The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  Still the information made Kerney smile. “Excellent,” he said. “Thanks, Stan.”

  “Anytime, Chief.”

  His cell phone rang as he left the lab. Helen Muiz reported that Detective Piño was on her way back to Santa Fe with an APD vice sergeant in tow, Sal Molina had just returned to the office looking to speak with him, and a sheriff’s sergeant had dropped off an envelope for him.

  “I’m on my way,” Kerney said. “Anything else?”

  “As always, we’re in complete disarray without you,” Helen said. She hung up before Kerney could think of a comeback.

  Chapter 10

  To save money, a new police headquarters had been built some years before on city-owned land near the outskirts of Santa Fe, which of course made it inconvenient for everybody except south-side and some west-side residents.

  During the prior administration, two community policing substations—one in a closet-size space in the downtown library, the other in a building that looked like a large tool shed in a city park—had been established.

  Kerney had shut them both down. The city needed a real substation to serve the north and east sides, not cops on duty standing behind a counter fielding chamber-of-commerce-type questions, Monday through Friday, nine to five.

  He was hoping that if the city ever got around to demolishing the old downtown high school gym next to city hall—it now served as a woefully inadequate convention center—he could put a real substation on the site in at least part of the space. That would alleviate the cramped conditions at headquarters and reduce patrol response times on the east and north sides of the city.

  Kerney doubted it would happen on his watch, but he’d started the planning process anyway in hopes that the concept would survive and eventually come to fruition.

  In the first-floor headquarters conference room, he met with Sal Molina, Ramona Piño, and Jeff Vialpando, the APD sergeant, and Helen Muiz, who was present to take notes. Detective Piño summarized the information she’d gained about Cassie Bedlow, Sally Greer, Thomas Deacon, and Adam Tully.

  Vialpando explained why Tully’s club was a target of investigation, and made a pitch to let him use Piño on a temporary undercover assignment. Kerney tabled the request until later in the meeting.

  Molina added some preliminary information about Norvell’s Colorado business dealings. Then Kerney went over what he’d learned from Mark Shuler and the anonymous letters.

  “Maybe we’ve got a hard target,” Molina said.

  “Maybe that and a whole lot more,” Kerney said.

  “Let’s back up and outline everything we now know.” He moved to the easel at the end of the table and flipped open a newsprint pad. He wrote:

  NORVELL & TULLY—BOTH FROM LINCOLN COUNTY, WHERE MONTOYA’S BODY FOUND.

  COLLEGE YEARS—NORVELL AND TULLY RUN GIRLS, SELL DRUGS, ETC.

  MONTOYA ACCUSES NORVELL OF DRUGGING & SEDUCING COUSIN FOR SEX TRADE PURPOSES.

  NORVELL & TULLY BOTH MOVE TO DENVER AFTER COLLEGE. TULLY OPENS PLAYERS CLUB, NORVELL STARTS A MEDIA ESCORT AND SECURITY SERVICE.

  MONTOYA KILLED AFTER NORVELL RETURNS TO NM & IS ELECTED TO STATE SENATE.

  Kerney stopped writing and turned to Sal Molina. “Fill us in a bit more on Norvell’s Colorado years.”

  “Like I said, Norvell’s company supplied cars and drivers for celebrities who were in town for concerts, book signings, media events, and movie and television productions. He also provided private security for them, as well as for concert promoters and film companies shooting on location.”

  Molina pulled a piece of paper out of a file. “It was incorporated in Colorado as Five Partners Enterprises, solely owned by Norvell. That’s all I have, so far.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a way to make a fortune,” Kerney said.

  “But the company name is interesting,” Ramona said. “Tully’s business in Albuquerque is incorporated as Five Players.”

  “A coincidence, I’m sure,” Kerney said.

  “Add one more,” Jeff Vialpando said. “Cassie Bedlow’s agency is on the books as Five Stars Enterprises.”

