The big gamble

Chapter 12

Fitful dreams and a dull headache woke Kerney earlier than usual. In the predawn darkness, he reviewed the material the Lincoln County Sheriff's Department had sent up to Santa Fe: the autopsy report, forensic lab findings, and Clayton's field notes on the excavation of Anna Marie's body. Nothing had been uncovered that could tie Tyler Norvell, or any other unknown suspect, to the killing.

Kerney wasn't surprised; the victim had been murdered elsewhere and moved, and too much time had passed between the murder and the discovery of the body, which made the chances of finding any trace evidence almost nil.

Without physical evidence tying Norvell to the crime, Kerney would have to build a convincing circumstantial case. Anna Marie's letters and the fact that Norvell was in Santa Fe at the time of her murder put Kerney part of the way there. But he would need more persuasive information to convince the DA to approve an arrest affidavit for Norvell. He would have to develop the case in bits and pieces.

Kerney closed the files. Clayton had done a thorough job excavating Montoya's remains. He wondered if praising his son's good work would be worth the effort. Would Clayton simply respond with his usual cool disdain?

Kerney arrived for his follow-up interview with Helen Pearson curious to see how she'd held up overnight. Her hair was uncombed, her eyes were drained of emotion, and she moved in a distracted, almost awkward way.

"How long will this take?" she asked, her voice thin and troubled.

"Not long, I hope," Kerney answered, still feeling the headache that had dogged him since waking. He hadn't taken anything for it. The nagging throb kept his thoughts off Sara, so it served a good purpose.

The living room curtains, open yesterday, were closed, darkening the room. Helen Pearson sat in a chair where shadows hid her face. Kerney turned on a table lamp next to her and she blinked like a startled child caught doing mischief.

"Belinda Louise Nieto," Kerney said. "Tell me about her."

Pearson's mouth tightened, twisted. "I didn't know her."

"What do you know about her?" Kerney asked.

"She was just before my time," Pearson replied.

"And?"

"She's dead."

"You can do better than that."

She thought about her answer, rubbing her lips together as if it would make the words come out. "She was an object lesson to keep the girls in line."

"Why was that?"

"She booked dates on the side, held back money, met with clients who hadn't been screened, broke appointments, rejected bookings with men who didn't appeal to her, demanded additional payment for anything kinky, and sometimes refused to travel."

"She was murdered for not following the rules," Kerney said.

Pearson nodded. "The girls were told not to make the same mistakes Belinda did."

"Who killed her?"

Pearson shifted away from the lamp as if the glare was somehow hazardous. "Everyone figured it had to be Luis Rojas, or someone he sent to do it."

"Why?"

"Because he was the enforcer."

"Just for the girls?" Kerney asked.

"And clients who misbehaved."

"Were you warned about any other object lessons?"

"A girl in Houston, a client in Phoenix. There may be more, I don't know. It's been a long time since I've been in the life."

"So, Denver isn't the only base of operations."

"No. There's Phoenix, Houston, and El Paso, and probably a few more cities by now. Sex is a thriving business," she added sarcastically.

"Albuquerque?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know a woman named Anna Marie Montoya?" Kerney asked.

"The murdered woman who went missing from here years ago?"

"Yes."

"I never met her."

"Did Norvell ever mention her to you?"

"Not that I recall."

"Tell me about your clientele."

The request made Pearson angry. "Will knowing who I fucked for a living get you off?"

"I left here yesterday amazed at how you'd turned your life around," Kerney answered. "I'm still impressed."

"Sorry," Pearson said with a flicker of an apologetic smile. "It's hard to think about all of this. The men I saw were wealthy, well-known celebrities, or prominent people in their home communities. One was a network television journalist, another was a professional basketball player. The list goes on and on. I even saw a city police chief from Texas for a time. Does that surprise you?"

"Not really. Anyone from New Mexico?"

"Just one man Tyler set me up with. That's how I first came to Santa Fe. I spent three or four weekends with him over a period of about a year. His name was Raymond, but I think that was fictitious."

