Slow Kill

Chapter 3

K erney ate a light meal on the patio of a State Street restaurant where a blues band entertained appreciative patrons, and then went looking for the Spalding estate in Montecito. All the houses in the neighborhood hid deep within their grounds behind privacy walls, mature trees, and hedges. Only here and there could Kerney glimpse the partial outline of a roof or facade through the treetops or a gateway.

He found the estate on the road to a private college in the hills, protected by a ten-foot-high stone wall with three gated entrances, one for the owners and their guests, one for staff, and another for service and deliveries.

He stood in front of the ornate wrought iron gate at the delivery entrance and pushed the intercom button. Beyond the gate, all he could see was a tree-lined driveway that wound through a forestlike setting. After waiting a few minutes with no reply, he pushed the button again. Finally a young man in a golf cart drove down to meet him. He wore damp swimming trunks and a cotton T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms. Wet black hair drooped over his forehead.

Kerney showed the man his shield and asked if he might speak to someone about Mr. Spalding’s recent travel itinerary.

“Why do you want to know about it?” the man asked.

“Has Mr. Spalding been in Santa Fe during the last few days visiting his wife?” Kerney asked.

The man shook his head. “I can’t answer that. Everyone who works here has to abide by a confidentiality agreement not to discuss anything about Mr. and Mrs. Spalding.”

The man stepped closer to the closed gate and eyed Kerney’s rental car. “That’s not a cop car. Let me see that badge you showed me again.”

Kerney held his badge case up so the man could look closely at his official ID.

“You’re from New Mexico,” the man said, studying the ID carefully, “and a police chief to boot. What are you doing here asking these questions?”

“Do you know a man named Kim Dean?” Kerney asked. “Perhaps he’s a friend of the family from Santa Fe who has visited here.”

“Never heard of him. What’s this about?”

“Mr. Spalding is dead,” Kerney said.

The man blinked and looked shocked. “What happened?”

“We’re not sure what caused his death,” Kerney said. “Has he been to Santa Fe recently?”

“No, not in the last two months.”

“You know that for certain?”

“Yeah, he left his prescription medication behind, or lost it, or something. Sheila, his personal assistant, had to get a pharmacy in Santa Fe to fill it.”

“He had a medical problem?” Kerney asked.

“Graves’ disease,” the man said. “It’s a thyroid condition.”

“Other than that, was his health generally good?” Kerney asked.

“Well, he’s been complaining about blurred vision and not sleeping well recently. Does Mrs. Spalding know about this?”

“She does,” Kerney said. “I expect she’ll get here as soon as she can.”

The man suddenly shut down. “Where did he die?” he asked suspiciously.

“In Paso Robles, at a quarter-horse ranch.”

His expression cleared. “That’s where he was going this weekend. What have you got to do with it?”

“I was at the ranch when it happened,” Kerney said, thinking it might be best to stretch the truth a bit. “Since Mrs. Spalding lives in my jurisdiction, I’m assisting with the inquiries. Is Sheila here? I’d like to talk to her.”

The man shook his head. “She’s off for the weekend, down in L.A.”

“An officer may want to speak with her,” Kerney said.

“I’ll call her on her cell and let her know what’s happened.”

“Was Mr. Spalding in residence before he left for Paso Robles?”

“No, he hasn’t been at home for two weeks. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Since we’re not sure of the cause of death, it’s important to know where he’s been,” Kerney replied, making it up as he went along. “He may have been exposed to a virus, or had food poisoning, or become infected on his travels, especially if he was out of the country. But the proper tests can’t be conducted unless we know his itinerary.”

The man nodded as though Kerney’s answer made good sense. “He was visiting several of his hotel properties. One in Mexico, and several in British Columbia. Sheila would have his exact itinerary.”

“Good,” Kerney said. “But the name Kim Dean doesn’t ring a bell?”

“No. The only person from Santa Fe who has been here as a guest is a neighbor of Mrs. Spalding’s, a woman named Nina Deacon. She’s visited five or six times.”

“Thank you for your time,” Kerney said.

“That’s it?” the man asked.

