Demora nodded. "I hope not. Now, fill me in on the murder investigations so I can brief the mayor. This isn't the kind of national exposure Santa Fe needs."
"It certainly isn't," Kerney said, holding back on the somewhat snide thought that criminals really should be more sensitive to the chamber-of-commerce vision of a picture-perfect retirement and
playground community for the well-to-do and outright rich. The murder of a prominent citizen was unseemly, only served to tarnish the city's image, and caused hand wringing for both the boosters and the local politicians.
He forced down his anger at having his first major decision as chief challenged for the sake of petty politics, and began to explain the status of the investigations.
***
Growing up poor in Mexico, Ignacio Terjo had learned the hard way the importance of money. His first border crossing into America had driven the point home even more thoroughly. After arriving in Santa Fe he'd gone hungry and had slept under a bridge, covered only by newspapers and cardboard, until he found his way to a homeless shelter. Vowing never to be so needy again, Terjo now kept two hundred dollars sewn in the inside lining of his winter coat or tucked into the watch pocket of his jeans during warm weather.
Wary about his false identity, Ignacio had avoided becoming too friendly with the Mexican nationals who lived on the south side of the city, fearing he might be recognized. Instead, he'd gotten to know some of the locals, found his way to a good job with Mrs. Terrell, and met Rebecca.
Life had been good for a while, and now it wasn't anymore.
Released from the county jail, he'd walked to the outlet mall near the Interstate and rented a room for the night at a nearby motel, figuring the police wouldn't look for him there. After a quick trip to the food court at the mall, he'd locked himself inside the room, passed the time watching a Spanish television station, and plotted his escape from Santa Fe. He would go to Tucson where he could blend in easily, find work, and then call Rebecca to tell her that he was all right.
To do it he needed to get to his truck, which was parked at the stables.
A city bus stopped at the mall soon after it opened. He would ride the bus downtown, walk from there to the stables, and, if the police weren't there watching, drive away. He checked the clock on the bedside table. The bus wasn't due to arrive for another thirty minutes.
Outside his room he heard the sound of a car. It started briefly, sputtered, and then died. Again and again the engine failed to catch. He went to the window, pulled back the curtain, peeked out, and saw awoman bent over the car's engine compartment. Before he could release the curtain she turned, saw him, and gestured for him to come outside.
Terjo shook his head. The woman stepped to the window and knocked on the glass. Terjo studied
her. She looked frustrated and distressed. He slid the window open.
"Do you know anything about cars?" the woman asked.
"Yes, a little," Terjo replied.
"Could you please see if you can get it started for me? Please?"
Terjo looked around at the parking lot before replying. He didn't see any police.
"Okay."
He unlocked the door and it slammed into his face, knocking him backward. The woman and a man with a pistol forced him facedown on the carpet, handcuffed him, and searched him before yanking him to a sitting position.
Charlie Perry cocked his weapon and put the barrel an inch away from Terjo's right eye.
"You've got one minute to tell me who Phyllis Terrell had sex with the night she was murdered."
"And if I do?" Terjo asked, stammering to get the words out.
"You go home to Mexico and you live," Perry said. "But if you ever come back to this country, you die, Ignacio."
"I'm Santiago, not Ignacio."
"Drop the game," Perry snapped. "You're wasting time."
"What about Rebecca and my daughter? I need to see them, por favor.
Perry pushed the barrel against Terjo's eyeball. "That's not an option. Maybe we'll have the Mexico authorities throw you in prison as a drug smuggler. Now you have three choices. Pick one."
Terjo pulled his head back and looked through watery eyes at the woman, who stared at him without expression.
"His name is Randall Stewart. He lives up the hill from Mrs. Terrell, behind Alexandra Lawton's house. He was with her the last time I saw the senora alive. She asked me not to say anything."
"You're a good boy, Ignacio," Perry said as he released the hammer to his weapon and turned to the woman.
"Get him out of here."
