He handed Ramona a computer printout. It read:
Although new to her profession, Sultry Sally from Albuquerque is a charming, lovely young woman eager to please. She could be a bit more inventive, but takes direction well. Sally is well worth your time and money. I look forward to our next date. Four stars, which is excellent for a girl just starting out.
“This is mind-boggling,” Ramona said.
Jeff waited for the busboy to pour water and go away. “It could be fake. Many of the Internet ads and testimonials are. You don’t always get what you call up and ask for.”
“So that’s why some of the sites guarantee that it’s an actual picture of the girl.”
“Exactly. Truth in advertising, so to speak.”
“Now what do we do?” Ramona asked.
“Order lunch,” Jeff said as a waiter approached with a basket of freshly baked breads and rolls. “I recommend the cup of soup and the house salad.”
Ramona grabbed one of the menus that had been left on the table and scanned it. Nothing jumped out at her. “You’re not a meat and potatoes kind of guy?”
“Not at this time of day.”
“Soup and salad sounds good,” Ramona said, handing the menu off to the waiter.
Vialpando ordered the same. The waiter nodded and left.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Ramona said. “What’s the next move?”
“You still don’t have anything solid on Bedlow,” Jeff replied.
“Yeah, I know it. But I got this feeling about her. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow or give me a motherly lecture about smoking dope and popping sleeping pills when I copped to being a user. It was almost like she was pleased that I wasn’t a straight, Goody Two-shoes. Then she laid this job possibility on me. Don’t you think that was a little strange?”
“Not if she’s reeling you in for something other than a career in fashion modeling,” Jeff answered.
“I wonder if that’s what happened to Sally Greer,” Ramona said.
“Where’s the job she turned you on to?”
Ramona gave him the note and his eyes widened. “Jesus, we’ve been trying to get someone in this place undercover for the past six months. So has narcotics.”
“Well, here’s your chance,” Ramona said as she buttered a roll.
“This could be dangerous,” Jeff said, searching Ramona’s face. She had remarkably pretty eyes.
“I think I can handle it.” Ramona took a bite of the roll. She’d skipped breakfast and her stomach was grumbling for food. “I did two years undercover narcotics. Fill me in.”
Chapter 9
Since Kerney’s arrival in Santa Fe years ago as a rookie officer, the city had changed dramatically. Where there used to be open pastureland and dirt roads, there were now trailer parks, residential subdivisions, strip malls, and paved streets. Several working cattle ranches that once bordered the city were either gated communities for the very rich, burgeoning middle-class enclaves for those who sought country living on an acre and a half, or clustered housing tracts on postage-stamp lots for families willing to pay a quarter of a million dollars or more for the convenience of living in town.
Untouched hills that rose up to the national forest in the mountains behind the city had sprouted multimillion-dollar-view homes. Along Cerrillos Road, the ugliest and busiest gateway into the city, a commercial building frenzy was underway with national chain stores, discount stores, motels, supermarkets, and specialty retail outlets rising up from the leveled, graded, paved earth with alarming frequency.
Most of the population growth came from newcomers to the city, a motley assortment of the new rich, old rich, New Age spiritualists and healers, wanna-be artists, movie stars, celebrities of every stripe, trustfunders, ski bums, restless youths of various ages, baby boomers who’d taken early retirement, and true believers of every possible persuasion who were drawn to the magic of Santa Fe. While they all laid claim to the trendy aesthetic life of the city, politics, a favorite local pastime, remained firmly in the hands of Hispanic and Anglo old-timers.
Kerney’s sources of information about Tyler Norvell consisted of a retired state legislator, a former chief of staff for an ex-governor, a lobbyist, and a syndicated political columnist. He made the rounds, picking up a bit more information about Norvell from each informant.
After three stops, he knew that Norvell owned an expensive Santa Fe home, which he frequently made available to key legislative leaders when they traveled to Santa Fe on official business. He’d also learned that Norvell was the only senate minority member who consistently got his pork-barrel appropriations passed and signed into law. His success was attributed to a close personal friendship with the senate majority leader and backroom deal making with his colleagues.
Additionally Norvell, who was divorced, frequently threw parties at his Santa Fe house during legislative sessions, using his sister’s modeling students as hostesses. Some probing questions about possible indiscretions involving the young women failed to yield any embarrassed pauses or gossip. Norvell’s sister, Cassie Bedlow, was always in attendance at the parties and kept a careful eye on the girls.
That didn’t mean the informants weren’t equivocating. Sex was always the subject people lied about first and foremost.
Interestingly, Kerney’s first three contacts had slightly different takes on the source of Norvell’s wealth. The lobbyist thought that Norvell had made his money in Colorado as a lawyer, where he’d lived for some years before returning to Lincoln County and getting into real estate. The ex-chief of staff believed Norvell had been a partner in a commercial construction firm that had cashed in on the Denver building boom. The retired legislator thought Norvell had gotten rich through the stock market.
