of a lot of dope, enough to fill the trunk of a full-size car.

The agents did a quick test of the drugs and pegged the street value at a million plus.

"What charges do you want on Kiko and Skip?" Pratt asked.

"Start with trafficking," an agent said, "and then be creative."

Like most of the shops along Canyon Road, Bucky Watson's gallery had once been a private residence.

The interior of the building had neoclassical features accentuated by antique furniture and expensive art in ornate frames. Watson's office continued the theme.

Behind the Shaker table that served as a desk, logs burned in a fireplace bordered by a gilt-edge Georgian surround. An old Mexican grain chest sat on sturdy legs under a window that looked out on the narrow street. On a high shelf over the window was an impressive array of Apache Indian baskets.

Paintings by early twentieth-century Santa Fe artists and a bookshelf of art reference publications completed the decor.

Kerney sat across the table from Bucky. Watson's eyebrows had started twitching the moment he arrived.

He smirked at Kerney's questions, toyed with a ring, and answered impatiently.

"Is all this rehashing necessary?" Watson said.

"Sometimes it can jog a recollection or two," Kerney replied genially.

"Go ahead and finish asking your questions."

"You said Amanda attended the benefit alone. Did you see her arrive unescorted?"

"No. That's just the impression I had. She didn't act like she was with anybody."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she was milling around, mixing, chatting people up."

"Did any of the men at the benefit seem interested in Amanda?"

"Every straight man who meets Amanda is interested in her."

"What about Vicente Puentes? Was he interested?"

Bucky flinched slightly.

"I don't know if he was or not."

"Is Puentes straight or gay?"

"I don't know."

"Can you put me in touch with Fuentes? I'd like to talk to him."

"I don't know how to do that. I've only met the man a couple of times." Bucky ran his finger under the collar of his teal blue linen shirt.

"Doesn't he own a home in Rancho Caballo?"

"He's a member at the dub, so I suppose he does."

"I had the impression you knew him fairly well."

"You're mistaken."

"I understand Fuentes is wealthy. How did he make his money?"

"I have no idea." The phone rang and Bucky grabbed the receiver. He listened momentarily and handed the instrument to Kerney.

"It's for you."

Kerney took the call, and listened as the agent reported that over a million dollars in black tar heroin and crack cocaine had been found in the secret basement.

Suppressing a smile, he expressed his thanks and handed the receiver to Bucky.

"Are we finished?" Bucky asked as he dropped the phone in the cradle and stood up.

"I'm afraid you have a problem, Mr. Watson."

"What kind of problem?"

"With the city. It appears a citation has been issued."

"What for?"

"Building code violations."

"Which building?"

"The Victorian house where you have your art crating shop. Supposedly, you gutted the inside without a permit."

"Those jerks at the city are always trying to screw with me. I'll have my lawyer handle it."

"There's one more problem, Mr. Watson," Kerney said, reaching for his handcuffs.

"A large quantity of heroin and cocaine was found in the basement of the building."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Call it the luck of the draw," Kerney said as he stepped to Bucky, spun him around, and cuffed him. buckt's refusal to talk without his lawyer present came as no surprise to Kerney. After the lawyer arrived at headquarters, Kerney assigned four agents working in pairs to interrogate Watson. The teams switched every hour to keep the pressure on, while search warrants were executed. Officers were at the art crating shop, the gallery, the design studio, and Bucky's residence, looking for anything that could be added to the list of charges against Watson.

Kerney hoped to overwhelm Bucky with hard evidence and force him to cooperate. Watson's two employees, Skip Cornell and Kiko Segura, were undergoing separate interrogations and being pressured to cut a deal and testify against Bucky. The chances looked good; fingerprints from both men had been lifted from the drug parcels, and the sheer volume of the stash guaranteed a felony-one fall, unless they rolled over on Watson.

Joe Valdez, armed with a special search warrant, had seized Watson's electronic mail and computer files. He had several technical specialists running programs to break Bucky's privacy codes and locate any off-site network terminals. Valdez was digging into Watson's hard copies, looking for the money trail and the drug distribution network.

If all went well, Kerney planned to be Bucky's final interrogator of the day. He wanted to have the pleasure of cracking Bucky open.

Noontime passed before he could get away from the office. A contractor's truck was parked in Pletcher's driveway. He found the man inspecting the damaged front door, while the patrol officer assigned to watch over Pletcher's house looked on. Kerney introduced himself and showed the contractor around.

When the inspection concluded, the man consulted his clipboard notes, did some quick calculations, and stuck a pendl behind an ear. He had dark curly hair, a skinny neck, and a large Adam's apple.

"It must have been one hell of a gunfight," the man said.

"The newspaper said four people were killed. I thought shit like that only happened in the movies."