Agent Applewhite nodded and pulled Terjo to his feet.
"Don't even think about killing him," Perry added. Applewhite smiled wickedly and marched Terjo out the door.
***
At the office Kerney worked his way slowly through a large group of smiling officers and civilian employees who'd gathered for an informal celebration of Larry Otero's promotion. Folks who'd been reserved, distant, or hesitant with Kerney praised his selection. Even two senior captains who'd been passed over for the appointment seemed pleased, as did several sergeants and lieutenants who could now think seriously about the possibility of moving up in rank. But the officers active in the police union were conspicuous by their absence.
Helen had bought a bouquet of flowers that sat on the vacant secretary's desk outside Otero's new office. She'd had a metallic silver banner hung above the door that read in bold letters, CONGRATULATIONS. A large coffeepot and pastries arranged on platters filled an office desk that had been covered with a tablecloth.
With his wife and two adolescent children next to him--a gangly, beanpole boy and an attractive, serious-looking girl--Larry Otero stood in the middle of the room surrounded by well-wishers, his face flushed with quiet pleasure. Otero's wife, a petite woman with a toothy smile, held a camera with a flash attachment in her hand.
Kerney stepped over to Otero, who interrupted the flow of conversation to introduce Kerney to his family.
"Will you do the honors, Chief?" Larry asked as he held out a double set of three stars, denoting his new rank.
"With pleasure," Kerney said. He pinned the stars on Otero's collar while Larry's wife took pictures, and the room broke into applause.
***
After more picture-taking and small talk, the event ended as off duty personnel from the graveyard shift who'd stayed over for the party went home and the day-shift workers scattered. When Otero's wife left to take the kids to school and go to work, Kerney invited Larry into his office and sat with him at the conference table.
"Did you catch any flak out of city hall about my appointment?" Otero asked uneasily.
"None at all," Kerney said, unwilling to start Otero off in his new job on a negative note.
A smile erased a slight tightness at the corners of Otero's mouth and he relaxed in his chair. His eyes seemed to invite further discussion, but he let the topic slide.
"Are you ready for your marching orders?" Kerney asked.
Otero's smiled widened and he nodded. "Whenever you are, Chief."
"Let's get to it," Kerney said, reaching for the paperwork he'd prepared for Otero.
***
Randall Stewart's hands were cold and clammy, and a persistent impulse to wash them wouldn't go away. Because he was locked in a room at the National Guard armory, handcuffed with his arms between the slats of a straight-backed chair, sitting in the middle of a room, he couldn't do that. Instead, he waited for the special agent to come back into view.
For twenty minutes Stewart had been bombarded with questions. But now the agent constantly circled around the chair, silently scrutinizing him. Stewart felt trapped and vulnerable.
Charlie Perry had intercepted Stewart as he'd parked his shiny new BMW in front of his stock brokerage office. Tall and slim with a full head of curly dark hair, Stewart was at least fifteen years younger than Phyllis Terrell. Perry disliked the man instantly. His carefully tailored, expensive suit, his fancy car, the
premium leather attache case he carried, the smug look on his face when Perry approached him, all combined to piss Charlie off.
"Phyllis never talked to you about political matters?" Perry asked, stopping behind Stewart's chair, out of sight.
"Never," Stewart replied craning his neck in a futile attempt to look at the agent.
"What about the ambassador?" Perry asked.
"Did she talk about him?"
"Only to say she was glad the divorce was going through."
"What about his work?"
"She didn't talk about that."
"Never?"
"I knew he was on some sort of a government trade mission, that's all."
"Did she tell you about the trade mission?"
"No."
Perry stepped into Stewart's view. "Did you ever have any political or philosophical discussions with her?"
"That wasn't the focus of our relationship."
"She didn't seem to care if people knew about her other lovers. Why the secrecy when it came to you?"
"Because we were neighbors, and I didn't want my wife to find out about it. Nor did she."
"And Terjo? Why was he asked to keep the secret?"
