The big gamble

Chapter 5

The attorney Harry Staggs had called was Warren Tredwell, a former prosecutor who advertised his services on a billboard along the busiest highway into Ruidoso. The sign promised to secure justice for all who called his toll-free number. A tall man with the frame of a long-distance runner, Tredwell had a bushy mustache and dark, intense eyes. His suspicious glare and pursed lips didn't match up at all with the affable smile that greeted motorists passing by the billboard.

Clayton uncuffed Staggs and waited outside with Paul Hewitt while Tredwell consulted privately with his client. The Ruidoso SWAT team was long gone, and Artie Gundersen's crime scene techs were gathering evidence in Ulibarri's cabin. After a heated exchange between Hewitt and the Ruidoso police chief, the city detectives who'd arrived on the scene had been sent packing. Quinones and Dillingham were busy interviewing the two remaining Cozy Cabins guests, who'd returned to find a full-bore homicide investigation underway.

After a long wait Tredwell stepped outside shaking his head, looking somewhat amused. "Listen," he said, giving Hewitt a hearty pat on the back, "forget about this bullshit arrest and my client will talk to you."

"I can't do that," Clayton said, before Hewitt could respond. "The law clearly states that a suspect can't be unarrested."

"It's your call, Sheriff," Tredwell said, ignoring Clayton and smiling at Hewitt. "But no judge will let it stand. Mr. Staggs was in his own home and your deputy had no exigent circumstances to make the arrest."

"There's plain-view evidence that Staggs was running an illegal gambling operation," Clayton replied.

Tredwell shook his head. "My client explained to you that he often has friends over for a companionable game of poker. There's nothing illegal in that. Having playing cards and poker chips for recreational purposes is hardly probable cause to make an arrest."

"What's the bottom line here, Tredwell?" Paul Hewitt asked.

"Mr. Staggs feels his reputation has been damaged and his civil rights have been violated," Tredwell said, spreading his arms out in supplication to an invisible jury. "Look at what happened: Mr. Staggs, a good citizen, agrees to cooperate with the police and gets arrested for his trouble. All because Deputy Istee jumped to an erroneous conclusion."

"Hardly," Clayton said.

"Will he tell us what he knows, if we agree to drop the matter?" Hewitt asked.

"Yes, with the proviso that you don't pursue any illegal gambling charges against him."

"What else is he willing to do?"

"Mr. Staggs feels it is time for him to move on. You've damaged his reputation among his friends. He no longer feels comfortable living here."

"When?" Clayton asked.

"As soon as possible," Tredwell replied.

"With no more friendly card games until he goes?" Hewitt asked.

Tredwell nodded.

"So how do we unarrest him?"

"At the time Deputy Istee detained my client, he had what appeared to be a potentially dangerous situation involving a murder suspect. Mr. Staggs is quite willing to think that your deputy restrained him solely to keep him from harm's way."

"Yeah, that's why I cuffed him and read him his rights," Clayton snapped.

Tredwell shook his head sadly. "You made a false arrest, Deputy. I've advised my client that he has a strong civil rights case, should he choose to pursue it. We can either meet at some later date in court, or act today in a cooperative spirit."

Tredwell gave Hewitt his best billboard smile. "Lincoln County would have to pony up out of the public coffers if we won the suit, which I believe we would. I doubt voters would like seeing their taxes going to pay Mr. Staggs for Deputy Istee's mistake."

"Deputy Istee was only protecting Mr. Staggs from a dangerous situation," Paul Hewitt said without hesitation.

"Very good," Tredwell said, turning away. "I'll let my client know we've reached an understanding."

Clayton stared silently at Tredwell's back until he disappeared inside. Never in his years as a cop had he been accused of making a false arrest. "I screwed up, big time," he said, unwilling to look Hewitt in the eye.

Tredwell appeared in the doorway and beckoned them to come in.

"You aren't the first cop to make a bad arrest," Hewitt said as he started toward the porch. "Don't let it eat at you."

"Do you think Tredwell could win a civil rights suit?" Clayton asked as he caught up with Hewitt.