Kerney had no desire to chitchat about the shootout.

"I want everything put back in its original condition."

The contractor caught the tone in Kerney's voice and changed the subject.

"Will insurance pay for it?"

"Probably."

"Is it a full-replacement policy?"

"I don't know."

"The front door alone is going to cost plenty to reproduce. It was hand-carved from old oak. I'll have to subcontract it out."

"That's fine," Kerney said.

"When can you start?"

"In the morning."

"How long will it take?"

"A week, but I can't guarantee you'll have the new front door by then.

What's the deductible on the insurance policy?"

"I don't know."

"Isn't this your house?"

"No, I'm acting on the owner's behalf," Kerney said as he wrote out a check that dug a hole in his savings and gave it to the man.

"This should get you started. If it doesn't, let me know."

The man looked at the amount, smiled, and nodded.

"I've got some scrap plywood in my truck. I'll board everything up and be back tomorrow with my crew."

"I'll let the owner know you'll be here," Kerney said.

He shook the man's hand and left.

He hoped that arranging to have the house restored would ease some of Fletcher's pain. The way Kerney saw it, he'd been the houseguest from hell. gary dalquist's law office was in an old brick cottage across the street from the county judicial building. The front room served as a reception and waiting area. It had a tongue-and-groove oak floor, and a hand-stenciled fruit-and-floral motif that ran at the top of the walls next to the high plaster ceiling. Dalquist was leaning over a desk at the back of the room, talking to a secretary, when Kerney walked in.

He looked up and stepped across the room.

" I thought I might be hearing from you," he said.

"Nita told me you took a statement from Addie."

Kerney held out the transcript.

"I did. Here's your copy" "It's not often an arresting officer in a murder case is so helpful to the defense."

"You're not the only lawyer who's made that observation recently,"

Kerney said.

"But Wesley Marshall didn't put it quite so nicely."

Dalquist chuckled.

"I'm sure he didn't. I have a message for you. Robert is being discharged from the hospital today. He'll be staying with Nita for a while.

She wanted to make sure that you knew where he would be."

"Is he well enough to be discharged?"

Dalquist shrugged.

"He's a welfare case. Hospitals push indigent people out the door as quickly as possible."

"I hope Ms. Lassiter knows what she's doing. Robert isn't easy to manage."

"I said about the same thing to her, but she wouldn't be swayed. It may work out; Robert is back on his medications and seems fairly stable."

"He's acting okay?"

"He seems to be, according to Nita."

"When will you go to trial?" Kerney asked.

"Not soon, that's for sure," Dalquist replied.

"But when we do, I plan to mount a defense that won't leave a dry eye in the courtroom." Dalquist tapped the papers in his hand.

"Thanks for dropping Addie's statement by."

"You're welcome."

Outside, Kerney watched two deputies march shackled prisoners out the back door of the courthouse and into a waiting sheriff's van. The new officer uniforms, off-blue and gray in color, had been selected by the county sheriff in an attempt to professionalize the appearance of his deputies. To Kerney's eye, it made the cops look like valet parking attendants with sidearms.

He called Andy from his unit and said he was on his way back to the office.

"I'll meet you in the parking lot," Andy replied.

"What's up?"

"We're going to take a tour of De Leon Rancho Caballo house."

"Okay, I'll bite: How did you arrange it?"

"By using the prestige of my high office."

"Will De Leon be there to give us a tour?"

"Unfortunately, no. He left last night."

"How do you know that?"

"He informed Rancho Caballo security that he was leaving." andy had the key to De Leon house and the access code to the security gate that barred the road.

"Amazing," Kerney said in mock wonderment as Andy punched in the numbers on the keypad and the gate swung open.

"How did you get the code?"

"Rancho Caballo keeps all the access codes on file, so they can shut off systems when there's a false alarm and the owners are away."

"Park off the road so we can approach the house on foot," Kerney suggested.

"I don't need a lesson in tactics," Andy said as he coasted to a stop.

They scrambled up the hill, Kerney taking the front while Andy looped around the back. He finished his sweep just as Andy joined him on me veranda.

"Looks quiet," Kerney said.

"Same in the back," Andy said, positioning himself at the side of the front door with his.357 in his hand.

"Some place," he added.

"Do you like it?" Kerney asked as he took his station on the side of the door, the nine-millimeter in the ready position.

Andy put the key in the lock" Not really." He turned the key slowly.

"Don't get me shot. Connie wouldn't like it."

"Should I call for backup?"

"You arc my backup," Andy said as he pushed the door open.

The burglar alarm went off and they waited a few beats before entering.

They cleared die house room by room with the alarm bleating in their ears. They finished up in the garage and went back to a locked door in the lower hallway. It was protected by a keypad system.

