The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  Clayton waited, hoping for more action at the house. Except for an occasional vehicle passing by, everything stayed quiet. Finally, he decided to call it quits, drive home, catch some sleep, and check in with Sheriff Hewitt in the morning. He packed up his gear, belly crawled until the slope of the hill gave him enough cover to rise, and made a beeline for his unit.

  Jeff Vialpando held the money out to Sally Greer—three hundred bucks—which was a fair price for an hour of her time, given her good looks and knockout body. When she slipped the bills in her clutch purse, he showed his shield and told her she was busted.

  With a poor-me, dismayed look on her face, Greer sat on the hotel-room bed and tried hard not to cry, holding it back in small, tight gasps. Her reaction surprised him. Most hookers either played it nonchalant or put on the tough cookie role with cops.

  Vialpando looked down the front of her skimpy dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and there were faint bite marks on her breasts. The bruises on her arms had turned yellow, and makeup covered the mouse on her face.

  “I have to call a lawyer,” Greer said.

  Vialpando sat next to her, thinking about her interesting choice of words. Why not need to or want to? That’s what most of the working girls said when faced with arrest. Greer was a rookie.

  Vialpando looked at her face. There wasn’t anything hard about it, just a vacant sadness. He smiled sympathetically. “That might not be the wisest thing to do. It makes your situation more complicated.”

  “I can have a lawyer, can’t I?” Greer asked pleadingly.

  “Have you ever been arrested before?” Vialpando asked.

  Greer shook her head.

  “Here’s the way it goes,” Vialpando said. “I haven’t read you your rights yet. If I do that, then you really are busted and I have to book you into jail. First off, you’ll be strip-searched. They never show that part on TV. All your body cavities will be probed. Then you’ll be dressed out in jail coveralls, fingerprinted, photographed, and locked in a tiny holding cell while I do the paperwork. It’s got a concrete bunk, a toilet, a light that never goes off, and a small window in the door so you can be watched at all times. When I’m finished, you get to make one phone call. It’s late by then, so the chances are good it will take the lawyer a couple of hours to arrange for your bail. Do you want that?”

  Again, Greer shook her head.

  “Let’s say you get out on bail,” Vialpando continued. “You’ll still have a court date. If you show up, I’ll make sure the newspapers cover it, especially your hometown paper. If you skip out, you become a fugitive from justice, which always carries jail time. While I’m waiting to see which way you decide to go, I’ll put twenty-four-hour surveillance on you. Each time you meet a client, you’ll get busted. See how complicated it can get when you ask for a lawyer?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Greer asked.

  “Talk to me, off the record.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Do you want to be a whore?” Vialpando asked.

  Greer dropped her head. “No, but I don’t want to die, either.”

  “You won’t, I promise.”

  Greer looked up. “I’m strung out.”

  “That won’t kill you,” Vialpando said.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Make me understand.”

  Tears ran down Greer’s face. She wiped them away. “I owe money to people.”

  “To Cassie Bedlow, I bet.”

  “You know?” Surprise filled her voice.

  Vialpando nodded, got the desk chair, positioned it near the bed, sat, and leaned forward, not so close as to break into Greer’s personal space, but close enough to keep her focused on him. It was time to get to the nitty-gritty.

  “We know all about it,” he said. “How she set you up with the tuition loan and reeled you in when you couldn’t pay it back. Maybe even got you started on drugs. You’re not the only one she’s done it to.”

  “I know.”

  “But I don’t think Bedlow would kill you.”

  “Not her,” Greer said.

  “Who?”

  “This man, this boy.”

  “What happened?”

  Greer took a deep breath to compose herself. “We were down in Ruidoso on location. The whole class. It was kinda like a big deal because we were finishing school and the photos would complete our portfolios. Cassie told me I had to pay her back right away for the tuition, plus interest. I told her I couldn’t, and she said I had to work it off, that she had a job for me.”

