Death Song

by Michael McGarrity

  Clayton, who’d been half-listening while working on an updated investigators assignment schedule, gave Matt Chacon his full attention. “What do you mean, the accounts had been emptied?” he asked.

  “Except for Tim Riley’s few failed attempts to call home, the records had been purged,” Matt reiterated, “and it was done a few hours after Denise was murdered.”

  “Purged by who?” Ramona asked.

  Matt shrugged. “The service providers claim it was a security breach and they assure me that the information didn’t get dumped accidentally or on purpose by their personnel. But I have no way to verify if they’re telling the truth. If they are leveling with me, that leaves two possibilities. Either a world-class hacker broke into their systems, which I seriously doubt, or we’re dealing with something that’s far beyond our reach.”

  “Why not a hacker?” Ramona asked. “Didn’t you initially think that a computer geek or a techie could have wiped the Rileys’ computers clean?”

  “And what exactly is it that is far beyond our reach?” Clayton demanded.

  Matt turned to Ramona. “I did say it could be a hacker, but the security specialists for the Internet provider and the cell phone companies tell me that whoever penetrated their firewalls and erased the e-mail and call records also found and scoured redundancy files that backed up the data. Furthermore, it was a surgical strike that targeted only the Rileys’ records. Not only that, all the accounts were accessed and cleansed simultaneously.”

  He glanced at Clayton. “Which gets to your question. I’m not the world’s greatest expert, but it doesn’t seem likely that one individual, even a brilliant one, could do all that so quickly after the Rileys’ deaths. If it was a lone hacker, it had to have been planned well in advance.”

  Clayton leaned back and studied Chacon. “So take a guess and tell me what you think we are dealing with here.”

  Matt twisted his toothpick between his thumb and forefinger before responding. “An organization with ultrahigh-tech computer savvy and megabucks would be my guess. That could mean any number of multinational corporations or government agencies, foreign or domestic. I know that doesn’t help much.”

  “Can we track the computer break-ins back to the source?” Ramona asked.

  “Maybe,” Matt replied, “but not without outside help and even then it could take months. The FBI is investigating.”

  “It could be years before they tell us anything,” Clayton said, shaking his head in dismay. As a former tribal police officer, he’d experienced firsthand uppity federal agents who loved keeping local cops in the dark.

  “This raises some big questions about our victims,” Ramona said. “What did Tim and Denise Riley know—or do—that got them killed?”

  “And who wants to keep it secret?” Clayton added.

  “Exactly,” Ramona said.

  Clayton pawed through the papers on the desk. “Before I left Carrizozo, I assigned a deputy to do a deep background check on Tim Riley. Has Mielke started one on Denise?”

  Ramona flipped through the assignment sheet on her clipboard. “No.”

  “What do we know about her?”

  Before Ramona could answer, Mielke stepped into the office. He gave Matt Chacon a brief nod and looked directly at Clayton and Ramona.

  “Chief Kerney and Sheriff Hewitt are with Sheriff Salgado in his conference room, and they’d like the three of us to join them,” he said.

  “Not a problem,” Clayton replied, stifling a smile as he pushed back his chair. “Has anyone interviewed Denise Riley’s employer?”

  “The insurance agent was questioned,” Mielke replied, “and was eliminated as a suspect. He’s gay and lives with his longtime partner. His parents have been visiting from Buffalo for the past week. He has an airtight alibi. You should have the report.”

  Clayton said, “I mean did anyone interview the insurance agent in depth about Denise?”

  “Not yet,” Mielke said.

  “Matt,” Ramona said, “after you log in the evidence with the S.O., go have a chat with the man about Denise.”

  Chacon nodded, picked up the box of computer evidence, stepped around Mielke, and left.

  “Did Chacon find anything useful on the computers?” Mielke asked.

  “Not on the computers,” Ramona said.

  Mielke turned his attention to Clayton. “What does that mean?”

  Clayton gave the major a broad, reassuring smile. “Detective Chacon has made some helpful discoveries. I’ll brief you after our meeting with the brass. What’s that all about?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Mielke replied as he stepped into the hallway behind Ramona. “Did you know that Sheriff Hewitt was coming up here?”

  “I haven’t talked to my boss since I left Lincoln County,” Clayton said as he followed along.

  “Uh-huh,” Mielke grunted, shooting Clayton a sour look.

  The meeting was short and sweet. Wearing his game face, Salgado announced that effective immediately Chief Kerney was officially in charge of all aspects of the homicide investigation. Santa Fe S.O. and P.D. supervisory personnel assigned to the case would report directly to him. Sheriff Hewitt would continue to head up the Lincoln County investigation and work cooperatively with Kerney and Salgado. Clayton would stay on in Santa Fe as a lead investigator, and additional officers and resources would be made available from the Santa Fe P.D.

  “This task force is the best way to get the job done,” Salgado said in his closing remarks. “I want everybody behind it one hundred percent.”

  Mielke looked like he was seething inside, and Salgado’s chief deputy, Leonard Jessup, had a constipated expression. The two other senior sheriff’s deputies in attendance, both captains, seemed completely nonplussed. The meeting ended with Kerney calling for a supervisory briefing at 1600 hours.

