Nothing But Trouble

by Michael McGarrity

  Kerney stopped briefly at a display of intricately carved nineteenth-century wood chests imported from Mexico to watch a young woman at an adjacent booth put her handbag on the counter next to a stack of rare books. Dressed in black slacks and a white blouse, the woman wore a hat that hid her face. She picked up a book, studied it for a moment, put it back, and moved on.

  At the end of the aisle he saw Ramona Pino eyeballing the woman and wondered if he’d missed something. He stepped into the aisle, jockeying his way past a few people to get behind the woman as Ramona closed the gap from the opposite direction.

  The woman paused in front of a booth filled with landscape paintings. Ramona sidled up to her, gave Kerney a slight nod, and said, “Crystal Hurley?”

  The woman’s head snapped in Ramona’s direction. “What?”

  “Are you Crystal Hurley?” Ramona asked.

  “What if I am?”

  Ramona flashed the shield she held in the palm of her hand and put it quickly in the pocket of her slacks. “I need to speak with you,” she said softly. “Please step away with me.”

  “I will not.”

  “You’re not in trouble, Ms. Hurley,” Ramona said reassuringly.

  Hurley smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Ramona held out her hand. Self-destructive or not, Hurley could be packing, and that upped the danger considerably. “Can I look inside your handbag?”

  Hurley clutched it to her midriff, turned, and looked at Kerney, her blue eyes wide and frightened. Just then a woman stepped between Ramona and Hurley and a man jostled past Kerney, pushing him slightly off balance. Before he could react, Hurley bolted past him, knocked a woman to the floor, shoved a man into a display case, and ran down the aisle. People scattered as Ramona and Kerney forced their way through the spectators in hot pursuit. At the end of the aisle Hurley veered out of sight toward the lobby.

  Kerney turned the corner in a crouch. Up ahead he spotted Hurley making for the exit. Ramona darted past him, caught Hurley at the door, and slammed her against it.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Hurley yelled as Ramona cuffed her.

  Kerney covered the takedown with his weapon at the ready.

  Ramona spun Hurley around. “Calm down,” she said softly. “Everything will be all right. We’re going to get you some help.”

  Kerney holstered his weapon and picked up the handbag Hurley had dropped on the floor. It contained a wallet, a cosmetic case, a nickel-plated .22 semiautomatic, and an old silver-and-turquoise Navajo bracelet with the dealer’s tag still attached.

  Kerney held up the bracelet. “She may also need a lawyer.”

  Hurley looked at the bracelet and then smiled seductively at Kerney. “I’ll give you a blow job if you’ll let me go.”

  “Not today, thank you,” Kerney replied.

  Ramona grinned at Kerney’s response as she pushed Hurley out the door.

  Three hours later Crystal Hurley sat in an observation room at the hospital, sedated and under guard, while Ramona and Kerney cleared all of the recent art-theft cases.

  Ramona loaded the last of the evidence from the guesthouse into her unit and looked down on the lights of Santa Fe that shimmered across the plateau. “Do you think she’s crazy?”

  “Not crazy would be my guess,” Kerney said.

  “Then what?” Ramona asked, glancing around at the hilltop estate. “The woman has been given everything.”

  Kerney shrugged. “Not everything. Maybe she feels unloved. There’s nothing worse than that.”

  Thinking about her ex-boyfriend and the emptiness she now felt about her personal life, Ramona stared off into the night sky and nodded solemnly.

  Chapter Three

  July and August were the busiest months in the summer tourist season and placed a heavy burden on the Santa Fe Police Department. Early in July, before things heated up, Crystal Hurley was arraigned on multiple felony charges, including carrying a concealed weapon, and entered a not-guilty plea. She paid a hefty cash bond, surrendered her passport, agreed to remain in the state, and underwent a court-ordered psychological evaluation. Immediately thereafter she entered a private psychiatric hospital for treatment.