"Well," Kerney said, "aren't you going to open it?"

Andy hit some numbers on the keypad and the alarm shut off. He punched in more numbers and smiled at Kerney.

"Try it."

The doorknob turned freely. Kerney swung the door open and turned on the lights. The stolen paintings were stacked neatly along the walls away from the wine racks, and the antique and pottery pieces were on a tasting table in the center of the room.

"Sweet Jesus," Andy said, his face cracking into a grin.

"I didn't know you were a religious man."

"I am now," Andy replied as he patted Kerney's shoulder and stepped into the room.

"Let's get some techs and people from the museum over here pronto." buck? watson broke off his conversation with his lawyer when the door to the interrogation room opened and Kerney walked in. He leaned back in his chair and sneered at the cop.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Kerney said.

"Are you the arresting officer?" Earl Buffett asked.

"I am." Kerney smiled in Watson's direction and dragged a chair across the floor to the table. Bucky's sneer remained intact.

"I want this interrogation ended," Buffett said.

"It has gone on much too long."

"Mr. Watson is under arrest," Kerney noted.

"We can keep him here for quite a while," He sat down and carefully stretched out his right leg.

"How are you holding up, Bucky?"

"Better than you," Bucky answered sarcastically, studying Kerney's drawn, exhausted face.

Kerney switched his gaze to Buffett. The man had very little space between the tip of his nose and his upper lip, and a pinched jaw that pulled his lower lip down at the edges.

"Aside from the drugs found in the basement, what other evidence do you have against Mr. Watson?"

Buffett asked.

"Have patience, Mr. Buffett," Kerney counseled.

"Gathering evidence takes time."

"You've had most of the day to search the shop," Bufiett replied.

"Surely it doesn't take that long."

"Bucky's shop is only one of the places we've searched today."

"I assume you had search warrants?"

"Certainly."

"Where else have you been?"

"So far? His house, gallery, and the design studio," Kerney answered.

"Are you ready to do some hard time, Bucky?"

"That's not going to happen," Bucky said.

Buffett shot Bucky a glance to shut him up.

"You have presented us with no proof that my client had knowledge of the drugs stored in the basement."

"Weren't you told?" Kerney asked, feigning surprise.

"Told what?"

"Bucky's fingerprints are all over the kilos of smack and cocaine."

Watson snickered.

"Does that amuse you?" Kerney asked.

"You can plant as much evidence against me as you want," Bucky replied.

"It doesn't mean anything."

Buffett held up a hand to cut Watson off.

"Please, Bucky.

We can deal with the evidence issue later. What else?"

"Skip and Kiko have agreed to testify against your client. Prom what they've told us so far, both have made a number of drug deliveries.

We'll be adding additional charges against you, Bucky."

"Is that the extent of your investigation?" Buffett demanded.

"No. I'm sorry if you haven't been given all the facts," Kerney replied apologetically.

"What facts?" Bucky snapped.

"We were able to access your computer files. That's quite a nice little distribution network you've got going.

We have your shipment records with all the details. It's the next best thing to a confession. Have you told your lawyer about Enrique De Leon Bucky flinched.

"Who?" Buffett said.

"You need to be more forthcoming, Bucky," Kerney chided.

"Mr. Buffett can't help you if you withhold information from him."

"Back up," Buffett said.

"Forget it," Bucky growled, cutting Buffett off.

De Leon is a Mexican drug lord," Kerney explained.

"Probably the biggest smuggler on the border. A very nasty man. Are you sure you don't want to talk to your lawyer about him, Bucky?"

Watson glared and damped his mouth shut.

"Then on to other matters," Kerney said, switching his attention to Buffett.

"We're asking the United States Attorney to prosecute your client under the federal drug trafficking statute."

"That carries an automatic death penalty upon conviction," Buffett said.

"That's why we thought it would be a good idea.

How does that sit with you, Bucky? Will a death penalty be enough of an object lesson for you?"

"Puck you."

Td be angry, too," Kerney said with a shrug.

"You're between a rock and a hard place. If De Leon doesn't kill you, eventually the government will. It's not a pretty picture."

Buffett leaned over and whispered in Bucky's ear.

Bucky gulped, nodded, and whispered something back.

"Can we deal?" Buffett asked, when he broke away.

"Nothing happens without a full confession," Kerney said.

"That's hardly accommodating to my client. What, exactly, do you want?"

"Pull disclosure on De Leon money laundering scheme and his drug distribution network."

"Forget it," Bucky said. He would rather make a seven-figure cash bond and disappear with his considerable nest egg as soon as the judge released him.

De Leon knows you've been skimming money from him," Kerney said.

"Get real," Bucky said.