“For now,” Kerney answered. “If there are more questions, you’ll probably be hearing from a Sergeant Lowrey.”

On the short drive back to Santa Barbara, Kerney called Santa Fe and left a message for Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino to contact him as soon as possible. On State Street, near the pier, he stopped at a bicycle rental store and asked a clerk how to get to police headquarters.

Following the clerk’s directions, he continued along State Street, turned on Figueroa, and found the police headquarters building sandwiched between the old county courthouse and two small, somewhat run-down 1920s cottages, apparently rental units, in need of fresh coats of paint. They were the first houses he’d seen in Santa Barbara that didn’t look picture-perfect. In an odd way, Kerney was pleased to see them after driving through so much opulence. Maybe some real, ordinary working people lived in the city after all.

He drove by the two-story headquarters building. A series of steps with landings leading up to the front entrance were bordered by carefully tended, terraced planting beds. On the second landing a large tree towered above a flagpole where an American flag fluttered in a slight breeze. The building was white with a slightly slanted red tile roof, and two rows of rectangular windows ran across the front, their symmetry broken only by an arched, recessed entry.

Kerney figured the public access door would be locked on the weekends, so he parked and walked to the back of the building where he found the staff entrance. He pressed the bell and held his shield up in front of the video camera mounted above the door.

A uniformed officer wearing sergeant stripes on his sleeves opened up and inspected his credentials. “You’re a long way from home, Chief,” the sergeant said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to Captain Chase,” Kerney said.

“He doesn’t work on weekends unless he’s called out.”

“Can he be contacted?” Kerney asked.

“Is this important?” the sergeant asked.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” Kerney replied.

“Let me see if he’s home.” The sergeant stepped aside to let Kerney enter and led him down a corridor past a line of closed doors, around a corner, and into an empty bullpen office filled with standard issue gray desks, file cabinets, and privacy partitions that defined work cubicles for investigators.

The sergeant got on the horn to Chase, explained that he had a police chief from Santa Fe who needed to see him, and turned the phone over to Kerney.

Kerney gave Chase a rundown of the events that had brought him down to Santa Barbara.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Chase growled. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few. Wait for me in my office.”

Chase’s office was also standard issue: a desk, several chairs, a file cabinet, a desktop computer, and the usual personal and cop memorabilia displayed on the bookshelf and the walls. Kerney spent his time waiting reading a back issue of the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin that featured a cover article on criminal confessions. Through the window he could see the sky darkening into dusk. He was almost through the article when a burly man with a day-old beard and a broad face stepped into the open doorway.

“So Clifford Spalding is dead,” the man said with a rueful smile. “God help me. Now I’ll never get his ex-wife off my back.” He offered his hand. “Dick Chase.”

Kerney set the bulletin aside, stood, grasped Chase’s hand, and introduced himself.

“So, is this a homicide?” Chase asked as he settled into the chair behind his desk.

“Possibly,” Kerney said, “possibly not.”

Chase grunted. “That clarifies things. What brings you into it?”

Kerney decided to level with Chase. “For now, it appears that I’m a person of interest to the investigation.”

“You’re a suspect?” Chase asked as he gave Kerney a hard, sideways look.

“Not yet,” Kerney replied. “I’m trying to extricate myself from that possibility.”

Chase leaned back in his chair, his tight smile showing no teeth. “You’d better lay it all out for me.”

Kerney told Chase about his reasons for coming to California and his early morning discovery of Spalding’s body at the ranch. He emphasized that Claudia Spalding had been in the company of a man on a remote, high country trail-riding trip when notified of her husband’s death, and finished up by summarizing the conversations he’d had with Alice Spalding and Penelope Parker. He deliberately skipped over his visit to the Spalding estate.

He put Sergeant Lowrey’s business card on the desk. “That’s the San Luis Obispo sheriff’s deputy who’s handling the inquiry,” he said. “Give her a call, Captain, and get her side of the story.”

Chase nodded. “Wait out in the bullpen, and give me a few minutes.”