  “We’ll want to know everything you’ve got,” he said, glancing from Mielke to Clayton to Ramona. “Get ready for tough questions if we don’t like what we hear, and get ready for some reshuffling if we don’t like the way things have been run.”

  Paul Hewitt nodded in agreement to emphasize the threat.

  Outside the conference room Mielke scurried to his office with his two captains and quickly closed the door.

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” Ramona said as she and Clayton passed by. “Did we just witness a palace coup?”

  “I think it was more like an abdication,” Clayton replied. He smiled at Salgado’s secretary, who shot him a decidedly unfriendly look in return.

  Ramona caught the exchange. “But certainly not a voluntary one based on the spiteful once-over you just got from Salgado’s secretary,” she whispered. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  Clayton gave Ramona a sideways glance but kept a straight face. “Me? Like you, I’m just a lowly sergeant.” Politely he stood aside to allow Ramona to enter his temporary office.

  “Ah, I see,” Ramona said as she walked through the doorway. “First you give Mielke a non-answer about whether or not you knew Hewitt was in Santa Fe and now I get one about Salgado’s abdication. Is that any way to trust your partner?”

  “Are we partners?” Clayton asked with a smile, quickly warming to the idea.

  “For the duration,” Ramona said.

  “Then close the door and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

  Chapter Six

  Denise Riley’s former employer owned an independent insurance agency in a huge open-air mall on Cerrillos Road. A few Santa Fe–style touches—earthtoned stucco exteriors, flat roofs, “roughhewn” wooden posts, and fake buttresses—could not disguise the fact that it was a glorified strip mall with a big-box discount department store and a mega-supermarket mixed in with an assortment of franchise restaurants and national chain stores that sold books, electronics, home accessories, and clothing.

  Sandwiched between a brand-name shoe outlet and a cellular phone store, the insurance agency had a front window with a lovely
view of the parking lot that served the big discount department store. Inside, Matt Chacon encountered a middle-aged man probably in his early forties, who had the muscular build of a welterweight on a trim five-eight frame. He had short brown hair, brown eyes below thick brows, a strong chin, and a pronounced British accent.

  “What happened to Denise is bloody awful,” John Culley said after Chacon introduced himself. “I don’t know what I will do without her.”

  Major Mielke hadn’t said anything about John Culley being British. Matt wondered what else Mielke might have forgotten or failed to mention. “I understand your parents are visiting from Buffalo,” he said.

  “My partner’s parents, not mine,” Culley replied with a wave of his hand. “My dear widowed mother, who is safely ensconced in her Tunbridge Wells cottage, thankfully has no desire to venture forth to visit me in the new world. Have you ever been to Buffalo? No? Regardless what the time of year might be, I cannot recommend it in any season.”

  Matt loved the way Brits talked. It wasn’t just the accent he enjoyed hearing; he liked the way they used the language and seemed so comfortable making conversation.

  Culley was just one of a number of Brits living in Santa Fe, including prominent artists, successful business owners, scientists who worked at the national laboratory in nearby Los Alamos, and some who were simply filthy rich and hobnobbed with the area’s other wealthy residents at charity events, the opera, and art openings. Members of British nobility—Matt couldn’t remember their names or titles—owned a large, secluded estate outside the city and were occasionally mentioned in the local newspaper.

  The Brits composed one part of a rather extensive community of western European expatriates who lived in Santa Fe. Some of the Brits were full-time residents and others part-timers who either regularly returned to Europe or wintered in Florida.

  Aside from illegal Mexican workers who’d been coming to Santa Fe forever, the ranks of foreign migrants living in the city had recently swelled, as more and more Middle Eastern businessmen had moved in and opened retail stores that catered to the tourist trade.

  “I take it Tunbridge Wells is in England,” Matt said.

  “Indeed, it is,” Culley replied. “In Kent, actually. Lovely castles and gardens. Have you been?”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t get a chance to travel that much.”

  “Pity,” Culley said. “There is so much to see in the world.”

  “What can you tell me about Denise’s personal life?” Matt asked.

  “Shall we sit?” Culley asked as he stepped to his desk and settled into a chair.

  Matt pulled up a side chair and joined Culley at his desk, which was modern, European-looking, and shaped somewhat like an unshelled peanut. On it was a laptop, a cordless phone, a leather desk pad, and a matching leather letter and pen holder. The other desk in the office was of the same design but smaller. Denise Riley’s nameplate was prominently displayed on an otherwise empty desktop. There were framed Southwestern landscape prints on the walls, and a large, freestanding clear plastic rack of randomly arranged boxes that was abstract in design and positioned near the entrance. It served as a display case for various insurance company brochures. A bank of two-drawer black file cabinets lined the wall behind Denise’s desk, and behind Culley’s desk stood a credenza that held several membership certificates from local civic organizations and the photograph of a good-looking man Matt took to be Culley’s partner.

  “How long did Denise work for you?” Matt asked.

  “I hired her soon after I started the business. I was renting a small one-room office on St. Francis Drive at the time and had placed an advertisement in the paper for a receptionist. Denise was the first to respond and I hired her immediately.”