"Oh, yeah."

Cassie Bedlow lived in a fashionable foothills neighborhood near a popular national forest picnic grounds at the bottom of the west slope of the Sandia Mountains. The large house was sited to give views of the West Mesa, where Albuquerque's sprawl petered out and five extinct volcanos rose up from the high desert plateau.

There was no answer at the front door, so Kerney talked to some neighbors and learned that Cassie Bedlow lived alone, kept to herself, had no children, and owned the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency. He called the business and got a telephone answering service. The operator gave him the agency's street address and noted that Ms. Bedlow was not expected back in her office until morning.

The agency, located on a side street near the university, was closed when Kerney got there. A sign on the glass door announced that a new modeling class would be starting in two weeks. At the contemporary art gallery next door, a one-man show was in progress. The artist specialized in paintings reminiscent of Marc Chagall. But unlike Chagall, who often portrayed men, women, and angels floating above villages and landscapes, the artist on display went in for flying automobiles, dishwashers, and other major appliances, all with gossamer wings.

Kerney spoke to the owner, a thirty-something male with dyed blond hair. The man told him Cassie had taken her current crop of budding fashion models out of town to do a show and a location fashion shoot, but he didn't know where.

"How many models went with her?" Kerney asked.

"Eight or ten," the man replied. "That's usually the number of students she enrolls in each class."

"Men and women?"

"Oh, yes," the man answered. "But most of them are girls."

"Does she have any employees?"

"Not really. There's a freelance photographer she uses for portfolio and location work. Other than that, she runs the business by herself."

"Is she successful in getting her models professional work?" Kerney asked, his eye wandering to a large canvas that showed a flying television set with rabbit ears hovering above the Golden Gate Bridge.

"I'd say she's very successful. A lot of the local ad agencies use her students, she has all the major department store contracts for fashion events, and she's in demand as a casting agent for extras and walk-ons when film companies come to town."

"Sounds like a thriving enterprise."

"Yes, I'd say so." The man walked to the picture of the floating TV. "You seemed drawn to 'Ascending the Airways to Heaven.' If you look closely at the distorted picture on the television screen, you can see a weeping Jesus. Miligori's paintings are allegorical statements of the religious fervor of crass consumer consumption in contemporary Western society."

"I can see that," Kerney said.

"Aren't they marvelous?"

"Remarkable," Kerney said, playing it safe. The comment won him an agreeing smile.

Kerney left after allowing the art dealer to give him a brochure on the Miligori exhibit. Outside on the sidewalk, he used his cell phone to call the APD vice unit. The supervisor told Kerney the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency wasn't a vice unit target.

"Have any complaints been filed against Bedlow or have any arrests for solicitation been made that involve the agency?" Kerney asked.

"Nary a one," the officer responded laconically. "But it's always good to get a heads up on any new escort services. They come and they go. Are you suspicious of something, Chief?"

"Not yet," Kerney replied.

"Have you got hookers' names or aliases I can run through my data bank?"

Nary a one ran through Kerney's mind. Instead he said, "No."

"Well, Bedlow looks clean from our end, but you never know. Now if it was Honey Pot Escorts you were asking about, that would be a different story."

"Sounds like a classy outfit," Kerney said.

"HIV city, Chief. We call it the get-laid-and-die hooker service. Dial one-eight-hundred dead sex."

Harry Staggs sat on the daybed with a smug look on his face. He glanced at Clayton, gestured at Tredwell, and then addressed Paul Hewitt. "My lawyer says you and Tonto agreed to my terms."

Clayton stiffened in anger. Hewitt stepped in front of the deputy. "There's no need to be disrespectful," he said.

"It's just a word," Staggs said offhandedly, sucking in cigarette smoke. "I don't mean nothing by it. We've got a deal?"

"If you cooperate," Hewitt replied.

"You're just investigating a murder here," Staggs replied, stubbing out the cigarette. "Nothing else, right?"