Chase closed the door behind Kerney and spent a good ten minutes on the phone with Lowrey. When he reappeared he didn’t look too happy. He motioned for Kerney to enter.

Kerney’s cell phone rang as he sat.

“It’s Sergeant Pino, Chief,” Ramona said when he answered.

“What have you learned about Kim Dean?” he asked.

“He’s a divorced father of two. The ex-wife and kids reside in Colorado. He’s a pharmacist and the owner of one of those franchise pharmacies. He’s got a house in Canada de los Alamos and keeps a couple of horses. The neighbors say Claudia Spalding’s vehicle is frequently parked at his house overnight.”

“Find and talk to a friend of Claudia Spalding’s named Nina Deacon,” Kerney said. “She lives in Spalding’s area. Learn what you can from her about Dean’s relationship to Spalding.”

“Will do. Anything else, Chief?”

“Who’s working with you?”

“Russell Thorpe.”

Thorpe was a young, capable state police officer Kerney knew personally through his involvement in several major felony cases.

“Good. Check your facts carefully,” he said, hoping Ramona and Thorpe would get the hint and sit on what they’d learned for a little while.

“Will waiting thirty minutes before we pass on the information do?” Ramona asked.

“Perfect,” Kerney said, then disconnected and looked at Chase. “Well?” he asked. “What did Sergeant Lowrey have to say?”

“You’ve pissed her off, big-time,” Chase said flatly, “and frankly, I’m feeling that you’ve put me in an awkward situation. I don’t know whether to hold you for questioning or let you walk.”

“I’m not going anywhere for a while,” Kerney said. He gave Chase the name of the motel where he’d rented a room. “What did Lowrey tell you?”

Chase ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. “You know the drill: no details or information gets released to potential suspects or targets of investigation.”

“Fair enough,” Kerney replied. “Can you talk about Alice Spalding and her search for her missing son?”

“That I can do,” Chase said with a small, derisive laugh. “There is no missing son. George Spalding was killed in a helicopter accident in Vietnam near the end of the war. He was a military policeman transporting one of the last prisoners from the stockade at Long Binh when the chopper went down. Both Spalding and the prisoner were killed in the crash.”

Kerney knew about the Long Binh Jail, located on a U.S. Army base near Bien Hoa, twenty miles north of Saigon. The troops referred to it contemptuously as the LBJ, for Lyndon Baines Johnson, the president who’d escalated the war through deceit, misinformation, and lies.

Kerney had been in-country as a lieutenant at about the same time as George Spalding, serving as a member of the last U.S. Army combat unit in Nam, the Second Battalion, Twenty-first Infantry.

“You’ve got DOD verification of George Spalding’s death?” he asked.

“Up the wazoo,” Chase replied.

“So why is Alice Spalding convinced her son is still alive?”

“Long before the Spaldings ever moved to Santa Barbara, she saw a wire service photograph in a newspaper of some people with injuries being treated at a traffic pile-up on the interstate. One of the victims in the photo looked like her son, and I grant you he did. But a check with the California Highway Patrol and the EMT who treated the man confirmed that it wasn’t George Spalding. As I understand it, that started the whole thing.”

“How did Clifford Spalding handle it?” Kerney asked.

“It was his cross to bear,” Chase said. “He asked me to contact him every time Alice called to report another sighting. She sees George everywhere, on television, in the newspapers, walking down the street, at shopping malls in Timbuktu. Most of the time the subject doesn’t even resemble George. I’ve been dealing with her obsession about her son for the past fifteen years.”

Kerney nodded sympathetically. “Why is she so obsessed?”

Chase shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“How do you handle her?” Kerney asked.

“In the past, she used to call me herself. But now it’s mostly her personal assistant who phones in to report a new sighting. I take down the information, tell her we’ll look into it, and then let Mr. Spalding know about it. He’d take it from there. He had a way of calming her down, at least for a while. Usually it would be a month, maybe two, before I heard from her or her assistant again.”

“Didn’t Spalding at one time hire a private investigator at Alice’s urging?” Kerney asked.