  “Then what?”

  “This boy drove me to El Paso, where a man and a woman were waiting.” Greer started sobbing, her face twisting into a look of disgust.

  Vialpando gave her a minute before saying, “Go on.”

  “They did me, all three of them. The boy put a gun to my head while he was on top of me. He said if I ever failed to do what I was told, I’d be killed.”

  “Then he beat you,” Vialpando said.

  “No, that happened the next night in Ruidoso when I turned my first trick. They killed him for hurting me, I’m sure of it. It was in the papers. I went to Cassie and asked her about it. She said I would end up the same way if I ever said a word.”

  “I need names and places, Sally.”

  Greer gave him what specifics she had. The man was Luis Rojas. The woman was called Debbie, and the kid Fidel, but she didn’t know their last names. The trick who’d beaten her was Felix, an Hispanic male. She’d picked him up at the Indian casino while Rojas and Fidel watched.

  The house in El Paso was like an estate, and by the way Rojas acted, was probably owned by him. The cabin in Ruidoso was a rental, Casey’s Cozy Cabins. Rojas had driven her there with the trick. Fidel, who was assigned to keep an eye on Greer, followed in another car.

  “We’re going to have to go over this again,” Vialpando said, “in greater detail.”

  “Will I be safe?” Greer asked. The makeup covering the bruise on her cheek had been washed away by tears, and her eyes were red.

  “I’ll make sure you are,” Jeff said gently, reaching out to pat her hand. “Who’s the lawyer you were supposed to call?”

  “Leo Silva,” Greer replied.

  The fifth partner, Vialpando thought as he opened the door and motioned for a detective to enter. “This officer will stay with you,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Sally Greer wasn’t listening. She dropped to her knees at the side of the bed and curled up in a ball, crying in long, jerky sobs.

  Vialpando stepped into the adjacent room just as Ramona took off the earphones and swiveled in his direction.

  “Wow,” she said, flashing him a smile. “You got more than I bargained for.”

  “What next?” Jeff asked. “It’s your call.”

  “We need to get as much out of her as we can and then find a safe place to stash her under protective custody.”

  “I can arrange that.”

  “I’m worried that she may still be being watched. Can we use one of your female detectives to pose as Greer? We put her in Greer’s car, wearing a wig and Greer’s dress, and send her to the apartment. She picks up some clothes and personal items to make it look like Greer decided to bolt, and we give her backup in case she’s followed.”

  “It will take about an hour to arrange it,” Vialpando said. “I’ll have to call in an off-duty detective. She’s almost a perfect physical match to Greer. Did you catch who her lawyer is?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m going back in there for round two,” Jeff said.

  “You did real good,” Ramona said.

  “You’re just saying that because we’re dating.”

  The vice cop who’d been videotaping the conversation looked up and grinned at both of them.

  Vialpando grinned at the cop and said, “Get Westgard for me. Tell her I need her here ASAP.”

  “Ten-four,” the cop said, reaching for the phone.

&
nbsp; “Go back to work,” Ramona said. “I need to call my chief.”

  Sal Molina called before heading out to Kerney’s house. The chief, who’d recently moved, gave him his new address, and Molina drove the quiet narrow road that wound up the canyon, past million-dollar properties. He knew the chief was rich, but because Kerney never made a big deal about it, Sal hadn’t paid it much mind. That all changed as he swung into the driveway of a beautifully restored enormous adobe hacienda and parked in front of an equally charming guest house. From the size of it and the location, he guessed Kerney had to be putting out at least four grand a month in rent, which was quite a bit more than Molina’s monthly take-home pay—a whole lot more.

  Although it was past midnight, Kerney greeted him wide-eyed and awake, looking somewhat strained. He took Molina into a dimly lit, nicely furnished living room, where an almost full whiskey bottle and an empty glass sat on an end table next to an easy chair.