"That's the deal," Clayton said. He took a tape recorder out of his briefcase, placed it on a poker table, and told Staggs where to sit.

Hewitt and Tredwell joined them at the table. Clayton punched the record button and said, "When I ask you a question, answer it verbally."

"Okay," Staggs said.

Clayton noted the reason for the interview, the persons present, and the time, date, and place. He gave Staggs his full attention, hoping Tredwell and the sheriff wouldn't interrupt him too much.

"Did Ulibarri play poker here last night?" he asked, studying Staggs's face, which remained expressionless.

Staggs caught himself nodding. "Yes."

"Did he win or lose?"

"He came in the game with ten thousand, the house minimum, and cashed out at twenty-five thousand. I counted the chips myself."

Staggs maintained his bland air. Clayton figured he had his poker face on, which made sense given his occupation. "What time did he leave the game?"

"It broke up at five in the morning. That's when everybody left."

"How many players?" Clayton asked.

"Six, including me," Staggs replied. "Ulibarri and the other two guys that were staying here went back to their cabins. Everybody else took off."

"Did you see them leave?"

"Yeah, I stood on the porch and waved bye-bye."

"Don't be a wiseass," Clayton said. "Did you see them leave?"

"No."

"Give me names."

Staggs named the players staying at the cabins.

"What about the other two guys?"

"They both flew in for the game. Ned Halloran came in from Phoenix and Luis Rojas from El Paso. Both have private planes."

"Where are they staying?" Clayton asked.

"I didn't ask, but they probably didn't hang around town."

"You got phone numbers for them?"

"Yeah." Staggs got up, found an address book in a lamp-table drawer, read off numbers, and stuffed the address book in a back pocket.

"How well do you know the players who were here last night?" Clayton said, pointing to the chair Staggs had vacated.

Staggs sat back down. "Everybody except Ulibarri are regulars. They been coming since I opened five years ago."

"Do they always play together?"

Staggs laughed. "It don't work that way. Players are in the game for the stakes, not friendship. Only the game matters."

"Have you had any problems with any of them in the past?"

Staggs snorted. "Never. You cause trouble here, you don't come back. End of story."

"So, no problems?"

"Nope."

"Who lost big?" Clayton asked.

"Luis Rojas. He dropped forty grand."

"Was Ulibarri the big winner?"

"Nope, Ned Halloran was."

"How did you do?"

Staggs reached for a cigarette and lit it. "With my house percentage, I made a few bucks." He shot Tredwell a look.

"That's a good enough answer," Tredwell said.

"Did Ulibarri ever play here before?"

"No."

"You let strangers-people you don't know-sit in on illegal, high-stakes games?" Hewitt asked.

Staggs gave Hewitt a baleful glance. "He found his way here and had the cash. That's all it takes to get into a game."

"He didn't find his way here by himself," Clayton said. "You told me earlier a man and woman dropped him off."

"Same thing," Staggs said, tugging an earlobe.

It was the first sign of nervousness, Clayton noted.

"I also told you that I didn't recognize them," Staggs added.

"Isn't that risky business?" Clayton asked. "Ulibarri shows up with no references, dropped off by strangers. What if he had been a cop?"

Staggs snorted at the idea. "No way. The local cops have never been a problem. They got their heads up their asses."

Hewitt leaned forward and scratched his forehead. "I don't get it, Staggs. Three complete strangers show up and that's okay with you?"

Staggs rubbed his nose, which suggested a lie was coming. "It's not that hard to find out where the action is. People talk to people, especially about where the good games are. That's how a reputation gets built."

"Simple as that?" Clayton said.

Staggs crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Sometimes."

Clayton read the body language and knew Staggs was still lying. He pushed the issue. "Ulibarri just shows up, brought by strangers."

Staggs pulled at his earlobe again. "I already said that."

"An unknown man and woman?"

Staggs shifted sideways in his chair. "How many times do I have to answer that question?"

"Until you stop bullshitting us," Clayton said. He glanced at Paul Hewitt, who hit the stop button on the tape recorder.