  If convicted on all counts Hurley faced the possibility of fifteen to twenty years in prison, although Kerney doubted such a sentence would be handed down. According to Ramona Pino, who was doing follow-up legwork for the prosecutors, Hurley’s lawyers and shrinks were busy building a case based on their client’s long-standing emotional problems.

  Although in principal everyone was equal before the law, the scales of justice always seemed to tip in favor of those people with money, power, or influence. Kerney had seen it played out time and again during his law-enforcement career. Hurley’s money might not buy her love, happiness, or peace of mind, but it could go a hell of a long way to lessen the legal consequences of her criminal behavior.

  During the last weekend in July the annual Spanish Market was held on the Plaza. The largest exhibition of traditional and contemporary Hispanic arts in the country, it remained one of the few major events in the city that still drew the locals downtown. It had grown in size and scope over the past thirty-odd years, but from a policing standpoint the crowds and the congestion remained manageable.

  For the major Plaza events Kerney put on his uniform and worked side by side with his officers. Throughout the weekend mariachi bands played, flamenco dancers whirled, politicians made speeches, processions circled the Plaza, arts-and-crafts people sold their wares, and folks lined up at the food booths, drawn by the spicy aromas of New Mexico cuisine.

  August brought Indian Market, an event where upwards of a hundred thousand people converged on Santa Fe. To manage the congestion and chaos Kerney saturated the downtown area with all available officers. When time allowed, he would relinquish his command responsibilities to his deputy chief, Larry Otero, and spend an hour or two on foot patrol, relieving his supervisors for meal breaks or walking a beat through the hundreds of white tents that ringed the Plaza and spread down the side streets. It was a weekend of extra shifts for every officer on duty.

  The population of Santa Fe more than doubled during Indian Market and stretched his department’s resources to the limit. The number of sworn personnel Kerney had was barely adequate to cope with the resident population of Santa Fe, and the possibility of a disaster or major crime during Indian Market always worried him. Fortunately, the weekend wound down with nothing more than a few purse snatchings, several cases of heatstroke, some lost children safely returned to their parents, one shoplifting arrest, and a few fender benders.

  In late August the mayor publicly announced that he would not stand for reelection in March. As the candidates lined up to announce their intention to run for the office, a stream of concerned, curious, and ambitious senior commanders sought Kerney out to question him about his plans. He made it clear to all that he would step down and retire, although he didn’t say when. He needed to discuss it with Sara first, and not by telephone.

  On a Friday morning Kerney took an early flight from Albuquerque to Washington, D.C., where Sara was to meet him at the airport. After he arrived, he spotted her outside the passenger screening area with Patrick at her side. His son, now three, had grown again and looked more and more like his mother each time Kerney saw him. The same strawberry-blond hair, eyes more green than blue, the same line of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and a smile that melted Kerney’s heart.

  Patrick broke away from his mother and ran to Kerney, who picked him up and gave him a bear hug.

  “Can I have a pony?” Patrick asked, after Kerney smooched him.

  “What does your mother say?” Kerney asked as Sara stepped up, gave him a kiss, stroked his cheek, and smiled her wonderful smile. She was wearing her Class A army uniform, which surprised Kerney. On the phone last night she’d said she was taking the day off.

  Patrick raised four fingers. “I have to be this old.”

&
nbsp; “How old are you now?”

  Patrick glumly held up three fingers.

  “You’ll be four soon enough,” Kerney said.

  Patrick shook his head, as though such a day was an eternity away.

  “Don’t pout,” Kerney said. “Soon you’ll be back in New Mexico and you can ride with me every day.”

  Patrick’s eyes lit up. “Every day, forever?”

  Kerney laughed. “How long is that?”

  Patrick pondered the question seriously and spread his arms wide. “This much is forever.”

  “Forever it is,” Kerney agreed with a laugh. “Are you working?” he asked Sara.

  Sara nodded. “I’ll tell you about it on the ride home.”

  In her SUV, Sara explained that she’d been called a few hours ago and told to report to her Pentagon boss at sixteen hundred hours.