"Why do you say that?"

"Anything more than an evening in a hotel room usually happened away from the client's home turf. That means dinners out and being seen together without worry, a little shopping to buy the girl a present or two, taking in the sights. Raymond didn't want to do any of that. We just stayed at Tyler's house the whole time. Plus it was all a freebee. I was never paid a dime. Several other girls had the same experience with him."

"I'd like you to look at some pictures," Kerney said, handing over the photographs Sal Molina had left behind last night.

Pearson held the photos in the light. She shook her head at the one of Gene Barrett, identified Luis Rojas, and held up the last photo. "That's Raymond."

The image of archconservative state senator and attorney Leo Silva stared back at Kerney. According to Sal Molina, Silva was licensed to practice law in New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, and Texas, and was affiliated with law firms in El Paso, Phoenix, Denver, and Houston.

He now knew that Pino and Vialpando were right, Silva was the fifth partner.

"I need you to write out a statement covering what we discussed yesterday and today," Kerney said.

"All of it?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"When the time comes, I'll present it to the district attorney and ask that you be treated as a confidential informant. He might agree to avoid bringing you before a grand jury."

"You can guarantee that?" Pearson asked.

"Not yet," Kerney replied. "But if I gather a few more facts it might be possible."

It took some time for Pearson to write her statement. Kerney sat with her at the kitchen table, refreshing her memory as needed. She kept her head down as she wrote, stopping to look up when Kerney spoke, absorbing what he said like a schoolgirl taking class notes. It made her look innocent and vulnerable.

Kerney decided there was a deep reservoir of goodness in Helen Pearson, and that she deserved to have her new life protected.

Kerney left Pearson and his headache behind with a promise to keep her informed. Outside, a stiff spring wind blew dust through the evergreens and rolled a few brittle leaves across the gravel driveway. Downtown, the thick stand of poplar and Russian olive trees surrounding the state capitol building swayed in the wind, bare branches clacking together in erratic patterns.

Bill Perkins, the legislative staffer who had pulled Norvell's per diem reimbursement voucher at Kerney's request, was in his office. A financial analyst, Perkins evaluated funding and appropriation requests for a number of state agencies, including the state police. Kerney had worked with Perkins during his tenure as deputy chief of the department.

A cheery fellow, Perkins had a shock of curly brown hair and an exceedingly high forehead. He gladly made a copy of the paperwork and handed it over. According to the document Norvell had signed, the senator left Santa Fe just about the time Montoya disappeared.

"Do you archive office records for individual legislators?" Kerney asked, slipping the copy into a pocket.

"Only official documents, not their personal stuff."

"Who was Norvell's secretary back then?" Kerney asked.

"I don't know. Remember, office staffers for legislators are temporary personnel. They only work during regular or special legislative sessions. That information is in another office, and I'll have to look it up."

"I'll wait," Kerney said.

Perkins grinned. "Is that all you're going to tell me?"

"Can you do it on the q.t.?"

Perkins made a gimme motion with his hand. "Come on, Chief, fill me in."

"I wouldn't want to damage Senator Norvell's reputation by starting rumors that have no basis in fact," Kerney said.

"It's gotta be something."

"Yes, it does."

"Cops," Perkins said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. "They never tell you anything. Hang on, I'll pull the file."

Perkins came back with a name and address. "Alice Owen," he said. "She was a jewel. One of the best of the office staffers."

"Was?" Kerney asked.

"Retired," Perkins replied. "Hasn't worked the sessions for five, maybe six years. I see her around town every now and then. She's doing the grandmother thing and some charity work."

Kerney rang the bell at Alice Owen's house. The door opened partially, and a petite woman, probably in her seventies, with warm, intelligent brown eyes and gray hair cut short peered out at him.

"Yes?"

"Alice Owen?" Kerney asked, showing his shield. "May I ask you a few questions?"

"About?" Owen opened the door wider.

"Tyler Norvell."

"I really don't know the Senator very well," Owen replied. "I only worked for him during the session right after his first election."

