The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for Under the Color of Law

  “Each new Michael McGarrity novel about New Mexico lawman Kevin Kerney is better than the last. . . . An amazing accomplishment . . . [McGarrity] does it with intelligence and heart-pumping suspense, without skimping on either characterization or local color. . . . One of the most chilling and satisfying thrillers of the year.”—Los Angeles Times

  “This is McGarrity at his best. The story moves at a fast pace, is highly readable, and eerily believable. The description of the Southwest landscape, combined with both a believable plot and characters, makes this a must read for mystery fans or anyone seeking a good read.”—Tulsa World

  “A good story and lots of suspense in this continuing series.”—The Sunday Oklahoman

  “Taut prose and snappy dialogue. . . . [McGarrity] renders an Elmore Leonard-like fast-paced wit. . . . A masterfully realistic world in which a rugged rancher-cop negotiates the wintry mean streets of Southwest mystery fiction.”—Santa Fe New Mexico

  Praise for The Judas Judge

  “There are some devious minds at work in The Judas Judge . . . which loops with serpentine grace through the ranches, railroad towns, Indian reservations, and open spaces of [New Mexico]. McGarrity’s portrait of the region is a strong one, built on meticulously detailed intelligence gathered, sifted, and analyzed for unspoken secrets and lies by the author’s own deeply cunning mind.”—The New York Times

  “A crisp, riveting police procedural enriched by acute psychological insight.”—Jonathan Kellerman

  “Highly suspenseful.”—Los Angeles Times

  “Taut and convincing. . . . I read this one in a single sitting.” —Chicago Tribune

  “The Judas Judge rivets attention . . . a book that’s hard to put down.”—Publishers Weekly

  “A roller-coaster ride . . . [and] so much more than a murder mystery. . . . A seamless story that will keep you turning the pages.”—The Colorado Springs Gazette

  “With each succeeding mystery, McGarrity is ever more sure of his central character, Kerney. Richly textured in setting and character, this series gets better with each outing.”—The Dallas Times Herald

  “The Judas Judge is solid evidence that a good series . . . can actually become even more satisfying. Quite a page-turner.”—Library Journal

  Praise for Michael McGarrity

  “McGarrity imbues his fiction with a good deal of authentic police work and local lore but doesn’t stop there. Kerney and the other characters . . . have size and dimension, and his plots are suspenseful and action-packed. We can’t ask for more than that.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Michael McGarrity does for New Mexico what James

  Lee Burke does for Louisiana. The land is in his blood.

  So is crime writing. He’s a natural-born storyteller with

  hard-earned personal knowledge of how cops work.”

  —David Morrell, bestselling author of First Blood

  “How good it is to follow a detective created by a man who has been there and done that.”—Tony Hillerman

  “McGarrity’s novels are a perfect blend of riveting action and richly evoked characters, making Santa Fe look more irresistible than ever.”

  —Linda Fairstein, bestselling author of Final Jeopardy

  “Few write as convincingly and accurately using the Southwest as a setting as does McGarrity. He knows the territory and it shows.”—Tulsa World

  Also by Michael McGarrity

  Tularosa

  Mexican Hat

  Serpent Gate

  Hermit’s Peak

  The Judas Judge

  Under the Color of Law

  ONYX

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.

  First Onyx Printing, August

  Copyright © Michael McGarrity, 2002

  Excerpt from Everyone Dies copyright © Michael McGarrity, 2003 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14398-8

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Steve Rush, a gifted psychologist and my first clinical supervisor, who taught me not to take most things in life personally, and for Di Bingham of Brisbane, Australia.

  Acknowledgments

  Sheriff Tom Sullivan of Lincoln County, New Mexico, helped me gain insight into the operation of his department. My thanks go to him for giving me valuable information and several good ideas for the book.

  Mrs. Genora V. Moore and Gene and Barbara Thorn-ton graciously allowed me repeated access to the family ranch outside of Santa Fe. My thanks go to them for giving me a chance to find the perfect piece of land where Kerney could build his home.

  Chapter 1

  The cement block walls of the abandoned building kept the fire fairly well contained until the roof ignited. Then wind whipped burning embers into the dry grass along the shoulder of the highway. In the predawn light, Deputy Sheriff Clayton Istee watched the volunteer firefighters chase down and drown rivulets of orange flames that snaked quickly through the grass. A year of drought had made any fire dangerous, and the incessant spring winds that rolled across Carrizozo and the surrounding rangeland could easily transform a cinder into a catastrophe engulfing the whole valley.