  “I don’t know why,” she added. “But my orders for embassy duty have been rescinded. I’m to remain at the Pentagon until further notice.”

  “In the same job?” Kerney asked.

  “God, I hope not,” Sara said. For three years she’d worked for a one-star general, a petty tyrant who’d given her nothing but grief. It was a distinct possibility that her orders had been canceled as a payback for standing up to him time and time again.

  “So we’re in limbo,” Kerney said.

  “For now. Have you officially resigned?”

  “Not yet,” Kerney replied. “The mayor asked me to stay on until the end of his term. I wanted to talk to you about it before I gave him my answer.”

  Sara sighed.

  “What?” Kerney asked.

  “It seems like reality is again interfering in our lives.”

  “I will retire, Sara. In fact, I’ve already announced it.”

  “Well, that’s one piece of the puzzle.”

  “What are the other pieces?”

  They’d reached Arlington, Virginia, where Sara and Patrick lived in the house Kerney had bought as an investment when Sara had started her tour of duty at the Pentagon. She turned onto the street that led to the Cape Cod-style cottage and pulled into the driveway.

  “Will we ever get to the point where we can live together as a family?” Sara asked as she killed the engine.

  Kerney avoided Sara’s questioning look, removed Patrick from his child’s seat, hoisted him into the front of the SUV, and put him on his lap. The last thing he wanted was to start the weekend with an argument.

  Sara put the SUV into reverse and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not picking a fight. Patrick has a brand-new book he’s been saving for you to read to him, and guess what? It’s about a horse.”

  Patrick grinned and tugged Kerney’s hand. “It’s about a pony,” he said emphatically, “not a horse. I’ll show it to you.”

  Kerney opened the door. “Let’s go, champ. I’ve got to see this book.”

  As Sara drove away, Patrick scooted toward the cottage, urging Kerney to hurry. He followed Patrick up the path, delighted by his smart, self-confident son and disconcerted about Sara’s situation. Would new orders place her in harm’s way, separated from Kerney and Patrick for the duration?

  Except for Kerney’s pending retirement all plans were now on hold. There was some solace knowing that at least he’d be free to be a full-time parent if circumstances required it. But the thought of not seeing Sara for an indefinite period of time was gut wrenching.

  “Come on, Daddy,” Patrick said.

  Kerney smiled and hurried to his son.

  Brigadier General Stuart Thatcher delighted in keeping subordinates off guard and anxious. He routinely called his staff in for impromptu meetings or one-on-one confabs without specifying an agenda, and took great pleasure in making them wait interminably outside his office.

  To deal with the man, Sara tried hard to control her feisty nature but at times found it impossible to do so. With appropriate deference to his rank she would occasionally point out to Thatcher that she would be better prepared to meet with him if she knew in advance what he needed to talk to her about. The suggestion always brought color to Thatcher’s cheeks.

  Additionally, Sara had taken to asking Thatcher’s secretary to buzz her when the general was ready to meet, so she could work at her desk rather than waste time cooling her heals outside his office. Although it raised Thatcher’s ire, he couldn’t fault her working instead of waiting.

  How Thatcher had earned his one-star rank had always confounded Sara, until she’d learned he was a third-generation West Pointer with a senior U.S. senator in his extended family.

  Sara shared an office with three other officers. She sat at her cubicle desk and listened as her colleagues got ready to leave for the day. Twelve-to sixteen-hour workdays were not uncommon at the Pentagon. But when Friday came, everybody who wasn’t scheduled for weekend duty bailed out as soon as possible.

  On her desk stood a photograph of Kerney and Patrick astride a horse at the Santa Fe ranch. From the grins on their faces both of them looked like they were in heaven. Sara marveled at how much Patrick and Kerney were alike in personality, temperament, and looks. They had the same square shoulders, gentle strong hands, and narrow waists. They shared a dogged determination to do things well and a capacity to be bullheaded.

  Two sides of the same coin, she thought with a smile.