"That's the time frame I'm interested in."

"Do you suspect that he's done something wrong?" Owen asked.

"Would it surprise you if he had?"

Owen hesitated. "We didn't hit it off particularly well. He was a young man who seemed quite full of himself. I've never found such people to be entirely trustworthy. What are your questions?"

"I'm trying to determine if he had any contact with a woman named Anna Marie Montoya."

Owen shook her head. "Oh my, I couldn't begin to know. So many people visit during the sessions, it's really quite chaotic. Constituents and lobbyists just stop by and mill about hoping for a few minutes of a legislator's time, or they drop off a letter or ask to use the telephone or make an appointment."

"You kept no records of visitors?" Kerney asked.

"Of course I did," Owen answered. "I maintained the appointment calendar and logged in all phone calls. But that didn't include people who left no messages or were simply dropping something off."

"Where would those records be?" Kerney asked.

"I have them," Owen replied, "for all the sessions I worked over the years."

She left Kerney waiting in the living room to search through some boxes. He spent his time looking at the photos of smiling children and grandchildren that were carefully grouped on tables and shelves around the room.

It made him think of the mess in his own family life, particularly Sara's scolding and Clayton's coldness. He tried to will back his headache to block off an overpowering desire to brood. Alice Owen saved him from the effort. She handed over a leather-bound appointment book and a loose-leaf binder. In the book he found an appointment for Anna Marie Montoya with a line drawn through it and a notation that the meeting had been canceled by TN. In the margin were the letters WMPC. Two copies of phone messages from Anna Marie were in the loose-leaf binder, both requesting that Norvell call her. All three were dated within weeks of her disappearance, but the canceled appointment was most recent.

With his finger on the appointment entry, Kerney showed it to Owen. "What do these letters mean?"

"Oh, that's my personal shorthand," Owen said. "They stand for 'will make personal contact.' "

"Who will make personal contact? You?"

"Oh, no. It meant that I didn't have to bother calling back to reschedule, the senator was going to do it himself."

With the evidence in hand and resisting an impulse to hug Alice Owen, Kerney called Bill Perkins on his way to his unit and asked where he might find old telephone records from Tyler Norvell's senate office.

"Tell me what you want specifically," Perkins said, "and I'll pull it from the financial accounting archives."

"It's for one month only," Kerney replied, giving Perkins the date. "Fax it to my office."

"When do you need it?"

"About eleven years ago," Kerney said.

"What?"

"ASAP, Bill, and thanks."

Jeff Vialpando's second interview with Sally Greer resulted in the full name and address of the other woman Ramona had seen in the hotel bar the night she'd tailed Greer from her apartment. The woman was Stacy Fowler, and she lived in a town-house complex in the North Valley close to the Rio Grande bosque a few miles from Old Town, site of the original Hispanic settlement founded during the Spanish reign in the Southwest.

After arranging protective custody at a safe location for Greer, Jeff and Ramona paid a visit to Fowler's residence, only to find her gone. They decided to stake out the town house and wait for Fowler to show.

Jeff took the first watch while Ramona catnapped, her head resting on her bundled-up jacket, which she'd wedged between the window and the car seat. He watched her sleep, studied her pretty face, and wondered what it would be like to wake up next to her in the morning. It was a pleasant thought that kept him occupied until he fell asleep.

The sun was in Jeff's face when Ramona shook him awake.

"She's here," Ramona said.

"How long have I been dozing?"

"An hour," Ramona replied. "You look cute when you're asleep. That goes on the plus side of the ledger."

"You're keeping score on me?" Jeff said, rubbing his face.

"You bet. Let's go."

An unhappy Stacy Fowler let them in and stood in the living room with her arms crossed, her chin stuck out in a pose of sassy defiance. Her round eyes protruded slightly, giving her face a baby-doll appearance.

"I don't know any Sally Greer," she said.

"That's funny," Ramona said. "There's a picture of you with Sally on the Internet."

"You got a warrant?" Fowler asked.