"How much cash do you have in the house?" Hewitt asked.

"You don't have to answer that," Tredwell said, quickly facing Hewitt. "What's the relevance of the question?"

"We didn't find any money in Ulibarri's cabin," Hewitt said. "People get killed for a lot less than twenty-five thousand, so robbery may be the motive."

"We have a deal to treat my client as a cooperating witness," Tredwell said.

"That deal is about illegal gambling, not murder," Hewitt replied, smiling at Staggs. "I bet the crime scene techs have just lifted your client's fingerprints from Ulibarri's cabin."

"He owns the place," Tredwell said. "You'll find his prints everywhere."

"That's probably true, but the district attorney and a judge might be convinced those fingerprints place him at the scene of a homicide. What if the court issued a search warrant? I wonder what we'd find." Hewitt shook his head sadly at Staggs. "Maybe a lot of cash, maybe twenty-five thousand or more."

"You're way off base, Sheriff," Tredwell said.

"Staggs only gets a free ride for operating an illegal gambling parlor."

"What do you want?" Tredwell asked with tight lips.

"Real cooperation," Hewitt replied. "The names of the man and woman who brought Ulibarri to the game will do for starters."

"Give us a few minutes." Tredwell rose and took Staggs into the bedroom.

Hewitt caught the unspoken question in Clayton's eyes and grinned. "Never let a lawyer bully you without a payback," he whispered, "even when they're in the right."

The door opened and Tredwell came out first, followed by a sulky-looking Staggs.

Clayton waited for the men to sit at the table before turning on the tape recorder. "Who were the man and the woman with Ulibarri?" he asked.

"The guy's name is Johnny Jackson," Staggs replied. "He runs an escort service. High-class talent only. Very expensive. The woman was probably a hooker."

"What else do you know about him?" Clayton asked.

"That's about it," Staggs said, shifting his eyes away from Clayton.

"He's local?" Clayton asked.

"That, I don't know. I hear he's got a private plane and flies his talent all over the Southwest."

"How do you contact him?"

"I don't."

"Why did he bring Ulibarri to your game?"

"I didn't ask."

"How long have you known Jackson?"

"I just know who he is, that's all."

"You've never met him?"

"I've seen him around, but we've never talked."

"What else have you heard about him?"

"He's got some fancy place in the area where very special clients can hook up with his girls."

"Does Jackson supply women for your gambling buddies?" Hewitt asked.

Tredwell jumped in before Staggs could reply. "My client is not a party to Mr. Jackson's alleged criminal activities."

"People come here for the game, not pussy," Staggs replied.

"Is that a no?" Clayton asked.

"Yeah, that's a no."

"Describe Jackson," Clayton said.

Staggs fidgeted, but didn't answer.

Clayton rephrased. "What does he look like?"

Staggs gulped air before responding. "He's a small guy, thin. Maybe five six or seven. Curly black hair he keeps cut short. Nice dresser. Always smiling. Dark eyes. I don't remember what color. Women think he's good-looking."

"Any distinguishing features?"

Staggs thought for a minute and pointed to his right cheek. "He's got a small mole here."

"You pointed to your right cheek," Clayton said.

"Yeah, a mole on his right cheek."

"How old?"

"Forty, maybe, would be my guess. He looks younger."

"And the car he was driving?"

"It's a Lincoln, dark blue, four-door."

"Have you seen him driving anything else?" Clayton asked.

Staggs fumbled a cigarette pack out of a shirt pocket and lit another cancer stick. "He always drives a Lincoln, as far as I know." He blew a cloud of smoke straight at Clayton. "I've seen him around town in it."

Clayton pulled his head back, coughed, and waved the smoke away.

Through the front window Hewitt saw Sergeant Quinones waiting impatiently on the porch. "A few more questions and then we'll take a break," he said while Clayton kept coughing. "Where have you run into Jackson?"

"I've seen him at the casino and the racetrack."

"If you don't know him and have had no dealings with him, why were you protecting him?"

"I didn't want any trouble."

