“Very well,” Juan said. “Follow me.”
Escorted into the spacious living room and left alone, Kerney sat in front of the Diego Rivera portrait of a beautiful Mexican woman that had captured his admiration during his first meeting with Posada, when he’d been tracking down Eppi Gutierrez’s smuggling contacts. Hung above the fireplace, it was a remarkable painting, filled with an odd mixture of passion and piety, and Kerney was delighted to see it again.
Glass walls on either side of the fireplace climbed to a vaulted ceiling, bringing the outdoors virtually inside. The yard had as a centerpiece a large swimming pool and cabana ringed with palm trees and potted tropical plants. In the living room were three separate seating areas of matching, richly upholstered chairs and couches that blended nicely with the off-white carpet and walls.
Guided by Juan, Francisco Posada entered from the adjoining library. Kerney stood up. The old man shuffled slowly to him. The arthritis that so grotesquely crippled his hands had obviously worsened. Deep circles beneath his small eyes stopped at his cheekbones. The loose skin around his neck looked almost detached. Pain was etched in his expression.
“Please sit,” Posada said, in his elegant Spanish. He joined Kerney on the couch, Juan helping to lower him down. “I did not expect to see you again, Señor Kerney.”
Juan, slight, dark, and as slender as a girl, stood at the side of his employer, eyes fixed on Posada, his expression guarded. During Kerney’s past visit, Juan had seemed much more attentive to Posada. He wondered what was up between them.
“Nor I you, Don Francisco,” Kerney replied, in Spanish.
Posada smiled. “I assume you did not come to present your apologies for deceiving me.”
On his past visit, Kerney had hoodwinked Posada into selling him valuable information that had led to a major break in shutting down a smuggling operation and solving the murder of Kerney’s godson.
“Circumstances prevented me from telling you the truth,” Kerney replied.
“I am not interested in that. I am interested in the money you owe me.”
As an inducement to do business with him, Kerney had agreed to pay Posada a percentage of the gross profits from the sale of the stolen historical artifacts.
“The percentage you were promised was based on the delivery of certain items. The delivery was never made.”
“It was never intended to be made.”
“You did not consider that possibility,” Kerney countered.
Posada laughed nastily.
“Have I amused you?”
“I do not like the notion that I was so easily duped.”
“Can we do business?”
“It depends. What is it you require?”
“I need the names of people who smuggle endangered animals to the Asian trade. Specifically for compounds used in medicines sold by folk healers and herbalists.”
“Is this a police matter?”
“Yes.”
“Does your investigation extend into Mexico?”
“No.”
“Can you pay my fee?” Posada asked.
Posada charged a minimum of five thousand dollars for information. “Not all of it up front,” Kerney admitted. “But I’m willing to trade. I’ll give you a thousand dollars cash and provide advance warning when we plan to shut down the pipeline. If you move quickly, you should be able to corner the market and turn a tidy profit from the last shipments that cross the border.”
Posada’s eyes narrowed. “You know my fee is not negotiable. I see no reason to put my trust in you, given your past performance. It gives me great pleasure to refuse you, Señor Kerney. Please do not come back here again. Juan, would you show Señor Kerney out?”
Kerney got to his feet and bowed in Posada’s direction. “Goodbye, señor,” he said gravely. “I am sorry we were unable to do business.”
“Old enmities die hard,” Posada replied flatly.
Juan walked Kerney through the grand vestibule to the front door. “Señor Posada will not live much longer,” he said.
“What will happen to you when he dies?”
“I hope to continue in the trade,” Juan answered. “But the señor has severely cut back on his workload, and does not seem inclined to turn over the business to me. He has a niece who will inherit.”
“I would welcome the opportunity to do business with you,” Kerney proposed.
Juan made an empty gesture with his hands. “A thousand-dollar fee does not suffice, Mr. Kerney. Unlike the señor, I do not have the resources to act on the information you proposed as a trade.”
“The expenses of starting out can be considerable,” Kerney noted. “Is there something else that might satisfy you?”
“I would welcome the opportunity to have a permanent American visa. I would like to offer my services in the North American market without fear of legal entanglements.”
“I believe that can be arranged. I know a customs agent who could be very helpful.” Kerney held out the thousand dollars. The money disappeared into Juan’s shirt pocket.
“Call me in two hours,” Juan said, giving Kerney a phone number. “Señor Posada will be resting. We can exchange information then.”
Kerney’s contact in the El Paso U.S. Customs office was very interested in Juan as a potential long-term informant. After advising Juan on how to get in touch with the agent, Kerney wrote down Juan’s information and hung up. He had a short list of three smugglers: two in El Paso and one in Deming, New Mexico, a small city thirty miles from the Mexican border. According to Juan, the market was highly specialized and controlled by only a few people operating in the States.
THE MOTELS IN SILVER CITY, mostly mom-and-pop businesses mixed in with a few budget franchise operations, were concentrated along the state highway that ran north from Deming. Cornelia Marquez was registered at a motel on the main drag fairly close to downtown. The establishment boasted a restaurant that looked out on the highway and featured a daily radio talk show aired by a local station.
