The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  The recently constructed bypass around Santa Fe, built to avoid trucking nuclear waste from Los Alamos through the city, shortened his driving time to Albuquerque. The new Indian casino just outside of Albuquerque, a massive, glitzy pueblo-style complex, loomed up as the traffic slowed to a mere ten miles above the reduced speed limit. Across from the casino the tribe’s buffalo herd grazed behind a fence anchored by railroad-tie posts that covered acres of ground. It made for a startling contrast of old Indian traditions and new Native American enterprise.

  The administrative offices for the chemical treatment research program were located in an area of the city known as Martineztown, a predominantly low-income, Hispanic neighborhood. The nondescript building, sandwiched between the train tracks and the interstate, reflected the university’s politically correct decision to place community services in the barrio to avoid criticism of an ivory-tower mentality.

  A few minutes early, Kerney spent his time waiting for Perrett reading a brochure that detailed the scope and mission of the center. It received major funding from a variety of government agencies and private foundations and had half a dozen ongoing projects to develop and test new treatment approaches to hard-core addiction with an emphasis on minority populations. Kerney was halfway through a second brochure when the secretary buzzed him in to Dr. Perrett’s office.

  Jeremiah Perrett was a man of late middle age who obviously put time and energy into remaining fit. His biceps filled the sleeves of his collarless shirt, and he had a well-developed upper torso. He kept what hair he had cut short, and his blue eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of fashionable glasses, signaled a no-nonsense outlook on life.

  If he was gay, as Osterman said, it didn’t show in either his mannerisms or appearance. But living in Santa Fe, Kerney was used to meeting gay men of all ages who proved that homosexuals were by no means all swishy queens.

  Perrett stood up, reached across the desk, gave Kerney a hearty handshake, and sat back down. “My secretary said this is about Anna Marie Montoya.”

  The office furnishings were far too nice to have been bought with grant or public money. No bean counter would have allowed such indulgences. Kerney eased into a comfortable wicker lounge chair with leather cushions. The expensive walnut desk was twice normal size, and Perrett’s desk chair was a high-end model that likely sold for eight or nine hundred dollars. The wall art consisted of tasteful, nicely framed posters of old Broadway musicals. Clearly, Perrett had furnished the office with his own funds.

  “Are you aware that Anna Marie disappeared some years ago and her remains have just recently been discovered?” Kerney asked.

  Perrett nodded. “Yes, of course. Very tragic.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “Fairly well. I became her advisor when she transferred from university studies to major in psychology. She was a good student with an intuitive talent for working with people. She held promise as a researcher, but she enjoyed direct client involvement more than pure science.”

  “Yet she worked for you on a research project in northern New Mexico.”

  Perrett nodded. “She took my senior research seminar and I recruited her to be a field worker the summer after she graduated. She was bilingual. Native Spanish speaking, in fact. A very desirable asset, since we were working to develop a culturally unbiased intake assessment tool for Spanish-speaking alcohol and substance abusers.”

  “That must have been difficult to accomplish,” Kerney said, hoping that focusing on Perrett’s professional interests would loosen him up a bit.

  Perrett’s eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. “Yes, very frustrating. Do you have some knowledge of research methodology?”

  Kerney smiled. “Not really. What I know consists only of dim memories from an undergraduate psych course I took years ago. Did you get the results you hoped for?”

  Perrett smiled, showing his pearly whites and a hint of smug satisfaction. “Indeed, we did. The assessment instrument we developed is now used in Hispanic alcohol and chemical dependency treatment programs throughout the country.”

  His reaction, and a framed photograph on the credenza behind the desk of a former first lady presenting him with an award, confirmed to Kerney that Perrett was a man who took great satisfaction in his accomplishments.

  Kerney stroked him. “That must be very gratifying.”

  Perrett gave a modest shrug and said nothing.

  Kerney turned the conversation back to Anna Marie and asked if she’d ever come to him with any personal problems.

  “None of a serious nature, as I recall.”

  “What do you remember?”

  Perrett reflected for a moment. “Best not to trust to my memory,” he said, rising from his chair. He opened an antique oak filing cabinet and sorted through a drawer. “Anna Marie used me as a reference when she applied to graduate school, so it’s quite likely I still have my advisor notes attached to my copy of the letter of recommendation.”

  He returned to his chair with a folder in hand and thumbed through it. “Yes, here it is. She had met a young man, early in her senior year, who she was attracted to but not sure about.”

  “Another student?” Kerney asked.

  “She didn’t identify him as such,” Perrett said, scanning his notes.

  “Did she give you a name?” Kerney asked.

  “If she did, I didn’t write it down.”

  “What were her concerns about him?”

  “A fear that he was just interested in sex.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “For a young, heterosexual Hispanic woman raised as a Catholic that would not be a minor issue.”

  “Was she sleeping with him?” Kerney asked.

  “Considering it,” Perrett said, setting the folder aside.

  “Did she ever tell you what decision she made?”

  Perrett shook his head.

  “What can you tell me about the young man?” Kerney asked.

  “He had money and lived off campus. Other than that, nothing. Perhaps one her former roommates could tell you more.”

  Kerney left, thinking the fresh information about a hitherto-unknown boyfriend at least gave him another new thread to follow. He didn’t know how far it would take him, but it felt like a potential bright spot in an otherwise stalled-out cold case.

  He shook off the brief snippet of optimism, called information for Cassie Bedlow’s number, got an address, and headed toward the northeast heights.

  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 t
he 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.”