Hewitt wondered whether Staggs was talking about trouble from cops, or trouble from Johnny Jackson. "Have you ever been to this private place where Jackson's girls entertain special clients?"

"Nope, that's way out of my class."

"What do you know about it?" Hewitt asked.

"Just that it's like a swanky mountain resort or lodge somewhere in the area. Very secluded. Look, Ulibarri's winnings would be like chump change to Jackson. He'd have no reason to kill him."

"Tell me about these special clients he entertains."

"Rich guys, guys with important jobs, guys in the public eye, guys looking for a little fun away from the wife, where they won't be recognized," Staggs said with a furtive glance at the door, as if he were expecting thugs to bust in and break his legs.

"Do you know any of these rich guys?" Hewitt asked.

Staggs snorted in reply, puffed, and blew smoke through his nose. "Those kind of people don't socialize with me."

Hewitt stopped the recorder and pushed himself out of the chair. "Okay, we'll take a short break." He looked down at Staggs speculatively. "Why are you scared of Jackson?"

Staggs bit his lip. "Who says I'm scared?"

Outside, Sergeant Quinones showed Hewitt and Clayton a bagged-and-tagged plastic bottle of prescription pain killers with Humphrey's name typed on the pharmacy label. The prescription had been filled two days before Humphrey's murder.

"This was in Ulibarri's shirt pocket," Quinones said.

Clayton almost smiled. The bottle was the best possible kind of evidence: it linked killer to victim. Instead, he nodded. "Did you and Dillingham get anything from your interviews?"

"Yeah," Quinones answered. "Now we're going to check the stories out."

Kerney's ten-minute appointment with his orthopedic surgeon lasted half an hour. After examining his knee, asking a lot of questions about his exercise regime, and making Kerney hop, squat, and duck-walk, the doctor announced that the plastic that served as cartilage in the artificial joint had most likely failed, causing increased muscle pain and Kerney's pronounced limp. He gave Kerney a script to make an appointment for a Magnetic Resonance Imaging test, known as an MRI, to confirm the diagnosis, and then showed him the model of a new, FDA-approved, longer-lasting artificial knee that would give him greater flexibility.

It would mean another surgery to implant the artificial joint, and another round of postoperative physical therapy and rehabilitation. But it would mean no more pain, no more limp, and greater mobility.

The only question in Kerney's mind was when to do it, before or after the baby arrived? Before might be better, if he had any reasonable expectation of ever playing on the floor with his child.

The doctor strongly suggested that Kerney take up swimming in lieu of jogging, which would lessen damage to the plastic that served to cushion movement of the steel implant. He wasn't much of a water person. His swimming experiences consisted of hot-weather dips in stock tanks when he was a kid growing up on a ranch, and occasional teenage forays in swimming pools where he could splash around safely without publicly embarrassing himself.

On a weekend outing, Sara had coaxed him into a hotel pool and then laughed and teased him after he'd awkwardly plowed his way through two short laps. She swam fluidly, dove gracefully, floated effortlessly, and loved the water. Perhaps he should call the architect and tell him to add plans for a swimming pool in the courtyard area behind the house.

He resisted the idea. In the high deserts of New Mexico, which included Santa Fe, water was a precious commodity. As a boy growing up in the arid Tularosa Basin, he'd watched his father constantly worry about drought, and had worked by his side replacing buried pipelines, rebuilding catchment basins, and mending windmills to insure the stock stayed watered. The idea of using thousands of gallons of water a year for a swimming pool went against the grain.

Kerney switched mental gears. The doctor had told him a new knee could wear out just as quickly if he kept jogging on it, and that water exercise was a far better way to keep the leg in shape. If he could lose the limp, which he hated, then he wouldn't look and feel like one of the walking wounded.

Maybe the pool was a medical necessity, not a wasteful, unnecessary luxury. He thought it over and decided that even if it was a rationalization, it was a damn good one.

He dawdled over a light meal at one of the restaurants along a four-lane city street that led to the foothills before driving to Cassie Bedlow's house. Lights were on inside and his knock at the door was answered by a somewhat frumpy, motherly looking woman.