“Yeah, Lou Ferry,” Chase said. “He retired from the department about twenty years ago. I heard he got sick and had to shut down his business. Spalding used Ferry once or twice right after he moved here to placate Alice when she felt like we weren’t doing enough.”

“What about Debbie Calderwood?”

Chase held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Oh yeah, the girlfriend from Albuquerque. Wouldn’t it be great if she just dropped out of the sky into our laps? According to an Albuquerque PD report from back in the early seventies, she quit college and left town soon after George died. Nobody knows where she went or where she is. She’s just another person out there somewhere in the great unknown who doesn’t want to be found.”

“Not missing?”

“Who knows?” Chase replied. “She was never entered into the national missing persons data bank. For the life of me, I don’t see how any of this has any bearing on Spalding’s death or your situation.”

“When you don’t have a suspect, you focus on the victim,” Kerney said.

“That would be a smart thing to do,” Chase said, “especially if you did kill Spalding. It makes everybody think you’re just trying to clear yourself, protect your good name, and keep your job as Santa Fe police chief.”

“You have a cunning mind, Captain.”

Chase stretched, put his hands behind his head, and gave Kerney a friendly smile. “Tell me about this Dean guy you were talking about on the phone.”

“I already have,” Kerney said.

“Yeah, but it sounded like you got some fresh information.”

“It hasn’t been confirmed yet.”

“Is Dean someone you know?” Chase asked. “A friend perhaps?”

“I don’t know him at all,” Kerney said.

“Am I right to assume the phone call you got came from someone in your department who is keeping you advised?”

“My department is cooperating with Sergeant Lowrey’s investigation.”

“And keeping you advised,” Chase said.

Kerney decided it was time to end the game. “Of course. But I’m sure you know from your little talk with Sergeant Lowrey that she has asked the New Mexico State Police to verify any information my department passes on. It would seem she doesn’t trust my people.”

“Given the circumstances, wouldn’t you be cautious and skeptical?”

Kerney stayed silent.

“Tell me about this Santa Fe neighbor of Mrs. Spalding’s.”

“For now, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Holding out on Lowrey isn’t going to help your cause,” Chase said.

“I’m holding out on you, not Lowrey,” Kerney said, getting to his feet. “I see no reason to use you as an intermediary in this matter. It’s not your case or your jurisdiction. You know where I’m staying for the night. I’m sure Sergeant Lowrey will want to know how to contact me. Are we done here?”

Chase’s lips got tight and thin again. “Yeah, we’re done.”

“Good night, Captain.”

“See you around, Chief,” Chase replied.

In the rental car, Kerney drove in the opposite direction from the motel until he found a gas station, where he looked up Louis Ferry in a phone book and got an address.

He figured that Lowrey, by now fully briefed by Captain Chase, was on the road to Santa Barbara, prepared to ream him out once she arrived for meddling in her case. He decided it would be best not to meet with her until Ramona Pino and Russell Thorpe finished up with Nina Deacon and hopefully had enough information to put the spotlight on Kim Dean as a possible murder suspect or accomplice-if indeed a homicide had been committed.

He’d never completely discounted the possibility of murder, or disagreed when Lowrey took the investigation to the next level to see if it proved out. That wasn’t the issue. Kerney simply didn’t like the idea of Lowrey polishing her shield by tarnishing his reputation.

With the station attendant’s directions to Ferry’s address in mind, Kerney started off, aware that he might be on a wild-goose chase. Still, the story of Alice Spalding’s search for a son who’d been dead for thirty years continued to intrigue him. He wanted to learn more about it.

Lou Ferry lived in a trailer park on Punta Gorda Street, a dead-end lane cut off by the freeway. The rumble of traffic rose and fell as the cars and trucks rolled by.

Ferry’s residence was the first space in two long rows of small and medium-size camper-trailers that stretched down a paved drive filled with parked jalopies and older-model cars. The only modular home along the lane, it was enclosed by a five-foot-high wooden fence and gate.

Kerney knocked at the front door and a sour-looking, middle-aged Mexican woman greeted him.

“I’m looking for Lou Ferry,” he said.