Kerney met with his last contact, Ellsworth Miller, in the press and media room that overlooked the dark senate chambers at the state capital. By law the New Mexico legislature convened only once a year in either thirty- or sixty-day sessions, so the chambers were generally empty. While some critics considered a part-time legislature unprogressive, Kerney liked the idea that the house and senate incumbents couldn’t turn public service into a well-paying, full-time sinecure.
Ellsworth Miller touted himself as the dean of New Mexico journalists, which wasn’t an exaggeration. In his seventies with fifty years of experience as a reporter, Miller had become a fixture at the capital. He sported a full head of curly, disheveled gray hair that rolled over his shirt collar, and a scruffy beard always in need of a trim. In the twenty years Kerney had known him, the look hadn’t changed. But he had aged dramatically. Ellsworth’s face was permanently flushed red by drink, and the skin around his neck was loose and flabby.
“Why the interest in Tyler Norvell?” Ellsworth asked in his gravelly voice, after Kerney had explained the focus for the meeting.
“It’s supplemental to an investigation,” Kerney replied.
“That tells me exactly nothing,” Ellsworth said.
“Maybe we can exchange information,” Kerney said. “You go first.”
“Only if I get an exclusive on the story.”
“If there is a story, you’ll get it first,” Kerney replied.
“Is this part of a criminal investigation?” Ellsworth asked, peering over the rim of his reading glasses.
“It’s possibly tied to one,” Kerney answered.
Ellsworth put his glasses in his shirt pocket. “Okay, I’ll play along. I assume you know the basics: He’s divorced, no children, his ex-wife lives out of state, he’s rich, votes conservative, and he’s well regarded on both sides of the aisle.”
“I’ve got all that.”
“I’ve heard very little dirt or gossip about him. There was word of a DWI that got buried by a former Santa Fe county sheriff some years back, but I never could confirm it.”
“Which sheriff?” Kerney asked.
“Mike Olivera.”
“Did you hear any specifics about the incident?”
�
�Just that during Norvell’s first term in office, he took out a mailbox driving some woman home from a party.”
“Who was your source?” Kerney asked.
“A state police officer who stopped to offer the deputy assistance. He said Norvell failed the field sobriety test, but was never booked into jail.”
“Did you get an ID on the woman?”
“No.”
“Who was the state cop?”
“Nick Salas. He passed the information on to me while he was assigned to security during a legislative session.”
“How did Norvell get elected to his first term?”
Ellsworth rubbed his fingers together. “Money and influence. He outspent his opponents three to one in both the primary and the general election. And he got endorsements and personal appearances during the campaign from two old college chums who’d already been elected to the legislature, Silva in the senate and Barrett in the house. All three are still serving.”
“Who would know the most about Norvell’s college years?”
“Locally? Probably Mark Shuler,” Ellsworth answered. “He was the editor of the university newspaper back when Norvell and his buddies were in college and law school together. He runs a political research and polling outfit here in Santa Fe. He’s very liberal and very much opposed to Norvell’s conservative agenda.”
“Where did Norvell get his money?” Kerney asked.
“My understanding is that he was a successful commodities broker in Colorado.”
Kerney renewed his promise to give Ellsworth first crack at any story and left, puzzling about why four informants would all have different impressions of how Norvell got rich. As he walked through the empty rotunda he called Sal Molina on his cell phone and asked him to have someone start digging into the source of Norvell’s wealth.
Running over the high points in his mind, Clayton left the team meeting Sheriff Hewitt had convened. Because of a significant lack of progress in the case, Quinones and Dillingham were back on patrol duty effective immediately. Clayton was now a homicide task force of one, but at least he wasn’t spinning his wheels anymore.
The autopsy and forensic reports had arrived, showing that Ulibarri had a high level of alcohol and painkillers in his bloodstream, which meant he’d most likely been strangled while unconscious. The medicine was identical to Humphrey’s prescription.
Indentation marks around the neck suggested the murderer was male. Partial fingerprints had been lifted, enough for a match. But a computer data search had failed to identify a suspect. Blond hairs combed from Ulibarri’s groin area confirmed Ulibarri had engaged in sexual intercourse sometime prior to his murder.
Clayton’s query to the FBI about other homicides with similar signatures had come back negative. There was nothing in the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data bank that correlated to other murders with a similar or identical staged placement of the body.
The DA wanted Harry Staggs found and held as a material witness, so with a search warrant in hand, Quinones and Dillingham had scoured every inch of Casey’s Cozy Cabins, looking for personal papers and financial records that could give them a line on Staggs’s whereabouts. The exercise failed, as did a canvass of area financial institutions, banks, and government offices. Apparently, Staggs was a man who’d worked hard at not leaving behind a paper trail. He’d paid his property taxes, utilities, and living expenses with cash or by money order, and had no known bank accounts or credit cards.
Finding Staggs wasn’t going to be easy, but Hewitt had added that task to Clayton’s already full plate anyway. With instructions from the sheriff to dig deeper into Luis Rojas and his girlfriend, Clayton was headed back to El Paso. But first, he needed to make a couple of detours.
He stopped first at Warren Tredwell’s office in Ruidoso. The lawyer sat behind an old library table that served as his desk. With a foot propped on his knee, brushing his bushy mustache with a finger, he didn’t bother with a greeting or make an attempt to be civil. Clayton’s aversion to the man rose up like a tight knot in his stomach.