"Because he'd worked for my wife upon occasion, and he knew both of us. And my wife was friendly with Phyllis."
"Did you pay him for his silence?"
"I didn't, no. Phyllis may have, but I doubt it. Terjo seemed willing to treat it as none of his business."
"Did Phyllis ever ask you to do any favors for her?"
"Like what?" Stewart asked.
"You tell me," Perry replied.
The agent had clamped the handcuffs painfully tight around Stewart's wrists.
"You can't keep me handcuffed like this," he said.
Perry smiled devilishly and leaned close to Stewart. "Does it hurt, Randall?"
"Its a violation of my rights."
"You've got no rights," Perry said.
"I could blow your fucking brains out and probably get a personal commendation from the White House. You were in Phyllis Terrell's pants the night she was murdered. That makes you murder suspect number one. As far as I'm concerned you're a stone-cold killer."
"I didn't kill her. Listen, it was just sex, like I told you. There was nothing else to it."
Perry guffawed. "Or maybe she was gonna cut you off, and you didn't like the idea of losing out on some great pussy."
"That's not true."
Perry circled behind Stewart again and patted him on the shoulder. "You know," he said gently, "I want to believe you, Randall. Now, let's try again: Did Phyllis give you anything to hold for her? Documents? Papers? Anything like that?"
"No, nothing. She asked me to mail a letter at the post office the next morning on my way to work, which I did."
"What kind of letter?"
"A manila envelope."
"Who was it addressed to?"
"She didn't say."
"You didn't look at the address?"
"I checked it to make sure I dropped it in the right drive-up box outside the post office. It had a local address."
"What was the address?"
"I don't remember exactly. Somebody at the College of Santa Fe, but I don't remember who."
Perry remained behind Stewart to hide the look of annoyance on his face. He kept his tone even.
"Did Phyllis mention the contents of the envelope?"
"No, she just said she wanted to make sure it didn't sit in her mailbox, because she was going out of town and she'd put a hold on her mail delivery until she got back."
Perry patted Stewart's shoulder one more time and uncuffed him.
Randall pulled his arms through the slats, rubbed his wrists, and glared angrily at the agent when he stepped into view.
"You can't treat people this way," he said.
"Is that a threat, Randall?" Stewart looked away and said nothing.
Perry clamped a hand around Stewart's neck. "If you talk to the media, go to the police, see an attorney, or divulge this conversation to anyone, it will be denied and you'll be arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit treason," Agent Perry said.
"This isn't a police state," Stewart sputtered, "and I'm not a traitor or a criminal."
Perry sneered. "I know that. But believe me, I'll use all available resources to make everybody, including your mother, your wife, and your children think you are. And when I'm finished, you won't have a job, a family, or a life that's worth squat. Do I make myself clear?"
"I can't believe this is happening to me," Stewart said.
"It could've been a lot worse," Charlie replied, lifting Randall Stewart to his feet.
"I need the bathroom," Stewart said, feeling a wetness in his underwear.
"First make and sign a voluntary statement," Perry said, gesturing at a gray army-issue table against the wall. He looked down at the spreading stain at Stewart's crotch. "Then you can tidy up before you go back to the office."
***
Two solid hours of discussion passed before Larry Otero left to spend the rest of the morning moving into his new office. Kerney turned his attention to the updated field notes on the murder investigations. Sal Molina had worked his people hard, but not much had been accomplished.
In spite of the dozens of field interviews no suspects had emerged in either killing. Terjo was still missing, Father Mitchell's briefcase hadn't been found, and the FBI had refused Molina's request to interview Ambassador Terrell, Proctor Straley, and his daughter Susan.
The corporate information about APT Performa that Helen had promised to get yesterday afternoon had finally arrived this morning He paged through the company's annual report and learned that the firm produced civilian computer security programs using technology originally developed at Sandia and Los Alamos National Laboratories for nuclear-disarmament monitoring. That could mean the company created firewall protection systems, cyber91 snooping programs, or some other rarefied software designed to safeguard network data.