  “Hold on,” Sal Molina said as he quickly flipped through his notes from the Denver PD. “Here it is. Belinda Louise Nieto was murdered outside The Players Club in Denver.”

  “Surely, it’s just an unrelated circumstance,” Kerney said, writing it down.

  MONTOYA’S COUSIN KILLED OUTSIDE DENVER CLUB OWNED BY TULLY.

  “Three different companies incorporated as Five Players, Five Stars, and Five Partners,” Kerney said. He tore off the sheet of newsprint and taped it to the wall. “Tully, Bedlow, and Norvell. Who are the other two?”

  “Silva and Barrett attended Tully’s grand opening in Albuquerque,” Vialpando said.

  “Okay, they’re possibles,” Kerney said.

  “And what about Luis Rojas, the ex-college jock?” Ramona asked.

  “We know nothing about him yet,” Kerney said, shifting his gaze to Helen Muiz. “Let’s start a things-to-do list, Helen. Personal and business background checks on Silva and Barrett. Locate Rojas and do the same.”

  He returned to his chair while the officers stared at the list on the wall.

  “If Norvell killed Montoya to keep her from exposing him, you’ve got motive, Chief,” Vialpando said. “But what about opportunity? Can you place him in Santa Fe at the time of the murder?”

  “Or at Tully’s Denver club, the night Belinda Nieto was killed?” Ramona added.

  “That’s two more things to do,” Kerney said, nodding at Helen, who was already writing them down.

  “I’ll ask Denver PD for their crime-scene witness list,” Molina said.

  “I’ll check Norvell’s travel reimbursement records with the state,” Kerney said. “Can you free up a detective to run down information on Barrett’s and Silva’s businesses?” he asked Molina.

  “Can do,” Molina replied, “and I’ll cover Luis Rojas.”

  “Okay,” Kerney said. “From what Detective Piño and Sergeant Vialpando have said, I’m inclined to assume that Norvell, Tully, and Bedlow have been operating a vice ring for the last twenty years. It’s likely they have at least two more partners. We’ve got potential informants in the Greer woman and the photographer, Deacon.”

  Kerney stared at Piño and Vialpando. “How do you two want to proceed with them?” he asked.

  “I’ve made a date with Greer for tonight through her Web site,” Vialpando said. “We’ve got a room booked at an expensive hotel. We’ll videotape the transaction, bust her, and see where it takes us.”

  “Don’t have too much fun before the bust,” Ramona said.

  Vialpando leaned close to Piño and gave her a big smile. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Ramona grinned back.

  “And Deacon?” Kerney asked, interrupting the by-play.

  “He’s mine,” Ramona said, turning off her smile. “I called and asked him to make some enlargements of the pictures he took. I’m picking them up this evening. Maybe he’ll be stoned enough to let down his guard.”

  “I’d like to see those pictures,” Vialpando said.

  “Not a chance,” Ramona replied.

  “Can you give Detective Piño backup at Deacon’s?” Kerney asked Vialpando.

  “It’s already arranged.”

  “Very good,” Kerney said.

  “I’d like to use Detective Piño undercover at Tully’s club, Chief,” Vialpando said.

  “I haven’t forgotten your request, Sergeant, and I’m willing to go along with it, if needed. You’ve been very helpful to us, and I appreciate it. But let’s see how far we get before Ramona has to start her new job.”

  Kerney pushed his chair back. “I want reports from everybody ASAP. I’ll be at home tonight. Call me there.”

  All except Helen Muiz left the room. She stood up, handed Kerney the to-do list, and said, “I think those two young people like each other.”

  “I noticed that,” Kerney replied.


  “Well I hope they do a better job hiding it when they’re undercover.”

  Helen left the room laughing.

  Getting lost in El Paso put Clayton in a foul mood. What looked so easy to get to on a street map wound up being a series of false starts, wrong turns, and wasted time parked at the side of roads trying to figure out where in the hell he was. He did a lot better at finding his way in the mountains and forests on the rez than in the concrete and asphalt of cities.