“I honestly don’t know where my client is,” Tredwell replied in answer to Clayton’s question.
“He’s wanted for questioning as a material witness,” Clayton said.
“I know that,” Tredwell said tersely, leaning back in his chair. “I spoke to the DA earlier today about the matter. But I can’t inform my client until he contacts me.”
“Has he left town permanently?”
“You could assume that,” Tredwell replied.
“And why should I assume that?”
“Good question,” Tredwell said sarcastically.
“Answer it,” Clayton said. He hated the snippy little word games so many Anglos liked to play. His sharpness with Tredwell earned him a serious look.
“He put his property up for sale and gave me a power of attorney to handle the transaction,” Tredwell said.
“How do you contact him?”
“I don’t,” Tredwell answered. “He said he would call once he got settled.”
“And you haven’t heard from him?”
“If I had, I would have told the district attorney.”
“Where did he go?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Not even a hint?”
“South,” Tredwell replied. “He said he would be traveling south.”
There was a casino outside of El Paso and a racetrack nearby, just inside the New Mexico state line. It made sense that Staggs would want to relocate close to the action, where he could set up shop and draw business.
“Did he mention any plans to visit El Paso?” Clayton asked.
“No, he did not.”
“How did Staggs pay your fee?” Clayton asked.
“That’s none of your business,” Tredwell replied.
Clayton smiled. “If he paid in cash, I’m sure you won’t forget to report it to the IRS.”
“We’re done here,” Tredwell said, unwinding himself from the chair.
Clayton nodded in agreement, left, and paused to see Grace at work to tell her he would be gone overnight. Her classroom was filled with happy, noisy children who were finger painting on large sheets of newsprint spread out on low tables. From the doorway Clayton caught Grace’s eye and motioned for her to approach. The room fell silent as the children watched as Grace came close and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Several children giggled. He told her what was up.
“You promised Wendell and Hannah a phone call to Kerney tonight,” Grace said.
“It can wait for a day or two.”
“That’s not fair,” Grace replied. “It may not be a big deal to you, but it is to them.”
“You can call Kerney. It doesn’t have to be me.”
“I’d prefer if you did it,” Grace said.
“Not tonight,” Clayton said with a shake of his head.
“You can’t keep running away from the fact that Kerney is your father,” Grace said.
“I’m not. Tell him I wanted to call but couldn’t.”
“Do you mean that?” Grace asked.
“Half and half,” Clayton replied with a weak smile. “He’s not an easy man to talk to.”
“Neither are you,” Grace said, squeezing his hand. “I’ll call him.”
Clayton kissed his wife and left to the sounds of tittering children. He fired up the engine of his unit, thinking his best move, given what he’d learned at Rojas’s mountain retreat and from Tredwell, would be to get a handle on the girlfriend and then start looking for Staggs in El Paso.
Ramona Piño got the lowdown on The Players Green Club & Restaurant from Jeff Vialpando. It wasn’t an ordinary sports bar. High-class and expensive, it had opened less than a year ago in a new building in the Northeast Heights, and catered to young, affluent singles who lived in the town homes and condominiums close by.
The grand opening had been attended by the mayor, several city councillors, a couple of state legislators, and some important local busines
s leaders.
Within several months narcotics agents were hearing street talk about drug dealing at the club, and vice cops were getting rumors of illegal Las Vegas-style betting on televised athletic events. Weeks of outside surveillance had identified only two known drug dealers who frequented the club on a regular basis. Undercover cops posing as customers saw no evidence of dealing or illegal wagering. About the only incidents of note involved a duo of college-type hookers, just barely of legal age, who worked the bar on the weekends.
Everything pretty much looked on the up-and-up, but rumors and talk persisted, mostly passed on by two reliable white-collar snitches, who’d fingered an ecstasy drug ring of graduate students at the university.
Surreptitious attempts to get an officer hired as an employee failed. Staff turnover was minimal, and the owner, a man named Adam Tully, always seemed able to bring a new waitress on board quickly without advertising or interviewing applicants.
Tails were placed on staff members, and background checks were run as identities were ascertained. All had clean sheets, but interestingly, all were recent arrivals from out of state, particularly Colorado and West Texas.
Tully, a New Mexico native recently returned from Colorado, was listed as the sole owner of Five Players, Incorporated, doing business as The Players Green Club & Restaurant. If he had partners, they were silent.
Tully had no criminal record, and owned another club in Denver operated under the same name, which had been given a clean bill of health by the Denver PD. All his business licenses, corporate reports, and state and local tax filings were current and in order.
Vialpando had described the club’s layout. The bar and dining area were separate from a large room where big-screen televisions were set up in six different viewing areas consisting of comfortable couches, overstuffed chairs, and coffee tables. Only the bar menu and drinks were available to customers in the screening room. Six adjacent rooms with televisions were available for fans who wanted to dine and watch a specific televised event. Those rooms were already booked months in advance. On the weekends, a jazz trio played dance music in the main dining room.
The Big Gamble Page 17