  Flames licked through the boarded-up side doorway and the long opening at the front of the structure, which had once served as a counter
for baskets of apples and jugs of freshly pressed cider. Under a steady stream of water from a pumper truck, the remnants of the roof crashed in, showering brilliant pinpoint sparks into the sky, momentarily illuminating a large, somewhat faded plywood sign nailed to the building that read:

  ELECT PAUL HEWITT LINCOLN COUNTY SHERIFF

  Hewitt was Clayton Istee’s new boss. Three months ago, after five years with the Mescalero Tribal Police, Clayton had accepted the sheriff’s long-standing job offer. His decision hadn’t made his mother or his wife particularly happy, but Clayton was glad to get away from the petty politics and cronyism of the tribal administrators.

  Ray Bonnell, the volunteer fire chief, stepped up to Clayton’s side. One of Paul Hewitt’s best friends, Bonnell could be found just about every weekday morning having an early cup of coffee with the sheriff at the Dugout Bar & Grill. In his sixties, with the thick upper body of a man who’d spent a lifetime doing hard physical work, Bonnell was a third-generation native of the valley. He ranched, owned a local propane gas delivery company, and ran the fire department in his spare time.

  “Smell that?” Bonnell asked.

  Clayton nodded.

  “Know what it is?” Bonnell asked.

  “Burned flesh,” Clayton answered.

  “Yep. You got yourself a crispy critter inside. Let’s just hope it isn’t somebody we knew, or worse yet, somebody we knew and liked. Best to tell Sheriff Hewitt.”

  “He’s already rolling,” Clayton replied. “ETA ten minutes.”

  Bonnell smiled. “Paul said you were a good one. Guess I don’t need to tell you how to do your job.”

  “I’ll take all the help I can get, Chief,” Clayton said.

  “Then help yourself to the spare pair of Wellington boots in the back of my truck,” Bonnell said with a laugh as he moved away. “You’re gonna need them. After we soak down the inside of that fruit stand it’s gonna be a soggy, god-awful mess.”

  All the burned grass along the roadside had been covered with dirt and doused. Firefighters walked in circles around the charred patches of earth checking for hot spots, hosing down anything that looked like it could combust or flare up again. At the burned-out building two men on ladders directed high-pressure jets of water into the guts of the structure.

  Soon murky black water started oozing out the door frame. Clayton went to Bonnell’s truck, got the rubber boots, and put them on, figuring whatever crime scene evidence there was inside the building had to be pretty well trashed. Nothing could be done about it. Putting the fire completely out was the first priority, especially since the warmth of the early morning sun topping the mountains had stirred up strong gusts coursing out of the canyons.

  The men on the ladders shut down their hoses. At the front of the burned-out door Bonnell motioned for Clayton to join him. He plodded toward Bonnell in the squeaky rubber boots.

  “This place hasn’t been used for years,” Bonnell said, shining his light inside. Most of a plank floor at the back of the structure had been burned away, revealing a partial basement.

  Bonnell froze the beam of his flashlight on what appeared to be a pile of burned rags under a window. “There’s your crispy critter,” he said.

  Clayton nodded. He could see a seared, blackened forearm and hand protruding from the rag pile. “What’s with the basement?” he asked.

  “It was probably a cold-storage cellar for produce,” Bonnell replied as he swept his light back and forth. “We’re looking for fire behavior here, Deputy. So far I don’t see anything abnormal. The flames burned up and out, just like they were supposed to.”

  “Are you calling it accidental?”

  “Not yet, but I don’t see a burn pattern that suggests an accelerant was used.”

  Clayton gazed at the deep pool of black water that was quickly draining into the cellar. “What a mess.”

  Bonnell snorted and slapped Clayton on the shoulder. “Come on, Deputy, let’s get in there, get muddy, and find out what we’ve got.”

  “First, I’d better call for the medical examiner,” Clayton said.

  Bonnell pointed at a firefighter coiling hose at the back of the pumper truck. “We’ve got one right here,” he said. “Shorty Dawson will be more than willing to declare the victim dead.”

  Clayton thought about the mess inside. Mud, debris, and charred pieces of the roof filled the enclosure, a lot of it covering the body. Conditions would make extracting the victim and searching for evidence time-consuming and tedious. Allowing too many people inside would only make it worse.

  “Have Dawson make a visual inspection from the doorway,” Clayton said. “I want to limit entry to just you and me until the crime scene techs arrive.”

  “I’m sure Shorty will oblige,” Ray Bonnell said. The sound of a siren made him glance down the highway in the direction of Carrizozo. “Here comes your boss. Shall we wait for him before we get started?”