How APT Performa figured into Ambassador Terrell's trade mission--if it did at all--remained an unanswered question. Maybe Trade Source Venture International, APT Performa's parent company, had flown Terrell back from South America on its corporate jet purely out of compassion for the ambassador's loss. Or because it was just good business sense to do a favor for a high-ranking government official. A reasonable person would figure it was some combination of the two and let it go at that. But how would that explain the two CIA types who got off the jet with Terrell at the airport and immediately cleaned out the crime scene?
Kerney set the material aside and paged through the graveyard shift commander's report. Before dawn, patrol officers had noticed unmarked FBI vehicles assigned to the task force stopping at various motels along the Cerrillos Road corridor.
The officers had queried their commander asking if a wanted-person sweep was under way. After checking with Lieutenant Molina the commander had ordered his officers not to provide any assistance.
Kerney called Sal Molina's extension, got him on the line, and asked for a briefing.
"I talked to Special Agent Perry about it, Chief," Molina said. "He had his agents out looking for Terjo."
"Did you suggest to Perry that this is a joint operation?"
"Yeah, I did. I asked him to team up the agents with the gang unit detectives who were working the south-side barrios. Perry didn't want to do it."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"There didn't seem any point, Chief. I read him out about it, and he told me he was shutting the search down. I asked to be alerted if any officers spotted his agents again, but apparently he meant what he said."
"Or he'd already found Terjo."
"Shit, I should have thought of that."
"Don't worry about it. If he has Terjo, we couldn't have taken action anyway."
"Can I say something, Chief?"
"Go ahead," Kerney said.
"As far as I'm concerned, you picked the right man to be your
deputy."
"I'm glad you feel that way."
***
Kerney disconnected and Helen buzzed him on the intercom to announce that Special Agent Perry was waiting outside. Perry came in, glanced around the unadorned office, and gave Kerney a wiseass smile.
"Going for the spare, clean look, Kerney?" he asked. "Or have you signed on as chief for the short tour? Maybe all that money you inherited has given you second thoughts about staying on the job for very long."
Perry swung a chair out from the conference table and sat. Kerney stayed put behind his desk.
"You had everybody on your team out last night looking for Terjo," Kerney said.
"Didn't I tell you about it? Sorry about that. It must have slipped my mind. Anyway, your Lieutenant Molina didn't seem to want the help, so we gave it up."
"You didn't find Terjo?"
Perry shrugged. "No. Anyway, Terjo isn't an issue anymore. We've closed the case."
"How did you manage to do that?"
"Scott Gatlin, Proctor Straley's ranch manager, wrote out a confession and committed suicide last night."
"Really?" Kerney said. "What else do you have besides the confession of a dead man?"
"Letters that Terrell wrote Gatlin asking him to stop harassing her. Letters Gatlin wrote to Terrell threatening to kill her if she didn't stop sleeping around. Witness reports that he'd come up to Santa Fe a number of times and stalked Terrell."
"So the jealous lover stalks and kills the object of his desire," Kerney said. "Very interesting. Any physical proof?"
"We sent some of the semen stains and hair samples your people collected at the Terrell crime scene to our lab. They'll run a DNA comparison with samples from Gatlin. We should have preliminary results this afternoon. I've asked for a quick turnaround."
"Whatever happened to the concerns about national security?"
"Apparently it isn't an issue, Kerney. But we'll continue to pursue that possibility for a while longer."
"Care to tell me how?" Kerney asked.
Perry stared at the four stars on Kerney's collars and tried not to smirk at the half-assed, over-the-hill investigator with a bum leg who'd cozied up to the local politicians and gotten himself appointed chief.
"You don't really need to know," he finally said. "But I'll be in town with Agent Applewhite for a while longer. We'll touch base with you if we require any assistance."
Under the Color of Law Page 9