  Finally, he made it to the Upper Valley, a suburban strip of land on the west side of El Paso that bordered the Rio Grande. He drove through wide streets lined with shade trees, passing newer two-story homes, looking for the right turnoff. Here and there along the road were old farmhouses, some irrigation canals, and patches of agricultural land that had not yet given way to the sprawl.

  Deborah Shea, the girlfriend who’d been so conveniently present at Rojas’s house, no longer lived at the address listed on her driver’s license. Clayton got the story from the current owner, an older, retired army major who actually thought cops were the good guys. He pulled out a mortgage settlement statement which showed that the seller of the house had been Big Five Trucking, Inc., Rojas’s company.

  “I don’t know this woman you’re looking for,” the man said. “The house was vacant when we bought it.”

  Clayton checked the closing date for the sale of the house against the issue date he’d recorded from Shea’s driver’s license. She’d used the address to renew her license six months after the new owner had moved in.

  Clayton wondered if Deborah Shea had ever even lived in the house, and went looking for neighbors who might know. According to one woman, a home owner on the same street, the house had been built six years ago and a Hispanic family lived there prior to the retired army major moving in.

  “Were there any other occupants?” Clayton asked, trying not to stare at the woman’s tinted and wildly curled hairdo that probably cost a hundred bucks a pop every time she went to the beauty parlor. He’d never known Apache women to do such strange things to their hair, and it had nothing to do with money.

  The woman, whose husband ran a maquiladora in Juárez, shook her head. “No, it was just Tony, Martha, and the children.”

  “How well did you know them?” Clayton asked.

  “They were nice people who always came to the annual neighborhood potluck parties. The children were polite and well behaved. Other than that, they didn’t do a lot of socializing. The kids kept them too busy.”

  Clayton rephrased his question: “What do you know about them?”

  “Tony worked for a trucking company. He had a management position of some sort.”

  “Big Five Trucking?”

  “Yes, I think that’s it. Martha was a stay-at-home mom.”

  Clayton thanked the woman, left, and kept looking for Deborah Shea. She wasn’t listed in the phone book or in the several recent city directories he examined at a branch library. He tried a long shot at a motor vehicle office, hoping that Shea had reported an address change, and struck out.

  “Can you search your database of licensed drivers by address?” Clayton asked the office manager.

  “You bet,” the manager said, turning to his keyboard.

  “How far back do you want to go?”

  “Six years.”

  The man pulled up the data on his computer screen and printed out the information. The retired army officer, his wife, former occupants Tony and Martha Duran, and Deborah Shea topped the list. But another eight people, all young females, had also used the address to get licenses at one time or another.

  “What is this address, an apartment or something?” the manager asked. “A group home? A sorority house?”

  “None of the above,” Clayton replied. “It’s a single-family house.”

  “That’s unreal. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” Clayton said, handing the list back to the manager. “Can I have hard copies of the license information for each of those drivers?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Clayton took the information to the El Paso police headquarters and got a desk officer to cross-check all the names with computerized arrest records. Two of the women had rap sheets of one count each, for soliciting. The officer escorted Clayton to a vice-squad cop and introduced him as Detective Brewer. He was an older, soft-bellied man with a passive face who wore a shirt with a cigarette-ash burn in the pocket. His breath stank of nicotine.

  Brewer pulled the offense reports on the women. Both had been busted at an El Paso hotel.

  “What were the case dispositions?” Clayton asked.

  It took a minute for Brewer to ferret out the notations. “Both paid fines,” he said.

  “Where can I find them?” Clayton asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Brewer said. “They haven’t been seen in town for over a year, maybe two. Whores move around a lot these days, one city to the next.”

  “What about their pimps?”

  “There’s nothing in the files about that.”

  Brewer didn’t seem particularly eager to help, and his attitude bothered Clayton. He stuck Deborah Shea’s motor vehicle photograph under the man’s nose. “Do you know this woman?”

  Brewer shook his head.

  “How about Luis Rojas?”