  She said good-night as her office mates filtered out, wondering how long Thatcher would keep her waiting. An hour later, after she had cleared out some routine paperwork, Sara’s phone rang and she was summoned to Thatcher’s office, where she found him sitting ramrod straight in his chair, hands clasped on the obsessively tidy desk.

  Sara snapped to and said, “Sir.”

  Thatcher raised his egg-shaped head that was punctuated by a pointy nose, thin lips, and a seriously receding hairline. “You are to be held over at the Pentagon pending reassignment.”

  “Sir, I am aware of that,” Sara said, wondering if Thatcher had called her in to repeat old news simply as a way to jack her around.

  Thatcher forced a smile and waved her into a chair. “Of course you are. But I’ve been asked to determine if you’ll accept a TDY assignment in the training branch.”

  Sara sat. TDY meant temporary duty. “What would the job entail, General?”

  “You’d serve as a member of a special project team tasked with preparing an advanced military-police-officer curriculum for reserve and National Guard units. It must be accomplished in six months.”

  Sara nodded, wondering why the training branch would be given a project that rightly fell under Thatcher’s purview.

  “However, if you choose, you could remain in your present position until your permanent orders come through. That would allow you to take your scheduled thirty-day leave next month.”

  “Sir,” Sara said, “would it be possible for me to start on the TDY project after my return from leave?”

  Thatcher almost sneered with delight. “I rather doubt it. The assignment has the highest priority. What shall it be, Colonel?”

  Stone faced, Sara parried Thatcher’s squeeze play. “If possible, General, I would appreciate it if you would query the training branch on my behalf to determine if I could begin the assignment after I return from leave.”

  Thatcher shook his head. “I’m afraid I need a yes or a no from you, Colonel.”

  Sara stood and snapped to attention. “With all due respect, you have my answer, General.”

  “I doubt your answer will be well received,” Thatcher said. He looked decidedly pleased with the prospect of keeping Sara under his thumb for a while longer. “But I will pass your request along. You’re dismissed, Colonel.”

  Sara saluted, did an abrupt about-face, and left Thatcher’s office. He waited a few minutes before dialing the number of the aide-de-camp to the vice chief of staff, who was organizing the special team.

  “General Thatcher here,” he said when the aide answered.

  “Yes, General.”

  “I’m calling abou
t Lieutenant Colonel Brannon.”

  “Sir, will you hold for the vice chief?”

  Taken aback, Thatcher said, “Of course.” He’d had no inkling of the vice chief’s personal interest in Brannon or the project.

  Quickly, General Henry Powhatan Clarke came on the line. “What did the colonel decide, Stuart?” he asked.

  “I believe Colonel Brannon would rather remain in her current position, sir.”

  “What makes you say that?” Clarke asked.

  “She seems quite satisfied here, General.”

  Henry Powhatan Clarke knew better. As a four-star general recently installed as the vice chief of staff, he’d checked up on Sara Brannon without her knowledge. She’d been one of the best young officers to serve under him in Korea, winning the prestigious Distinguished Service Medal and a meritorious field promotion to her present rank. Under Thatcher, a man who should never have been allowed to pin a star on his collar, she was languishing, not being used to her full abilities.

  “Did she turn down the assignment?” Clarke asked.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “What exactly did she say?”

  “She asked if she could take the TDY assignment after completing her leave. I told her it was unlikely.”

  “Did you, now? Well, you tell her I want her bright eyed and bushy tailed when she reports to the training branch after her leave is over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where in the hell did you get this notion she had to start the job immediately?”

  “I believe that’s what your aide told me, General,” Thatcher replied.

  “Negative, Thatcher. My aide made the call to you from my office, and he said no such thing.”

  “I must have misunderstood, General.”

  “Indeed you did,” Clarke snapped. “When does Colonel Brannon start her leave?”

  “In about two or three weeks, sir.”

  “Very well. Before she departs, make sure you’ve done her efficiency rating and forward a copy of it to me immediately. Understood?”