“He don’t know you,” the woman replied.

“I’m a police officer,” Kerney said, displaying his shield.

“Just a minute,” the woman replied, closing the door.

Soon she was back, gesturing for Kerney to enter. “He’s in the bedroom,” she said, pointing to a passageway before walking away.

The sound of clattering dishes from the kitchen followed Kerney down the short hallway. In the back room, he found Ferry sitting up in bed watching television.

“Mr. Ferry?”

“Yeah,” Ferry said in a wheezy voice as he turned off the TV, “and don’t make any wisecracks about my name. I’ve heard them all.”

The nightstand held an array of prescription bottles and an empty drinking glass.

“My wife, who wants me to hurry up and die so she can sell the trailer park and move back to Mexico, says you’re a cop.”

“That’s right.”

Ferry made a gimme motion with his hand. “Let’s see your shield.”

Kerney handed him the badge case and watched Ferry reach for his reading glasses. He was a short man who’d lost weight and had the frail look that comes with an end-stage illness.

“Santa Fe Police Chief,” Ferry said, handing back the badge case with a slight smirk. “Impressive. What you want from me?”

“I hear you retired from the job,” Kerney said.

“After thirty-six years. I started when I was twenty-one. I’ve been on a pension for over twenty. You do the math.”

“You were a PI for a time.”

“Eighteen years, until I got sick.” Ferry dropped his reading glasses on his lap and coughed into his fist. “Get on with what you came here for. I could die before you finish asking your questions.”

“You did some private work for Clifford Spalding. I’d like to know about it.”

Ferry shook his head to ward off the inquiry. “That’s it. End of questions. Get out.”

“He’s dead,” Kerney said.

Ferry absorbed the information and relaxed slightly. “How did it happen?”

“We’re still looking into it.”

Ferry smiled sardonically. “Crazy Alice Spalding didn’t kill him, did she?”

“Why do you say that?” Kerney asked.

“For giving her the runaround all these years,” Ferry said as he adjusted the pillow behind his head.

“Explain that to me.”

Ferry propped himself up against the headboard. “Since he’s dead, I guess I finally can tell somebody. Spalding came to see me soon after he moved to Santa Barbara. Walked in the door of my office one day with a legal document he’d had drawn up. Said he would hire me to do some work for him if I agreed to do exactly what he wanted and sign a binding nondisclosure agreement. I looked it over. It basically said I couldn’t reveal any information I gathered about George Spalding or Debbie Calderwood to anyone but him, and that I’d forfeit any sums paid to me if I did.”

“And?”

Ferry took a deep breath that rattled in his chest. “I told him I needed a hell of a lot more information before I’d even consider taking on the case like that. That’s when he showed me the official Army documents of his son’s death in Vietnam and explained the situation with his wife. He said he’d tried everything to help her accept the fact that George was gone, and since that hadn’t worked he’d been forced to live with an obsessive wife who was driving him crazy and hounding cops all over the West to find her lost son. He gave me copies of missing person reports Alice had submitted to a half dozen police departments in three or four different states.”

Kerney scooted a straight-back chair to the foot of the bed and sat. “So you took the case.”

“After he put ten one-hundred-dollar bills in my hand as an advance and told me what he wanted me to do.”

“Which was?”

Ferry chuckled. “Nothing. Make stuff up. The deal was that he’d call and ask me to follow up on one of Alice’s crazy leads. Then I’d write up a report about my phony investigation into it, wait a week or two, and mail it to him. He paid me five hundred dollars a pop.”

“Easy money,” Kerney said. “How many reports did you concoct for him?”

“About twenty, twenty-five, over the next couple of years.”

“What made the cash cow dry up?”

Ferry laughed. “I blew it. When I started running out of creative ways to lie, I decided to do some actual investigating to freshen up my reports.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Alice had tracked down an old college friend of Debbie Calderwood living in Portland, who said she’d gotten a card from her about a year after Calderwood disappeared. So, I called the friend, who told me Calderwood had written to her from Taos, New Mexico, where she was living on a commune at the time. Remember, that was back in the early seventies when all that flower power and antiwar stuff hadn’t completely faded away yet.”