  The whiskey bottle surprised Sal. He knew for a fact that Kerney wasn’t much of a drinker, that the bullet wound to his gut had chewed up some of his intestines, destroyed part of his stomach, and made him cautious when it came to booze, so he wondered what was up.

  “What have you got, Lieutenant?” Kerney asked.

  “Information on Silva, Barrett, and Rojas,” Molina said. “Plus some recent photographs of them.”

  Kerney nodded. “Run it down for me.”

  Molina spent ten minutes briefing Kerney, who looked at the photographs and listened silently, chin resting in his hand.

  “You got questions, Chief?” Molina asked, as he closed his notebook.

  “Not right now,” Kerney replied. “A lot has happened and things are moving fast. I want a midday meeting tomorrow with you, Piño, that APD sergeant, Vialpando, plus two of your best detectives. Officers who can write flawless arrest and search-warrant affidavits. We’ll put all the pieces we have together then and hammer out a plan of action. Set it up for me, will you?”

  Molina nodded. “Want to tell me what’s been happening?”

  “Let’s save it for the meeting.”

  Sal eyed the chief. Although his instructions were clear, there was something different about Kerney’s tone. What was it? A blandness? A remoteness? Had the whiskey blunted Kerney’s usual upbeat disposition?

  Molina decided to risk asking. “Are you all right, Chief?”

  “Yeah, I’m good, Sal,” Kerney replied, pushing himself out of the chair. “Leave those photos behind, will you? I can use them in the morning.”

  Molina dropped the photos on the coffee table, said good night, and left, convinced that something was troubling the boss.

  Chapter 12

  Fitful dreams and a dull headache woke Kerney earlier than usual. In the predawn darkness, he reviewed the material the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department had sent up to Santa Fe: the autopsy report, forensic lab findings, and Clayton’s field notes on the excavation of Anna Marie’s body. Nothing had been uncovered that could tie Tyler Norvell, or any other unknown suspect, to the killing.

  Kerney wasn’t surprised; the victim had been murdered elsewhere and moved, and too much time had passed between the murder and the discovery of the body, which made the chances of finding any trace evidence almost nil.

  Without physical evidence tying Norvell to the crime, Kerney would have to build a convincing circumstantial case. Anna Marie’s letters and the fact that Norvell was in Santa Fe at the time of her murder put Kerney part of the way there. But he would need more persuasive information to convince the DA to approve an arrest affidavit for Norvell. He would have to develop the case in bits and pieces.

  Kerney closed the files. Clayton had done a thorough job excavating Montoya’s remains. He wondered if praising his son’s good work would be worth the effort. Would Clayton simply respond with his usual cool disdain?

  Kerney arrived for his follow-up interview with Helen Pearson curious to see how she’d held up overnight. Her hair was uncombed, her eyes were drained of emotion, and she moved in a distracted, almost awkward way.

  “How long will this take?” she asked, her voice thin and troubled.

  “Not long, I hope,” Kerney answered, still feeling the headache that had dogged him since waking. He hadn’t taken anything for it. The nagging throb kept his thoughts off Sara, so it served a good purpose.

  The living room curtains, open yesterday, were closed, darkening the room. Helen Pearson sat in a chair where shadows hid her face. Kerney turned on a table lamp next to her and she blinked like a startled child caught doing mischief.

  “Belinda Louise Nieto,” Kerney said. “Tell me about her.”

  Pearson’s mouth tightened, twisted. “I didn’t know her.”

  “What do you know about her?” Kerney asked.

  “She was just before my time,” Pearson replied.

  “And?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  She thought about her answer, rubbing her lips together as if it would make the words come out. “She was an object lesson to keep the girls in line.”

  “Why was that?”

  “She booked dates on the side, held back money, met with clients who hadn’t been screened, broke appointments, rejected bookings with men who didn’t appeal to her, demanded additional payment for anything kinky, and sometimes refused to travel.”

  “She was murdered for not following the rules,” Kerney said.