Kerney stopped in for a light meal. His stomach was grumpy—the norm rather than the exception with half of his gut shot away—and he had to eat judiciously in order to keep it functioning properly.
The talk-show host, at a table with a microphone and two telephones, sat by the large plate-glass window taking calls about a small group of environmentalists who had used the courts to stop timber sales in the Gila. Loudspeakers let the customers listen in on the conversations. One caller phoned in to say that the members of the group had better stay the hell out of Catron County, since they were nothing but a gang of radicals who didn’t know a damn thing about the west or its people. The customers, mostly working men in for a coffee break, applauded in agreement.
Kerney finished his meal as the subject of repealing the Endangered Species Act was introduced by the host. The first caller to respond wondered why the government thought spotted owls were more valuable than people. It kicked off a diatribe against Washington politicians.
Cornelia Marquez opened the motel-room door immediately after Kerney knocked. A matron in her fifties, of average height with a thickening body, she wore a plain tan dress and a pair of sensible flats. Her eyes were puffy and red and her mouth was drawn in a tight, sad line.
Kerney identified himself and showed the lady his badge.
“Nurse Perez said that you found my father,” Cornelia said, sniffling. She stepped aside to let Kerney enter. “I am most grateful.”
“It was nothing,” Kerney replied. Something about her made him take a formal tone. “Would you rather I came to see you some other time?”
“No.” Cornelia’s smile was thin-lipped. “I would welcome some distraction. My husband cannot join me until this evening. He was in Argentina on business and is flying in from Buenos Aires.”
She sat at the small table in front of the window and asked Kerney to join her. The room was a standard motel box with a queen-size bed, television, and dresser. A mirror and several silk-screen prints of
desert flowers were securely fastened to the walls.
“Have you found who killed my son?” she asked.
“Not yet. If I knew why your son and father came here it might be helpful.”
“How would that be helpful? The state police investigator who spoke to me at the hospital said that Hector was shot by a stranger. A poacher.”
“That is probably true,” Kerney allowed. “But other possibilities cannot be ignored. Yesterday, I spoke to an older gentleman who said that he might have known your father many years ago. His name is Edgar Cox.”
“The name is not familiar to me.”
“Is there some reason for him to believe he knows your father?”
“It’s possible. My father was born here. In the Mangas Valley. His ancestors settled the area. But he has lived in Mexico most of his life. Ever since he was a young man in medical school.”
“Dr. Padilla seemed to have had a specific destination in mind. Do you have any idea why he went to Elderman Meadows?”
“I never heard of Elderman Meadows until today.”
“How about a place called Mexican Hat?”
Cornelia frowned. “I have heard him speak of such a place.”
“In what context?” Kerney asked.
She toyed with the band of her diamond wedding ring and wet her lips before answering. “My father has an obsession. He believes his father was murdered at Mexican Hat.”
“What gave him that idea?” Kerney inquired.
“When my aunt died last year, he was the executor of her estate. She had many of the old family papers. Among them he found official letters from the American government to his father questioning the legal title to the land.”
“What suspicions did those letters raise?”
“I’m not sure. He was very secretive about it.”
“Why?”
“Because it opened an old wound between my parents. Long before I was born, my grandfather died and my parents traveled to New Mexico to attend the funeral. An argument developed between them. My father wished to drop out of medical school and remain in Mangas. Mother threatened to leave him if he did. They were newly married. She was also a medical student, and they had planned to go into practice together. But she hated New Mexico. It was not her world. It was too isolated and unsophisticated. She was a city girl. She made my father promise never to take her there again.”
“And he kept his word?”
“Yes. Until the day my mother died, three months ago. There was really nothing for him to go back to. His brothers and sisters had scattered. The ranch was lost. The village abandoned.”
“Did she share his theory that Don Luis was murdered?”
“I don’t think she cared, one way or the other.”
“So he returned with your son to uncover a murderer,” Kerney proposed.
“Real or imagined,” Cornelia agreed testily, her voice rising. “My father is gravely ill. Possibly he will never get better. And do you know how I feel, Señor Kerney? Right now, I am angry with him. To the depths of my soul, I am angry. My son is dead because of an old man’s obsession with the past. It is senseless.”
“I am truly sorry for your loss, señora,” Kerney said.
Cornelia Marquez did not hear him. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed.
Kerney stayed with her until she stopped crying. When he left he took with him Señora Marquez’s written permission to visit José Padilla in the hospital.
THE HOUSE Jim Stiles lived in, a hundred-year-old adobe with a high-pitched tin roof and buttresses at the corners to hold the adobe walls in place, sat in the valley exactly halfway between Reserve and the old Spanish settlement known as Lower San Francisco Plaza.
With his feet propped on a chair, Jim lounged at the kitchen table with the back door open, reading the documents found in Padilla’s travel trailer. Omar Gatewood had given him permission to sign out the evidence and take it home.
The day had turned hot, but the thick walls kept the house cool. A slight breeze pulsed through the doorway, bringing with it the sound of the river gurgling over the rocky streambed two hundred yards away.