“What else did the note say?” Kerney asked.

“That she was moving with an unnamed boyfriend to a small town in southern Colorado. But she’d didn’t say exactly where. So, I got out the atlas and phone book and called a bunch of places trying to locate her. When that didn’t work, I phoned some town marshals, sheriffs, and police departments, and still came up empty.”

“Did you tell Spalding that you’d actually done some real work on the case?” Kerney asked.

“Nope. But I put everything I’d learned in my report. That’s when he fired me. End of story.” Ferry coughed hard into his hand again. “It got me to thinking that maybe Spalding was up to maybe something more than trying to appease his unbalanced wife.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know,” Ferry said breathlessly, waving the question away as if it was an angry hornet buzzing around his head.

“Did you check out Spalding before you spent the retainer he gave you?” Kerney asked, switching gears.

“Smart question.” Ferry smiled slyly and held up a trembling index finger. “Rule number one for a PI, always know who you’re working for. I made some calls, but I can’t remember most of what I learned.”

“What stands out?”

“He’d made a lot of money in the hotel business in a relatively short period of time. He went from owning a mom-and-pop motel in Albuquerque to building a resort hotel outside of Tucson in something under five years. That’s what got him started playing with the big money boys.”

Ferry’s head sank against the pillow and his eyes closed. The fatigue in his face ran deep into the wrinkles of his cheeks and cut into the furrows of his forehead. A vein throbbed in his skinny neck.

“Did you keep copies of your reports?” Kerney asked.

“No copies,” Ferry said in a weak voice. “That was part of the deal.”

“You need to sleep,” Kerney said as he stood.

Ferry’s eyes fluttered open and he winced in pain. “Yeah, maybe I’ll get lucky this time and won’t wake up.”

Kerney left the bedroom quietly. In a dining area off the front room, Ferry’s wife sat at the table talking softly in Spanish on the telephone. She looked at him with cool disinterest when he waved good-bye and left.

Outside under the street lights, some kids were kicking a soccer ball around, and two teenagers sat in an old primer-gray Chevy smoking cigarettes and playing loud rap music on the car stereo.

It wasn’t the Santa Barbara in the travel posters or real estate ads. Not that there was anything mean or menacing about the area. It was just another one of those tucked-away places you could find in any city that the underclass lived in and everyone else avoided.

Kerney drove away thinking about Lou Ferry. He’d spent a lifetime on the job as a cop and a PI. All he had to show for it was ownership of a run-down trailer park and a woman who couldn’t wait for him to die. It wasn’t the happiest of endings.

What Kerney had learned about Clifford Spalding’s efforts to defeat his ex-wife’s search to find her son gnawed at him, as did the New Mexico connection that kept popping up. He decided, if time allowed, to speak to Penelope Parker again and get a little more background on the man.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. But first there was Sergeant Lowrey to deal with. He hoped she was stationed outside his motel room waiting for him to show.

Five blocks from his motel, Kerney’s cell phone rang. He pulled to the curb and answered. It was Ramona Pino.

“What have you got for me, Sergeant?”

“Interesting stuff, Chief. We’ve just finished up with Nina Deacon. It seems like Claudia Spalding and Kim Dean started out as horseback-riding buddies and the relationship segued into a hot love affair about two years ago that’s still going strong. Recently, Claudia has been crying on Deacon’s shoulder about the prenuptial agreement she signed with her dead husband.”

“She wanted out of the marriage?” Kerney asked.

“Affirmative,” Ramona replied. “But she didn’t want to lose the Santa Fe house or her lifestyle. According to Deacon, any divorce caused by infidelity on Claudia’s part cuts her out of Spalding’s will. The way Deacon tells it, the Santa Fe property is in his name as the sole owner, with a legal agreement signed by Claudia to back it up. About all she could walk away with would be her horses, other gifts he’s given her over the years, a half interest in the furnishings they bought together for the house, and whatever is in her personal checking account.”

“What else?” Kerney asked.