  Pearson nodded. “The girls were told not to make the same mistakes Belinda did.”

  “Who killed her?”

  Pearson shifted away from the lamp as if the glare was somehow hazardous. “Everyone figured it had to be Luis Rojas, or someone he sent to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was the enforcer.”

  “Just for the girls?” Kerney asked.

  “And clients who misbehaved.”

  “Were you warned about any other object lessons?”

  “A girl in Houston, a client in Phoenix. There may be more, I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the life.”

  “So, Denver isn’t the only base of operations.”

  “No. There’s Phoenix, Houston, and El Paso, and probably a few more cities by now. Sex is a thriving business,” she added sarcastically.

  “Albuquerque?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you know a woman named Anna Marie Montoya?” Kerney asked.

  “The murdered woman who went missing from here years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never met her.”

  “Did Norvell ever mention her to you?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Tell me about your clientele.”

  The request made Pearson angry. “Will knowing who I fucked for a living get you off?”

  “I left here yesterday amazed at how you’d turned your life around,” Kerney answered. “I’m still impressed.”

  “Sorry,” Pearson said with a flicker of an apologetic smile. “It’s hard to think about all of this. The men I saw were wealthy, well-known celebrities, or prominent people in their home communities. One was a network television journalist, another was a professional basketball player. The list goes on and on. I even saw a city police chief from Texas for a time. Does that surprise you?”

  “Not really. Anyone from New Mexico?”

  “Just one man Tyler set me up with. That’s how I first came to Santa Fe. I spent three or four weekends with him over a period of about a year. His name was Raymond, but I think that was fictitious.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Anything more than an evening in a hotel room usually happened away from the client’s home turf. That means dinners out and being seen together without worry, a little shopping to buy the girl a present or two, taking in the sights. Raymond didn’t want to do any of that. We just stayed at Tyler’s house the whole time. Plus it was all a freebee. I was never paid a di
me. Several other girls had the same experience with him.”

  “I’d like you to look at some pictures,” Kerney said, handing over the photographs Sal Molina had left behind last night.

  Pearson held the photos in the light. She shook her head at the one of Gene Barrett, identified Luis Rojas, and held up the last photo. “That’s Raymond.”

  The image of archconservative state senator and attorney Leo Silva stared back at Kerney. According to Sal Molina, Silva was licensed to practice law in New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, and Texas, and was affiliated with law firms in El Paso, Phoenix, Denver, and Houston.

  He now knew that Piño and Vialpando were right, Silva was the fifth partner.

  “I need you to write out a statement covering what we discussed yesterday and today,” Kerney said.

  “All of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “When the time comes, I’ll present it to the district attorney and ask that you be treated as a confidential informant. He might agree to avoid bringing you before a grand jury.”

  “You can guarantee that?” Pearson asked.

  “Not yet,” Kerney replied. “But if I gather a few more facts it might be possible.”

  It took some time for Pearson to write her statement. Kerney sat with her at the kitchen table, refreshing her memory as needed. She kept her head down as she wrote, stopping to look up when Kerney spoke, absorbing what he said like a schoolgirl taking class notes. It made her look innocent and vulnerable.

  Kerney decided there was a deep reservoir of goodness in Helen Pearson, and that she deserved to have her new life protected.

  Kerney left Pearson and his headache behind with a promise to keep her informed. Outside, a stiff spring wind blew dust through the evergreens and rolled a few brittle leaves across the gravel driveway. Downtown, the thick stand of poplar and Russian olive trees surrounding the state capitol building swayed in the wind, bare branches clacking together in erratic patterns.

  Bill Perkins, the legislative staffer who had pulled Norvell’s per diem reimbursement voucher at Kerney’s request, was in his office. A financial analyst, Perkins evaluated funding and appropriation requests for a number of state agencies, including the state police. Kerney had worked with Perkins during his tenure as deputy chief of the department.