"We don't need one," Ramona replied. "You let us in, remember?"

"So now get out," Fowler said, casting her gaze at the door.

"We would all have to leave together," Ramona said.

"Why?"

"Jail," Vialpando said.

Fowler was silent for a minute, then she flipped her dark hair with a toss of her head. "Okay, let's go."

"This isn't a prostitution bust, Stacy," Ramona said.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"We're talking about murder," Jeff said.

Fowler's plucked eyebrows arched. "That's crazy."

"It's not even a stretch," Ramona said. "You were with Greer in Ruidoso. We know she told you about the john that beat her up and got iced for it."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"That makes you a material witness."

Fowler gave Ramona a suspicious look. "What kind of bullshit is that?"

Ramona bluffed. "The kind that would make a judge agree to put you in jail without bail if you refuse to cooperate. You'd stay there until you talked."

"We can avoid all of that," Vialpando said.

"Talking to you wouldn't be good for my health."

"Not talking could make things worse for you," Jeff said.

"How's that?"

"We'll spread the word that you're our snitch."

"Jesus," Fowler said.

"You're new in town," Jeff said. "Did Tully bring you here, or was it Norvell?"

"Or Rojas?" Ramona added.

The names cracked Fowler's composure a bit more. She uncrossed her arms and put her hands out as if to ward off an attack. "What are you after?"

"The people who run the organization," Vialpando answered.

"They'd crucify me if I talked to you," Fowler said, her eyes searching for an escape. "You don't know how powerful they are."

"We know how powerful they think they are," Ramona said. "But unless you help us bring them down, you really don't have much of an option."

Vialpando stepped to Fowler and touched her arm. "Help us, and we'll help you," he said gently. "Sit down and talk to us."

Fowler nodded, reconsidered her decision, put on a false smile behind a scared expression, and said, "I do couples. Maybe…"

"Don't even go there," Vialpando said quickly. He led Fowler to a chair and sat her down. "You worked out of Phoenix before coming here. Tell us about the organization."

Fowler frowned and bit her lip. "No bust, and I get a free ride?"

"Exactly," Jeff replied, sitting across from Fowler. "Plus protection for as long as you need it."

Fowler's lips twitched nervously. She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the end table and lit one. "Okay. Rojas runs Phoenix and all the Texas services. Tully does the same in Denver and here. Each city has a manager who oversees the day-to-day stuff-bookings, screening and billing clients, paying the girls, arranging housing."

"Who's the Albuquerque manager?" Ramona asked.

"Cassie Bedlow. She's been providing girls for the other locations through her modeling agency for years."

"What about Norvell?" Jeff asked.

"He supplies a venue for special occasions."

"What's that all about?" Ramona asked.

"He has a place where rich men can meet privately with a girl like for a vacation. You can't book it for less than a week, and it's expensive. Fifty grand for the cottage, and then whatever the girl costs. That can run between five and ten thousand a day, sometimes more. Some clients bring their own women with them. For that, they have to pay a hefty surcharge. It's got five or six cottages, and they're always full. I've never been there, but I've heard it brings in movie stars, politicians, celebrity jocks-men like that-from all over the country."

"So it's a place where rich guys can play house," Vialpando said.

Fowler smirked and blew smoke through her nose. "Yeah, along with their favorite sex games. S and M, domination, fetishes, bondage-whatever they want, including drugs."

"Where is this place?" Ramona asked.

"Outside Ruidoso," Fowler replied. "I'm not sure where. It's on a ranch."

"How do the finances work?" Ramona asked. "Who pays the bills? Where does the money go?"

"I don't know. We get paid in cash weekly, plus any expenses. Tips and gifts we get to keep."

"What about drugs?" Vialpando asked.

"Whatever you want, but just for the girls and clients. There's no street selling or dealing. Mostly it's coke, crack, and pot, along with some meth. If a girl uses, the cost is deducted from her pay."

"Are you a user, Stacy?" Ramona asked.