"I faxed the information to him myself." Kerney had taken no such action, and had no proof that his accusaon was true, but the thought of De Leon retaliation might make Watson reconsider his position.

Bucky reacted by rubbing his nose, putting both elbows on the table, and crossing his legs-sure signs of stress and guilt.

"I know De Leon Bucky. And I guarantee that he'll have you killed before you can leave town. Tell me I'm wrong."

"If you know De Leon so well, how did you contact him?" Bucky asked.

"The information went to his hacienda and to the Little Turtle Casino in Juarez. You're going to need to be someplace safe for a while. De Leon has a long reach."

The smug look on Bucky's face vanished and he swallowed hard.

"Just where the fuck is that?"

"I can get you into a special federal prison under a new identity. I understand it's quite a nice place, as prisons go. We can hold you there until your trial."

"Would you be willing to have my client tried in state court?" Buffett asked. A state court trial would keep Bucky off death row, if he was convicted.

"That might be arranged."

"I want more than that," Bucky said.

"If I talk, some important people in this state are going to fall hard."

"First you talk and then we deal," Kerney countered.

"But the DA might be willing to reduce the charges. It would mean less hard time. A lot less, perhaps."

Bucky thought about his options, and decided he had none. Everything he'd built up was crashing down around his ears.

"Okay," he said weakly.

"I'll send the team back in," Kerney said.

"Give them your statement." He looked at the lawyer.

"Don't let your client change his mind, Mr. Buffett. This is a onetime offer."

Buffett made no response.

"By the way, Bucky, did you know that De Leon masterminded the art theft and killed Amanda Talley?"

"That's absurd," Bucky said.

"Did Amanda leave with De Leon after the O'Keeffe benefit?"

Bucky's eyes widened.

"They both left about the same time." kbrney caught a night's sleep at a Cerrillos Road budget motel. In the morning, he found the construction crew working on Fletcher's house. A laborer scrubbed away at the bloodstains in the garage. The ruined dining room carpet had been pulled up and dumped on the porch, where a workman was hanging a temporary front door.

The man nodded and stepped aside to let Kerney pass. He found Fletcher on his knees cleaning out the kitchen pantry. Many of the cans, bottles, and containers had been raked by gunfire, resulting in a gummy mess.

Pletcher dumped a gooey container in a wastebasket, wiped his sticky hands on his trousers, and got to his feet.

"You came back," Kerney said.

"Better to face what happened than hide from it," Pletcher said.

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"I didn't expect to find my home already under repair. Thank you for arranging it."

"It was the least I could do."

"You gave the contractor a sizable deposit. I want to reimburse you."

"We can talk about that later."

"Let me show you something," Fletcher said. He went to the kitchen counter, where the Peter Hurd lithographs, removed from their shattered frames, were laid out.

Kerney stepped over and looked. The lithographs were heavily damaged, peppered with holes from Rasmussen's shotgun blast. They appeared un salvageable "Can they be repaired?" Kerney asked.

"I don't think so, but that's not the point," Fletcher said.

"Once, I valued these inordinately. Art can enlarge life, but it can't replace it. I'm just happy to be alive. The loss of the lithographs pales in comparison. I must find a way to thank that young officer for saving my life."

"I'm sure you'll think of something unique."

"Have you gone to visit her?"

"Not yet, but she's going to be fine."

He scrutinized Kerney carefully.

"You have a dangerous look about you, Kevin."

"I'm not in a very good mood."

"There's more to it than that," Fletcher said.

Kerney nodded his head in the direction of the pantry.

"I guess we each have our messes to clean up."

"Let me write you a check and pay you back for the deposit. My insurance is going to cover everything."

"No, Fletcher, I don't want the money. Use it, if you like, to replace one of the Hurd lithographs."

"As you wish," Pletcher said.

"The door to the guest quarters has been replaced. I'll expect you back after work. We'll have a nice dinner together."

"I'd like that."

"I need the company," Fletcher added.

"I still can't stop thinking about Gilbert."

"I can't either," Kerney said. the governor's receptionist announced Andy's arrival, and Vance Howell came out of the inner sanctum to escort him to Springer's office. Other than a greeting, Howell had nothing more to say. In the hallway, workers on ladders strung wires for a new closed circuit television security system.

Another example of locking the barn door after the horses got out, Andy thought glumly.

Howell left, and Andy knocked and entered to find Harper Springer at his desk conferring with his chief of staff. The man glanced at Andy, gave him a tight smile, whispered something to Springer, and retired through the side door to his office.

New paintings had been hung on the walls, and the glass display cases on either side of Springer's desk held Indian pots and some small cowboy sculptures. Fewer pieces of lesser value had been used to redecorate the office.