Stiles finished a document and turned it upside down on the stack he’d already read. The papers and letters were all written in Spanish, and while Stiles spoke the language pretty well, he was much less proficient at translating the written word. What he could make out was damn interesting stuff, although it didn’t seem to have a bit of relevance to the murder of Hector Padilla.
Among the papers were the last will and testament of Don Luis Padilla and a plat of the village of Mangas that had been filed with the territorial government over a hundred years ago. There were a lot of personal letters to Don Luis from important New Mexicans of the day. Solomon Luna and Thomas B. Catron, two political heavyweights during the first years of statehood, had written to Don Luis about investing in something called the American Valley Company, whatever the hell that was.
Until Stiles could find someone to do an adequate translation of the material, all he’d be able to tell Kerney was that José and Hector Padilla were descendants of the same clan that had settled the Mangas Valley, and that the government had challenged Padilla’s title to his landholdings back in the early thirties.
The phone rang just as Stiles started in on another letter. He grabbed the receiver from the wall-mounted telephone, hoping it was Kerney.
“Hombre,” Amador Ortiz said. “I hear you’ve changed jobs.”
“What are you talking about, Amador?”
“The Silver City newspaper, Jimmy. It says you and Kerney are working for the sheriff and the district attorney.”
“Shit! That story was supposed to be killed.”
Amador chuckled. “You know you can’t keep a secret around here. So is it true?”
“It’s a temporary thing. I’m still with Game and Fish. What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking about Kerney wanting to know if I saw anything suspicious around Mangas Mountain.”
“What have you got?” Stiles tried to hold back the excitement from his voice.
“Maybe nothing. You know that old mine at the upper end of Padilla Canyon, north of the lookout tower? Last week I was with my crew barricading the road to the mine to keep hikers out of the canyon. I saw some tire tracks.”
“What kind of tire tracks?”
“Looked like an ATV to me. This morning I got to thinking you can get to the meadows from the upper canyon, pretty easy. At least you could before we blocked the road. A game trail runs from the mine to the meadows. Elk use it a lot. I thought maybe you’d want to pass that on to Kerney.”
“Hell yes. Thanks, mano,” Stiles said.
“De nada, primo. You owe me a beer at Cattleman’s if you find something.”
“You got it,” Stiles responded.
He hung up the phone, went quickly into a small second bedroom that served as his study, and pawed through the quadrangle maps on the desk. If he remembered correctly, it was maybe a two-hour hike from the mouth of Padilla Canyon to the mine.
Stiles found the map and studied the contours. It was a no-sweat walk in the woods. With the map in his back pocket, he returned to the kitchen, gathered up Padilla’s papers, and stuffed them into a manila envelope. He whistled to himself as he left the house and fired up the truck. He switched the radio frequency to the sheriff’s department, and called in to report he was operational.
When the dispatcher responded, he gave his destination and ETA, and left a message for Kerney to meet him at Padilla Canyon. He thought about waiting for Kerney or asking for backup, and dismissed the idea. It would only slow him down. Besides, if Amador was right, he might have the first break in the case. That would make Kerney sit up and take notice.
Damn! Nobody had thought to look north of the meadows in Padilla Canyon. The search had been concentrated south into the foothills and valley. He’d buy Amador a case of beer if the tip panned out.
Stiles reached down and hit the switc
h to the emergency lights. He’d run with lights flashing all the way to the mouth of Padilla Canyon. It would save him a good thirty minutes.
UNEXPECTEDLY SUMMONED to a meeting, Carol Cassidy sat in the small conference room at the Glenwood District Office with the forest supervisor from Silver City, the regional forester from Albuquerque, and Charlie Perry. Samuel Ellsworth Aldrich, the acting regional forester, a heavy-boned man with a double chin and thick lips, presided over the meeting. He had his suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, and tie loosened. He was smiling pleasantly at Carol.
Charlie and the regional forester were across the table. Perry whispered something to Aldrich, who nodded automatically back at Charlie. Jack Wyman, the forest supervisor and Carol’s boss, a contemporary she had worked with for a number of years, avoided looking at her. It was not going to be a cordial meeting.
Aldrich concluded his opening remarks, which consisted of bitching about being unable to get out into the field as often as he would like. He spread his hands palms down on the table and gave Carol a patronizing smile.
“Thanks for coming down on such short notice, Carol,” he said, nodding in Wyman’s direction. “Jack and I have some concerns we’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’d like to hear them, Sam,” Carol replied, wondering what in the hell was brewing. Her annual operational review by the regional office was months away. There had to be a special reason Aldrich wanted to see her.
“I got a telephone call this morning from an Associated Press reporter,” Aldrich went on. “She wanted to know if the Catron County sheriff and the ADA had usurped the state police investigation in the Elderman Meadows murder case. I told her I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. So she faxed me a copy of an article from the Silver City newspaper. She told me Gatewood gave the story to the newspaper. Have you seen it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it accurate?”
“It is. Sheriff Gatewood called me after the fact to tell me about the appointments. I had no prior knowledge.”
“I’ll accept that.” Aldrich stopped to clear his throat.
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