"Sometimes." She stubbed out her smoke. "It makes going to work a whole lot easier."

"Are you strung out now?"

"A little bit."

"We'll get you into detox," Ramona said.

They wound up the interview and turned Fowler over to detectives who'd been waiting for their call. Jeff drove Ramona back to her unit.

"Next time we spend a night together, let's not do it in a car," Jeff said with a smile as he wheeled in behind Ramona's vehicle.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Sergeant," Ramona said.

"I'm just suggesting a change in venue, nothing more."

Ramona laughed. "I'll see you in Santa Fe at the meeting."

Clayton woke to an empty house and checked the bedside clock. It was after nine. Either he'd slept hard or Grace had tiptoed around, keeping the kids quiet before taking them off to day care and going to work. He put in a call to Paul Hewitt only to learn that the sheriff was out of the office until noon.

He went to the local newspaper's office and searched through back issues for anything that mentioned Tyler Norvell. There were plenty of stories on normal political activity: speeches he'd made, legislation he supported or opposed, positions he took on social problems. The guy was a right-to-work, anti-abortion, three-strikes-and-you're-out conservative. Judging from the voter sentiment discussed in the articles, he drew a lot of support from middle-class Texans who'd moved to Ruidoso looking for a less expensive Southwestern version of the Aspen lifestyle.

Clayton dug deeper and found a news item in the business section. A year before running for the state senate, Norvell had bought the Bluewater Canyon Ranch, a twenty-thousand-acre spread outside the small settlement of Arabella on the east side of the Capitan Mountains.

In his short time with the department Clayton had been to Arabella twice on routine patrols. There wasn't much to the place: a few whitewashed, shuttered adobe buildings, several old barns, a vacation cottage or two, maybe a half-dozen year-round residences, and some outlying ranches along the paved road that ended at the village.

It was a pretty spot, a good seventeen miles off the main highway to Roswell, in rolling country against the sharp backdrop of the mountains.

In his unit Clayton consulted a government reference map that highlighted all publicly and privately owned land in the state. It was a useful tool for determining the boundaries for law-enforcement jurisdictions. He found Bluewater Canyon on private land a bit south of Arabella. There wasn't time to drive up and look around before the sheriff returned to the office, so Clayton decided to see what he could learn through official records.

If Norvell had turned the Bluewater Canyon Ranch into a secret sex playground, as Clayton suspected, then he had probably spent a pile of money on the project.

In the county assessor's office at the county courthouse, he located the file for the Bluewater Canyon Ranch. Since the date of purchase, Norvell's property had increased in taxable value by over five million dollars. The old ranch headquarters had been torn down and replaced by a ten-thousand-square-foot hacienda, along with six new guest houses of three thousand square feet each, horse stables, barns, a swimming pool with a cabana and hot tubs, garages, a caretaker's cottage, a bunkhouse, and something called a meditation center, which included a small movie theater.

Clayton went looking for the deputy county assessor, Marvin Rickland, and bumped into him in the hallway.

"Have you got a minute to tell me about the Bluewater Canyon Ranch?" he asked.

Rickland nodded. "What a place. It's amazing what money can buy. The senator sure hasn't spared any expense. I bet the landscaping alone set him back a half million or more."

"What does he use it for?"

"Right now, just for friends, family, business associates, clients, and his political pals. He caters to a lot of rich people who are looking to buy property through his real estate company and who want anonymity while they're here. The last time I talked to him he said eventually it was going to be a resort-type dude ranch. Why he doesn't open it up right now beats me."

"You've done all the property assessments," Clayton said. "Describe it to me."

"It's really spread out," Rickland replied. "Each guest house is at least a mile from the main residence and very private. The style is Santa Fe adobe, with portals, patios, courtyards and all those Southwest touches like corner fireplaces and beamed ceilings. Around the headquarters you've got the meditation center, the swimming pool, staff housing, and a horse barn and stables about a quarter mile away. He's even got an airstrip on the property, along with all-weather gravel roads, and a grader to keep them in good repair."