"Ms. Norvell?" he asked, displaying his shield.

"I'm Cassie Bedlow," she answered, looking a bit nonplused. "Is there a problem in the neighborhood?"

"No, I'd like to ask you about Anna Marie Montoya."

Bedlow's expression turned grave. "Please come in. I read that her body had been found, and that the police were calling it a murder. After all these years, how sad."

The word elegant came to mind as Kerney crossed the threshold into a small entrance hall that led to the step-down living room. Two matching easy chairs covered in ivory-colored fabric sat at opposite ends of a large copper-top coffee table. The oak floor was stained a rich brown that contrasted nicely with a neutral gray area rug. The sofa was a soft peach, positioned to give a view of a carved stone fireplace with casement windows on either side. Two expensive traveling bags were on the floor in an archway that most likely led to a bedroom suite. From all appearances, Bedlow made a very good living operating her modeling and talent agency.

She sat with Kerney and answered his questions without hesitation. She'd known Anna Marie in college, but not well, and had no idea who Montoya had dated during her senior year. She knew no one who fit the rich playboy profile Jeremiah Perrett had described as Anna Marie's love interest. Kent Osterman had been Bedlow's college boyfriend for a while, back when she was anorexic, forty pounds lighter, and didn't have to highlight her hair to cover the gray.

"Was Kent interested in Anna Marie?" Kerney asked.

Bedlow shook her head. "Kent liked his girlfriends blond, skinny, and fun-loving."

"How did Osterman locate you?" Kerney asked.

Bedlow didn't understand the question. "Excuse me?"

"He knew you before you were married, when you were still Cassie Norvell."

"Oh, that. He gets the alumni magazine. I was featured in an issue last year. A piece about women graduates who became entrepreneurs."

"I've heard your agency is very successful."

Bedlow smiled prettily. "I've been blessed in that regard, but it's been a lot of hard work."

"Are you still married?" Kerney asked.

Bedlow laughed. "Not for a very long time."

Kerney said good night, left Cassie Bedlow to her unpacking, and drove to Santa Fe thinking he'd been wise not to get optimistic about his new lead, which seemed to be fizzling out quickly. Tomorrow, he'd contact the remaining names on Osterman's list by phone and see where that took him.

The light on the answering machine blinked at him when he got home. He played back a message from Sara asking him to call and not to worry about the time, because she'd be up late studying.

He dialed her number and she answered immediately. "What's up?" he asked.

"I just wanted to hear your sexy voice," Sara replied.

"You sound sleepy."

"I am. My eyes are crossed and I can't read another page."

"What are you reading?"

"A monograph by an archaeologist who researched the battle site at the Little Bighorn. He suggests that contrary to popular belief, Custer didn't blindly go up against overwhelming odds. He made all the correct orthodox, tactical field maneuvers and still got his butt kicked. So much for thinking inside the box. Why are you home so late?"

"Just working. I saw my orthopedic surgeon today."

"And?"

He told her about the newly developed artificial knee, how it would perform, and the idea of building a swimming pool at the new house to use for exercise.

"But I'm thinking maybe a lap pool would be better," Kerney said. "It would use less water."

"No way, Kerney," Sara replied.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't teach both you and our child to swim in a lap pool, and I want something all of us can enjoy. Get that knee fixed and I'll have you ready to compete in a Senior Olympics swimming event within a year."

"You say the sweetest things."

Sara giggled. "I know it. Make sure the pool is heated, so we can use it year-round."

"I didn't think of that. When should I schedule the surgery?"

"At the latest, before your son learns to walk, so you can keep up with him. Preferably sooner."

"Son?" Kerney asked, caught completely off guard.

"That's what I said. The ultrasound confirmed it today."

Kerney sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Is that all you can say?" Sara asked.

"I'm flabbergasted. I'm grinning from ear to ear. I don't know what to say, except let's try for a daughter next time."