  Matt took a notebook out of his coat pocket and flipped to a blank page. “When was that?”

  “I started the business seven years ago this spring.”

  “So you knew Denise before she married Tim Riley?”

  Culley smiled. “Yes, indeed. I witnessed the entire courtship. It was quite a whirlwind romance. They made a splendid couple.”

  “Did the romance last?” Matt asked.

  “Well, I suppose the honeymoon phase ended as it always does, but they were very loving to each other as far as I could tell. Telephone calls back and forth, occasional luncheon dates when Tim had days off during the workweek—that sort of thing.”

  “Would you say Denise was a faithful wife?”

  Culley raised his eyebrows. “What an astonishing question. Denise was an extremely attractive woman, and a number of my male clients were very flirtatious with her both on the telephone and when they came into the office. She always handled it with aplomb and never acted inappropriately. But to answer you more directly, I never had an occasion to think of her as the unfaithful type.”

  Matt wrote down an abbreviated version of Culley’s remarks in his notebook. “Did you know that she was almost three months pregnant at the time of her death?”

  Culley shook his head. “Now you have me totally flummoxed. According to Denise, her husband was unable to give her a child. I suppose that’s why you asked if I thought she might be unfaithful. Could it be that she might have sought out a sperm donor?”

  “It’s possible,” Matt said. “Did she talk to you about a desire to have children?”

  “We didn’t have that kind of a relationship,” Culley replied. “We got along well as employer and employee, but we were not close personal friends.”

  “Are you saying that she didn’t share much of her personal life with you?”

  Culley smiled. “Exactly so. Nor did I share much of mine with her. I think both of us liked it that way.”

  “Professional relationships at work are always best.” Matt glanced at Denise’s nearby vacant desk. “Still, you worked together in close proximity. I’m sure you took telephone messages for her, greeted friends and family who occasionally dropped by to see her when she was out of the office, overheard snatches of her phone conversations.”

  “Yes, of course,” Culley said before Matt could continue, “and I’ve been trying to think of a person, a man perhaps, she might have particularly favored. But no one comes to mind, other than Tim, her sisters, and her brother. They were the ones most likely to call or stop by.”

  “If you think of someone, let me know.” Matt closed the notebook and handed Culley a business card. “I’d like to review Denise’s employee file.”

  Culley looked slighted embarrassed. “I’m afraid there is no employee file other than salary and income tax information that my accountant maintains.” He wrote down the accountant’s name and phone number on a telephone message slip and handed it to Chacon.

  “You didn’t get a résumé, verify her past employment, and check her references before you hired her?” Matt asked.

  “I saw no need to, and my intuition about Denise was spot-on. She worked out perfectly.”

  Matt glanced at the empty desk again. “Did Denise do her work on a computer?”

  “Yes, a desktop model. I tried to use it yesterday and it froze and crashed. Fortunately, I have all my records and files backed up and I can access them from my laptop.”

  “Where is the desktop computer now?”

  Culley waved his hand. “For all I care, it’s in transit to a computer graveyard in India to be salvaged. The technician who services my computers came out and told me it wasn’t worth the trouble or expense to fix it. I had him take it away. He’s building a new one for me, and I’ve ordered a larger monitor and a faster printer to go with it.”

  Matt asked for and got the name of the company Culley used to service his computers. He tore a fresh piece of paper from his notepad and put it in front of the Englishman. “I need your written permission allowing me to take custody of your old computer. Please sign and date the authorization.”

  Culley picked up a pen. “Yes, of course, but whatever for?”

  “I can’t talk about what we do
in ongoing investigations.”

  “Of course you can’t.” Culley scribbled his consent and handed it to Matt, signed and dated.

  “Have you had any recent break-ins or burglaries?”

  “No, not a one.”

  “Who else besides you, Denise Riley, and your clients have access to the office?”

  “The leasing agent has a key, as does the cleaning lady I employ to tidy up my house and the office.”

  “I may need to speak with both of those people,” Matt said.

  Culley wrote down names and phone numbers, and handed the slip of paper to Matt. “This is becoming rather worrisome, Detective.”

  Matt smiled reassuringly. “Rest easy, Mr. Culley. Sometimes the solution to a crime is in the details, so it’s important not to overlook any information that might be helpful.”

  Culley’s worried expression cleared. “I absolutely understand.”

  “Are you a U.S. citizen, Mr. Culley?”

  “No, I am not, and as long as the current incumbent resides in the White House, I’m inclined to remain a British citizen. However, I do have permanent resident status.”

  “What brought you to New Mexico?” Matt asked.

  “D. H. Lawrence and the promise of blue skies,” Culley replied.

  Although intelligent and knowledgeable in his chosen field, Matt was the product of the local school system and one year of study at the area community college. He flipped open his notepad. “Is this Mr. Lawrence a friend of yours?”

  Culley repressed a smile and carefully chose his words. “You could say that, Detective Chacon. He was a very famous and controversial writer born in the Midlands of England who lived in northern New Mexico for a time early in the twentieth century. It was through his writing that I first became fascinated with New Mexico.”