"Do you have any trouble getting in?"

Rickland laughed. "I was just talking to Ray Kelsey about that the other day. He's the general construction inspector for the state, who works out of Ruidoso. He was telling me the senator has submitted plans to build a sweat lodge and a pond along a creek bed and put in a Japanese-style garden. We were laughing about how we always have to call ahead and make an appointment to get on the property. It's completely fenced-the whole twenty thousand acres-and he has it patrolled regularly. Everybody who works there has to sign a confidentiality agreement not to talk about the guests or the ranch. Those rich people really like their privacy."

Clayton asked a few more questions and learned that an electronic gate with a speaker box controlled access to the ranch road, and the headquarters were about five miles beyond the gate. There were no neighbors within a ten-mile radius, and Rickland dealt with Norvell's live-in manager when he needed to make a tax assessment inspection. Rickland had never seen any of Norvell's friends or clients during his visits, but there were usually cars parked at the guest houses and a plane or two on the landing strip.

Clayton thanked Rickland and went looking for the sheriff, who was due back in the office. His secretary told him Hewitt was running late and wouldn't be in until around two. He went to his hallway desk and started writing out his chronological report so he could have it ready when the sheriff arrived.

Until the Indian cop arrived at the county courthouse, Fidel was bored and restless. He'd left his motel room early, thinking it would be maybe an hour before the cop showed at work, and he'd wound up waiting almost all morning. Fidel didn't know why Rojas wanted him watched, but it would be fun to follow the cop around for a while, sneaky like. Of course, it would be way more cool to kill him.

He wondered why Rojas was worried about Istee. Did it have something to do with the hit at Casey's Cozy Cabins? That had been a bitching cool kill, and taking out Staggs had also been kick-ass. He'd made Staggs beg before blowing him away. The old man pissed in his pants and cried like a baby.

The thirty grand Fidel had taken off Staggs's body made it his most profitable hit yet, better than the Ulibarri job. He bet a cop would go for even more. Fidel smiled at the possibility.

Time passed and Fidel started getting bored again. Too bad Debbie Shea wasn't with him. It would be a kick to have her go down on him, parked fifty feet outside of the sheriff's office.

He slipped his semiautomatic out of the shoulder holster and checked the magazine. He'd always wanted to put a couple of caps in a cop. Maybe Rojas would change his mind.

He put the handgun away. A vehicle pulled into the parking space reserved for the sheriff, and a big guy dressed like a cowboy got out and went inside.

Cowboys and Indians, Fidel thought. Carrizozo was total fucking hicksville.

From his time with the state police Kerney knew that the state government telephone system was unique in certain ways. A computer recorded all the calls made from each individual phone, and a monthly report was distributed to supervisory personnel so that they could track personal calls made by employees at work and request reimbursement for any toll charges.

In his office Kerney compared the faxed telephone record of calls made from Senator Norvell's private legislative office phone against the information in the Montoya case file. Norvell had made an eight-minute call to Anna Marie's work number on the day her appointment with the senator had been canceled.

The case against Norvell was building, but Kerney still needed more.

Sal Molina had left updated information on his desk, and Kerney read the hurried notes Detective Pino had prepared from the interview she and the APD sergeant had conducted with a woman named Stacy Fowler. Along with what Kerney had learned from Helen Pearson and Molina's late-night briefing, it suggested that something more than a small team of detectives would be required to conduct the investigation from this point on. It would take a task force to get the job done right.

He told Helen Muiz to push the meeting back by two hours, and started making phone calls. Once he explained his agenda, it didn't take much cajoling to get everyone on his list he could reach to agree to attend the meeting.

Kerney failed in his attempt to reach Paul Hewitt and secure his participation on the task force. He considered calling Clayton and dismissed the idea. As sheriff, only Hewitt had the authority to commit his department to Kerney's plan. Most likely, Paul would agree to come onboard, so Kerney decided to proceed under that assumption and talk to him after the meeting.