  “I don’t know any Luis Rojas who’s working girls in El Paso,” the detective said.

  One by one, Clayton fed Brewer all the driver’s license photographs to review.

  “Except for the two whores, I don’t know any of these women,” Brewer said, handing them back.

  Although he didn’t mean it, Clayton said, “Thanks.”

  Brewer nodded, watched the Indian cop leave, and dialed a private number. “Tell Mr. Rojas I need to talk to him,” he said to the kid who answered the phone.

  “Call back at six,” Fidel said. “He’ll be here then.”

  The deputy’s report on the Norvell DWI stop identified the passenger in the car as Helen Pearson, and gave a rural route address. The phone book carried no listing, so Kerney called the post office and learned that Pearson now had a postal box. The application listed her permanent residence on a road off the Old Santa Fe Trail, just outside the city limits. It was a high-end neighborhood with big houses on large hillside view lots.

  Kerney drove to the address. No one answered his knock at the main house, but two cars were parked in front of a large detached studio. A sign over the door read BUCKAROO DESIGNS.

  Inside, two Hispanic women were working at sewing machines, and an Anglo woman was pinning pattern paper to some fabric at a large worktable in the center of the room. Racks of custom cowboy shirts, embroidered blue jeans, western-style dresses, and fringed jackets were lined up along a back wall. Bolts of fabric were neatly arranged on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Scraps of cloth littered the floor.

  The Anglo woman looked up, set aside a pincushion, and crossed the room. About forty, she had brown hair cut short, delicate features, and wore no makeup other than lipstick. The face of a film actress flashed across Kerney’s mind, but he couldn’t put a name to it.

  “Helen Pearson?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” the woman replied cheerily.

  Kerney showed Pearson his shield and her smile faded. “What is it?”

  “I’ve a few questions about Tyler Norvell.”

  Pearson broke off eye contact and her voice rose. “What kind of questions?”

  “You do know him?” Kerney asked, keeping an agreeable look on his face.

  “Past tense,” Pearson said. “I haven’t seen him in many years.”

  The palpable tension in Pearson’s body made Kerney want to probe more. But the shut-down look in her eyes argued against it. He moved off subject. “This is quite the enterprise you’ve got going,” he said, looking around the studio. “How long have you been in business?”

  “Eight years,” Pearson said, still frowning.

  Pearson wore a plain gold band on the
ring finger of her left hand. “Do you run the business with your husband?” Kerney asked.

  She glanced at the ring as though it had betrayed her. “No, he’s a landscape architect.”

  On a bulletin board behind a nearby desk were crayon drawings signed by Melissa and Stephen. “Do you have children?” Kerney asked.

  Pearson’s tension rose again. Her hand fluttered to her neck and her eyes looked frightened. “Why are you asking me all these things?”

  “How long have you been married?” Kerney asked.

  “Stop it,” Pearson hissed. She turned away to glance at the two women. “Why are you questioning me like this?” she whispered.

  “Would you be more comfortable if we talked outside?”

  Pearson nodded stiffly, her eyes dark with worry. She walked through the open door and led Kerney a good distance away from the studio.

  Pearson had reacted to Kerney’s innocuous questions in a way that made him believe she was hiding something. A straight-out lie just might shake it loose. “I know you worked for Norvell,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do I really need to be more graphic? I’ll put it another way: Norvell pimped for you.”

  Pearson trembled, hugged herself, and said nothing.

  Kerney stepped in closer. Pearson backed up. “It looks like you’ve built a new life for yourself,” he said. “Talking to me doesn’t have to ruin it.”

  She laughed, harshly, shallowly. “Oh, so you’re the good cop, right?”

  “Or the bad cop,” Kerney replied, “depending on how you want to play it.”

  “What would the bad cop do?” she asked, struggling for composure.

  “You have a husband, children, a thriving business, a reputation, new friends . . .”

  Pearson finished Kerney’s thought. “Do I want them to know I was once a whore, a hooker, a prostitute?” The words spilled out of her.