  “Might as well,” Clayton replied. “When we get inside, I want you to do exactly what I say.”

  “Now that the fire is out, it’s your show,” Bonnell replied.

  Paul Hewitt watched his young deputy work. Major felonies were not commonplace in Lincoln County, New Mexico, and while it was quite likely that the John Doe inside the fruit stand had died by accident, Clayton Istee was treating the investigation as a homicide, which was exactly the right thing to do.

  Hewitt had aggressively recruited Clayton because of his college education, five years of patrol experience, and extensive training in major felony investigations. He’d kept a close eye on Clayton since his arrival and was pleased by the young man’s work ethic, his professional conduct, and his seasoned patrol skills. Now, for the first time, Hewitt had a chance to observe Clayton conducting a crime scene investigation, and he liked what he saw.

  After photographing and videotaping the scene, Clayton had approached the search for evidence as if it were an archeological dig. With Ray Bonnell’s help he’d uncovered a partially burned backpack, a few charred remnants of a cheap sleeping bag, two empty pint whiskey bottles, some partially burned pieces of mud-encrusted firewood, singed scraps of a wool blanket, and a disposable cigarette lighter.

  The firefighters and their equipment were long gone, the sun was high in the sky, and the day had heated up when the two men took a break.

  Ray Bonnell leaned heavily against the front of Paul Hewitt’s slick top unit, smearing dirt on the paint.

  “Looks like our John Doe burned himself up,” he said to Paul. “I’d say the point of origin for the blaze was the sleeping bag under the victim, probably started by a spark or a cigarette. My guess is that he built a fire to keep warm, slugged down two pints of whiskey, passed out, and never woke up. He may have died from smoke inhalation. We’ll know for sure after the autopsy.”

  Paul nodded in agreement and looked at Deputy Istee, who was splashing water on his grimy face. He’d removed his uniform shirt and shucked his weapon and equipment belt. His jeans and tee shirt were stained dark brown and he was covered in mud. “Any ID on the victim?” Hewitt asked.

  “Negative, so far,” Clayton replied. “I still have to search the body and the backpack.”

  “He was probably a drifter,” Hewitt said. “Wrap it up here as soon as you can.”

  Ray Bonnell shook his head. “Can’t do that, Paul.”

  “Why not?” Hewitt asked, scanning Bonnell’s face.

  “We’ve got another body, Sheriff,” Clayton said, “and what looks like a completely different crime scene.”

  “Show me,” Hewitt replied.

  Clayton took the sheriff to the doorway, clicked on the battery-operated flashlight, and beamed the light into the back part of the dark cellar.

  Hewitt saw an exposed skull with a fractured forehead, covered with patches of what appeared to be leathery skin. Pressurized water from the fire hoses had revealed some of the torso and Hewitt could see what looked like swaths of fabric.

  “It’s a female skeleton,” Clay
ton said. “The fracture to the skull was most likely from a blunt-force instrument. A clutch purse was buried with the body. According to the driver’s license inside the purse, the victim’s name was Anna Marie Montoya. She had a Santa Fe address.”

  “You’re sure this is a separate incident?” Hewitt asked.

  “There’s no way she was killed in the fire,” Bonnell said from behind Hewitt’s shoulder.

  “Any guesses on how long the body has been here?” Hewitt asked.

  Clayton shrugged. “Her driver’s license expired ten years ago.”

  “Let’s hold off on doing any more until the state police crime techs get here,” Hewitt said.

  “Are you going to give the investigation to the state police?” Clayton asked.

  Hewitt had recruited Clayton to complete the staffing of his major felony investigation unit, made up of three specially trained field officers. His twelve-man department was too small and underfunded to manage felony cases any other way. But with the addition of Clayton, Hewitt now had a unit that could do a hell of a lot more than take a report, collect evidence, interview witnesses, or get an occasional voluntary confession from some feebleminded perp.

  At least, he hoped they could. Up to now, the unit was untested. It was time to see what they could do.

  “It’s your case, Deputy,” Hewitt said. “Call in the team.”

  Clayton stripped off his plastic gloves. “I’ll get them rolling.”

  Ray Bonnell watched Clayton walk to his unit to make the call. “I think you hired yourself a good one, Paul,” he said.

  “I do believe you’re right,” Hewitt said.

  “How come I’m all dirty and you’re all spick-and-span clean?” Ray asked, brushing dirt off his pants and eying Hewitt’s freshly pressed shirt.