A little after two, he walked into the packed conference room, where the original team had been bolstered by his second-in-command, Larry Otero, two of Molina's detectives, the district attorney, the resident FBI agent, the APD deputy chief of police, a lawyer from the U.S. Attorney's office, an agent for the Internal Revenue Service, a supervising DEA special agent, and the commander of the state police criminal investigation bureau.

With Helen Muiz at his side taking notes, he got the meeting rolling with quick introductions, and then asked Molina, Pino, and Vialpando to make brief presentations highlighting their investigative findings to date. He wound up the overview with his own report, got a buy-in from everyone present to participate on the task force, and opened it up for discussion.

The IRS agent would coordinate a team to look at the partners' personal and corporate tax records. DEA would handle the drug-trafficking end of it in all known cities where the partners operated. The FBI would do the same on the out-of-state prostitution rackets, and seek wiretap warrants on all partner communications including Internet E-mail. State police agents would dig into money laundering. Their first targets would be State Senator Gene Barrett's CPA firm and Representative Leo Silva's law practice.

Additionally, agents from the state police district headquarters in Alamogordo and Roswell would be pulled into Lincoln County to target Tyler Norvell. APD vice, with Detective Pino as lead investigator, would go after Bedlow, Tully, and Deacon. The FBI would use El Paso special agents to nail down Rojas.

The DA agreed to supply a prosecutor full-time to work with detectives on the arrest and search warrant affidavits. He'd coordinate the effort with the U.S. attorney and other state DAs to get necessary judicial sign-offs. SFPD would be the lead agency, with Deputy Chief Larry Otero in charge. Molina and his two detectives would run the task-force casebooks and assemble and coordinate all documentation.

"Stay focused, people," Kerney said. "We're going for racketeering, drug trafficking, tax evasion, prostitution, money laundering, and related federal charges right now."

"What about the Montoya homicide?" Sal Molina asked, "and that murder Greer talked about in Ruidoso?"

"At present, Montoya is our weakest case," the DA said. "I doubt you could convince a judge to approve an arrest warrant based on what you have, although it's close."

"Agreed," Kerney said. "We need something that will connect Norvell to the crime scene where Montoya's body was found."

"That would do it for probable cause," the DA said.

"I'll handle the Montoya homicide follow-up," Kerney said. "I'm going down to Lincoln County tonight. I'll ask the sheriff and his investigator to join the task force and find out where they are with the Ulibarri homicide investigation."

Kerney closed his file and gave it to Helen. "Mrs. Muiz and her staff will prepare comprehensive task-force packets on everything we've got so far and distribute them to you ASAP. We have to move fast but carefully, ladies and gentlemen. Let's set a target date of one month from now to make our initial arrests. After that, we'll continue to file charges as the facts roll in. IRS and the state police will probably need more time to nail down the tax-evasion and money-laundering parts of it."

Kerney pushed back his chair and stood. "Everybody stay tight-lipped, and maintain a low profile. We don't want to telegraph our intentions to our targets. Do whatever is necessary within the scope of your authority to keep them off guard. From now on, need-to-know communication is limited to task-force members only and their immediate superiors. If any word about the task force leaks out we'll be facing a media circus and an army of defense attorneys. Good hunting, everyone."

There were smiles and approving nods throughout the room. Everyone was pumped and ready to go, and not just because some dirty politicians were going to be brought down. If all went well, the task force would be a career-making opportunity for every law-enforcement official in the room.

Ramona Pino walked with a frowning Jeff Vialpando to his unit parked outside the SFPD headquarters.

"I didn't want to bring it up during the meeting," he said, "but we've got a slight problem."

"Yeah, I know," Ramona said. "We can't keep Stacy Fowler under wraps for thirty days without raising suspicions."

"So, what do we do about it?"

"Improvise," Ramona replied as she watched the state police criminal investigation commander drive away. "Would a faked one-car traffic fatality work? Perhaps a rollover investigated by the state police?"

"Would your chief go for that?" Jeff asked.