“Spalding was out here about two months ago for ten days. He got sick about halfway through the visit. Fatigue, heat intolerance, the sweats. Deacon said Spalding thought he was just having a reaction to the dry climate and the change in altitude.”

“Did he see a doctor?” Kerney asked.

“No, Claudia nursed him, cared for him hand and foot until he left.”

“The loving wife. Where is she now?”

“At the Albuquerque airport waiting for a flight to Burbank. According to Deacon, she keeps a car in Burbank and drives up to Santa Barbara.”

“Did Deacon see her before she left?”

“Yeah. Claudia told Deacon that probably Spalding’s heart had given out.”

“Will Deacon keep her mouth shut about your visit?” Kerney asked.

“She’d better. Both Thorpe and I made it clear that warning Claudia about our inquiries would make her liable to be charged as an accessory.”

“Did that sink in?”

“Big-time, Chief,” Ramona said. “She squirmed in her seat and promised to be a good girl.”

“Put somebody on Kim Dean to keep an eye on him. I don’t want him suddenly disappearing.”

“It’s already done.”

“Have you got Sergeant Lowrey’s cell phone number?”

“I do.”

“Call her now and brief her.”

“You don’t want me to do time-delayed information sharing on this go-round?” Ramona asked with a hint of a smile in her voice.

Kerney laughed. “No, let’s get this over with so I can come home without a black cloud floating over my head.”

“Ten-four to that, Chief. Thorpe is on the horn to Chief Baca with the news right now. Get ready to have him rib you about all of this when you get home.”

“He’s already started,” Kerney said. “Good job, Sergeant. Pass on my appreciation to Officer Thorpe.”

“Thanks, Chief. Will do.”

He disconnected, sat back against the car seat, sighed with relief, and looked at the dashboard clock. He’d give it five minutes before driving to the motel in the hopes that a sheepish Sergeant Lowrey would be waiting for him with an apology in hand.

Ellie Lowrey watched Chief Kerney enter the motel parking lot and ease to a stop next to her unit. Although she’d been rehearsing what to say to him, her mind suddenly went blank and her mouth got dry. She motioned at him to join her.

He slid into the passenger seat, closed the door, and nodded a silent greeting.

Ellie waited a few beats, hoping Kerney would say something to break the ice and let her off the hook. When the silence between them became unbearable, she said, “I guess I had my eye on the wrong target, Chief Kerney.”

“Your instincts were good,” Kerney said, keeping his voice flat.

“It wasn’t personal,” Ellie said, hoping Kerney would make eye contact with her.

Kerney stared straight ahead. “I know that.”

“I’m sorry for the hassle.”

Kerney glanced her way and smiled. “It’s okay, Sergeant. You were doing your job, and doing it well.”

“You’ve talked to Santa Fe?” Lowrey asked, trying to keep the relief she felt out of her voice.

“I have. Now it’s your turn to fill me in.”

Ellie told Kerney about the preliminary findings from the postmortem, the discovery of the hormone replacement medication in a pill case in Clifford Spalding’s clothing, and Price’s telephone conversation with Spalding’s doctor.

“You only found one pill?” Kerney asked.

“Yeah. Is that important?”

“I talked to a caretaker at Spalding’s estate who told me Spalding had been on a business trip for the past two weeks before he went to the ranch. I doubt he’d be foolish enough not to keep a supply of medication on hand.”

“We didn’t find a prescription bottle,” Ellie said.

“Did you search his car?” Kerney asked.

Ellie shook her head.

“It might be a smart thing to do. The caretaker also told me that Clifford Spalding forgot to take his medication with him while visiting his wife in Santa Fe two months ago, and had to get his prescription refilled locally. Don’t you find that interesting, given who Claudia Spalding has been sleeping with?”

“I do,” Ellie replied.

“Who better to tamper with or alter medication than a pharmacist? And if it was Dean who filled the prescription, did he dispense a one-month, two-month, or three-month supply?”

Ellie mulled it over. “Claudia Spalding told Nina Deacon her husband probably died of heart failure, which comes pretty close to the autopsy findings. Now, how would she know that, given the fact that Spalding was in good health at the time of his last checkup?”