"One of each would be great, wouldn't it? But slow down, Kerney. Let me get through one pregnancy at a time. Besides, we might find that one child is all we can handle. Just ask the architect to revise the plans to include the swimming pool. I want to make sure that it's perfectly sited."

"I'll call him in the morning."

"Say good night."

Kerney did as told and went to bed thinking of what it would be like to raise a son, and actually get to be a father.

Finished with a review of all the evidence and information that had been gathered during the day, Clayton and Paul Hewitt lapsed into silence. Except for an on-duty dispatcher, the men were alone in the offices. It was deflating when all of the known suspects in a homicide investigation had airtight alibis, and that seemed to be the situation.

Luis Rojas and Ned Halloran, the two men who'd flown to the game in private planes, had arrived home before Ulibarri had been killed, and their whereabouts had been accounted for by no fewer than three independent sources each, including airport personnel in Phoenix and El Paso and business associates.

One of the guests at Casey's Cozy Cabins admitted to taking Ulibarri to the Ruidoso Downs Racetrack about ten in the morning and said they'd played video poker at the track casino for several hours. The second guest showed up to play the ponies just before televised off-track betting from California began. Surveillance tapes showed that both men were still at the track long after Ulibarri left to go back to his cabin to get himself murdered.

Neither man professed to know where Ulibarri had gone or what he'd planned to do after leaving the racetrack casino.

Tredwell had agreed to let his client account for his activities during the time of the murder. Staggs had taken his car in for warranty service at the dealership, where the discovery of a leaky oil pan made it necessary to keep the vehicle for several hours beyond the scheduled appointment. Staggs had waited until it became apparent that parts would have to be ordered and the car kept overnight, getting a ride home from the lot boy. The parts manager, service manager, mechanic, and the lot boy all put Staggs at the car dealership before, during, and after Ulibarri's estimated time of death.

"All we've got is a staged crime scene," Clayton finally said, looking at the photograph of Ulibarri's body with his belt undone, his pants unzipped, and his cowboy boots placed neatly together on the floor. "Telling us what?"

"Don't know," Hewitt said, rubbing an eye. "Maybe it's not a message meant for us. Maybe it's not even staged. Tomorrow, let's see what we can learn about Johnny Jackson."

Clayton nodded. "I'll also contact the FBI to see if any similarly staged homicides have been reported."

"Yeah," Hewitt said.

"Yeah," Clayton echoed, his mind blank, his body weary.

A quiet, dark house greeted Clayton upon his arrival home. In the living room he removed his weapon, ejected the magazine, and locked both in the gun cabinet where he kept his hunting rifles. He heard Grace shush him, turned around, and found her sitting in the recliner with Hannah cradled in her arms, fast asleep. She shook her head to warn him not to talk, and carried Hannah to her bedroom.

Seeing Hannah out of bed so late at night worried Clayton; she was usually a sound sleeper.

"It's just a cold and a small cough," Grace said when she returned.

Clayton nodded and sank into the recliner.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in days," Grace said, turning on a table lamp.

"The ways things are going, it probably would've been better if I had just stayed home," Clayton said.

"Problems?"

"Mistakes," Clayton replied. "Too many of them, and all mine."

He told her about Tredwell's threat to sue him for the false arrest of Harry Staggs. "Paul Hewitt even went so far as to say he thought Tredwell could probably win the suit," he added.

"Was that the extent of his comments?" Grace asked, as she sat on Clayton's lap and pulled his arm around her waist.

"Yeah."

"That doesn't sound like very harsh criticism."

"Maybe not, but I bet he has second thoughts about hiring me."

"Now you're jumping to a conclusion."

"Not only did he pull me out of the fire with Tredwell, but he showed me a thing or two about interrogating a witness. Hewitt's sharp."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Grace said, looking into his tired eyes.

Hannah started coughing before Clayton could respond. Grace got up quickly, checked on Hannah for a few minutes, and returned to find Clayton with his boots pulled off, fast asleep in the recliner.

She covered him with a blanket, turned out the light, and went to bed, fretting about her husband. He seemed so down lately, which wasn't like him at all.