Ramona laughed. "Didn't you hear what he said about keeping the targets off guard? I think he'd be pissed if we didn't do it."

"Let's set it up," Vialpando said.

"Then I'll buy you an early dinner."

"Are you taking me on a date?" Jeff asked.

"That will have to wait until we're no longer working together, Sergeant," Ramona said, flashing a brilliant smile. "After all, I am the designated lead investigator now, which makes you my subordinate."

Vialpando groaned. "Are you telling me I have to wait months before I can date you?"

Ramona patted Jeff's arm. "You'll just have to suffer through it."

Paul Hewitt rolled a pencil on his desktop and thought hard before speaking. The last two hours had been spent listening to Clayton's verbal report and reading through all his extensive documentation.

"I'm not saying your assumptions about Norvell are flawed, Deputy Istee. But proving them is a whole different matter. For now, Luis Rojas is the prime suspect. If that leads us to some clear-cut evidence of Senator Norvell's involvement in this prostitution ring, then we can take action."

Clayton looked miffed.

"Speak your mind," Hewitt said.

"Are you talking to me as the sheriff, or as a politician?" Clayton asked.

"You really need to learn to be a bit more diplomatic, Deputy," Hewitt said firmly. "Norvell and I sit on opposite sides of the political fence. Even if that weren't the case, I wouldn't give a shit. First and foremost, I'm a cop. If he's dirty, then he's dirty."

Clayton dropped his gaze. "Sorry about that. I don't do very well at being subtle."

"No, you don't. Now, we're going to have to contain this investigation and keep it focused on the Ulibarri homicide. Since Staggs hasn't surfaced, your best bet is that Deborah Shea woman. Since she's a whore, she shouldn't be all that hard to find. She lied to alibi Rojas, so you need to pull her in and break her down."

Clayton nodded. "What about the prostitution ring?"

"That's way outside the scope of what we can handle on our own," Hewitt replied. "Besides, what's happening in El Paso is outside of our jurisdiction. When the time comes, we'll turn your findings over to the appropriate Texas state authorities, not the El Paso police."

The phone rang. Hewitt picked up, listened, and told his secretary to put the call through.

"How are you, Chief?" he said as he smiled and sat back in his chair.

Chief who? Clayton wondered, watching Hewitt's smile gradually fade. Hewitt reached for a pencil and started busily scribbling notes, his eyes signaling surprise as he listened.

Although the call didn't last long, time dragged as Clayton waited.

Finally, Hewitt dropped his pencil and said, "We'll see you first thing in the morning."

He hung up and looked at Clayton. "Seems we don't have to worry about limiting our scope. The Santa Fe police investigation into the Montoya homicide has led to the creation of a multiagency task force, and we're in on it. The targets are Rojas, Norvell, his sister, two Albuquerque state legislators, and a member of the Tully family. They're looking at a whole range of possible state and federal felony charges. Chief Kerney wants everything we have on Rojas, Norvell, and the Ulibarri homicide faxed to his deputy chief right away. Plus he wants your assistance on the Montoya case. He'll brief us here tomorrow at seven a.m."

Clayton looked at the thick file in his lap. "I better get started."

Fidel was restless and irritable. Except for a couple of quick trips to buy some food and take a leak, he'd been sitting outside the sheriff's office all afternoon, still waiting for the Indian cop to come out of the building.

He called Rojas with the news that nothing was happening, hoping he'd get to go home. Instead, Rojas wanted him to stick with the cop for one more day, which was a total downer.

Around dusk the cop got into his unit and drove away. Fidel followed at a distance. It was easy to keep the four-by-four police car in view with its high profile and rack of roof lights without trailing too close behind.

The cop turned off at the reservation village just as darkness fell. Fidel decided it was too risky to follow. He parked and waited across the road near a Catholic church for a couple of hours, in case the cop reappeared. He played some music and counted passing cars to keep his mind occupied.

When the cop didn't show, Fidel decided to bail and head to his motel room. He'd be back at first light. Small-town cop work sure must be boring, he thought as he sped down the highway.