“Exactly,” Kerney said.

“So how would Dean have done it?” Ellie asked.

“I don’t know,” Kerney replied, as he opened the passenger door. “But the caretaker mentioned that since his return from Santa Fe, Spalding had been complaining about sleeping poorly and blurred vision.”

“Which means his condition may have been deteriorating,” Ellie asked, reaching for her cell phone.

Kerney got out of the unit.

“Where are you going?”

“To find an address for an all-night pharmacy while you call in for a search of Spalding’s car.”

The on-duty pharmacist at the discount drugstore, a woman with a button chin and a long, narrow nose, stood behind the counter at the back of the store and listened carefully as the female police officer described a well-known brand of thyroid medication.

“Yes, it’s used as a hormone replacement.”

“If, as a pharmacist, you wanted to alter or tamper with it, how would you do it?”

“The easiest way would be to coat it with a clear substance. That way the pill would look perfectly okay.”

“Barring that, what could you do?” Ellie asked.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“What if you wanted to change the actual composition of the pill?” Ellie asked.

“Well, this is a medication that you can get in a powdered form. Some pharmacists who specialize in mixing their own compounds like to fill prescriptions that way. But it wouldn’t look anything like the pharmaceutical version.”

The tall, good-looking man with the female officer smiled at her.

“How could you change the dosage or ingredients and yet have it look identical to the real thing?” Kerney asked.

“Same size, shape, color, and brand name?” the pharmacist asked.

“Yes. Could it be done?”

“I suppose, if you made it with a mold. But it would be painstaking work.”

“How would you go about it?” Ellie asked.

“Well, I’d start with making an impression of the lettering on the pill so I could duplicate it,” the woman said. “Then I’d have to build a mold to form it based on the precise measurements of the pill and its lettering.”

“What kind of a mold?” Kerney asked.

The woman tapped her finger against her chin. “Ceramic perhaps, but certainly something that wouldn’t break under pressure when you formed the pill, especially if you wanted to imprint a brand name.”

“What about the coloring?” Ellie asked.

The pharmacist smiled. “That would be the easy part. I’d use a natural dye.”

“Could you duplicate the shape of the pill by hand?” Kerney asked.

“Sure, but it would take some time to make a good supply, and the brand name would still need to be stamped on the pills to make them look authentic.”

“What’s the usual refill supply that’s given to patients?” Kerney asked.

“Three months is the norm, if the patient is stabilized on the dosage.”

“You’ve been a big help,” Ellie said.

The woman looked from the female cop to the man. “Now, please tell me what this is all about.”

“Crime, of course,” Kerney said, stepping away from the counter.

Ellie waited until they were in the parking lot before asking Kerney what he thought should be done next. He suggested having the pill found in Spalding’s pocket analyzed and getting started on the paperwork for a search warrant of Dean’s pharmacy and residence in Santa Fe.

“I don’t have enough evidence to get a search warrant approved yet,” Ellie said as she unlocked the passenger door to her unit.

“I bet you will have after the lab results come back tomorrow,” Kerney said as he ducked into the cruiser. “But you may not need to have the search warrant served right away. If you play your cards right, Claudia Spalding might just crack under questioning. Then you can go for an arrest warrant on Dean and serve both simultaneously.”

Ellie got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. “Want to be there for the Q amp;A with Claudia Spalding?”

Kerney shook his head and laughed. “Not a chance. Because of you, I’m spending an extra day in California, so I might as well enjoy it.”

“Sorry about that, Chief,” Ellie said as they arrived at Kerney’s motel. “I’ll call you when things shake out.”

“Leave me a message,” Kerney said as he climbed out of the unit.

Ellie watched Kerney unlock his motel door and step inside. He’d never once flared up under the pressure she’d put on him. Beyond that, he’d gathered important information to advance the investigation and had graciously accepted her apology without laying into her.

She’d come to Santa Barbara ready to ream Kerney out for meddling in her investigation. As she drove away, Ellie thought that Chief Kerney would be a hell of a good boss to work for.