"Positive. He gave his violent-crimes supervisor the order earlier this evening after our report crossed his desk."
"At least that went as expected," Terrell said as he sat across from Perry.
"Terjo is in Mexico. Both Fred Browning and Randall Stewart have been contained and counseled, so to speak."
"Give me specifics," Terrell said.
Perry summarized the ploy Special Agent Ingram had used on Browning, and the gist of his interrogation earlier in the day with Stewart. "It should suffice," he added.
"I hope so," Terrell replied.
"There's no reason to take it any further, for now."
"Agreed. And Father Mitchell's briefcase?"
"It hasn't surfaced."
"You'd better find it."
Perry wanted to point out that none of this would have been necessary if Terrell hadn't downloaded and kept military and government secrets on his personal computer at his Washington home, and used a dip-shit stupid password that even his dead cunt wife was able to break on her last visit back east.
"We're looking," he said.
"That's not good enough."
"We'll find it."
"See that you do. That's all, Agent Perry."
***
Perry walked down the hotel corridor to the elevators. Ever since the assignment landed in his lap, he'd been trying to figure out what kind of Beltway clout Hamilton Lowell Terrell had that kept him out of jail, protected him from exposure, and sanctioned the killing of two civilians. For the same degree of stupidity in similar situations a Chinese-American scientist from Los Alamos had been kept in solitary confinement for almost a whole year and a former CIA director had been forced to endure public censure by members of Congress.
The only solace in the whole mess was that the Bureau hadn't been asked to do any of the actual killing. At least, not yet.
The elevator door opened and Perry stepped inside the cage, shaking his head at the thought that whatever Terrell had going for him, it was some powerful political voodoo.
***
Hamilton Lowell Terrell dialed the phone and Applewhite answered on the first ring.
"Was our friend able to return to Mexico as he had hoped?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not, sir," Applewhite said. "His travel plans were interrupted."
"That's unfortunate. Perhaps new arrangements can be made."
"They already have been."
"Good news, indeed. However, now those two other friends of ours need assistance setting their itineraries."
"I thought that was already accomplished and under control," Applewhite replied.
"Not to their satisfaction," Terrell said.
"I see. How soon do our friends need to leave?"
"With all due speed," Terrell replied.
"I understand."
He replaced the receiver, went to the bedroom, and looked through the suits and shirts he'd asked the head concierge to have dry-cleaned and laundered.
Tomorrow he would bury his wife. He selected the sober Savile Row three-button, a solid neutral tie, and a white Oxford shirt. That would do nicely.
Chapter 7
The new day broke with a dull, angry sky and a wicked wind that howled out of the mountains without letup. Ambassador Terrell had arranged for his wife's burial at the Santa Fe National Cemetery, and about twenty people were clustered around a coffin by a freshly dug grave, heads lowered as a minister read a prayer, his coattails flapping in the stiff breeze.
Kerney stood apart from the group, taking it all in. He knew the mayor, Bill Demora; the governor; his chief of staff; the state police captain in charge of the governor's security unit; and Frank Powers, the resident FBI special agent.
From photographs he recognized Proctor Straley, his daughter, and Clarence Thayer, the CEO of APT Performa. The rest of the people were unfamiliar to him, but as a group they were sober-looking, well-dressed, late-middle-aged males.
The minister droned on. Kerney noted the absence of Alexandra Lawton, Phyllis Terrells friend, and wondered why the gathering had been limited to so few people. Surely, Phyllis Terrell had friends who would have wanted to participate. Why did everything feel so staged?
It said something about the ambassador, but Kerney wasn't sure what that might be.
The winds kicked up and the minister's words were lost in a fierce gust that swirled dirt out of the freshly dug grave and blew it into the mourners' faces. Kerney studied the faces. Straley and his daughter looked grief stricken. Terrell looked pensive and subdued. The expressions of the others seemed polite, but showed no sorrow.
The minister closed his prayer book, raised his head, and the group began to move away. Terrell shook hands with Thayer and whispered something in the man's ear, then found his way to Proctor and Susan Straley and walked with them to the waiting cars. Frank Powers, the resident FBI agent, led the way.
Terrell passed Kerney by without a look or a word. Below, where the cars waited, television cameramen started filming video.
He watched the procession leave before paying a visit to his godson's grave. He stood in front of the plain military headstone. The windblown dust that whipped his face only partially caused the wetness in his eyes. Sammy had been murdered while serving in the army. Kerney had solved the case with the help of Sara Brannon, who then commanded the provost marshal criminal investigation unit at White Sands Missile Range. Through the bitter loss of a young man he'd known since birth, Kerney had met his wife.
Until this morning it had been several days since he'd talked to Sara.
He'd deliberately phoned her just before her classes to avoid any lengthy discussion about his work. They talked about the need to get the land bought and the house built, and how Sara was feeling. She reported the pregnancy was going just fine and suggested Kerney should call her back in the evening when they had more time to talk.
He returned to his unit and through the windshield looked beyond the last long rows of headstones that stopped at a swath of freshly cleared ground recently prepared to accommodate the upsurge in deaths of aging World War Two veterans and their spouses. He dialed a number on his cell phone and the agent in charge of the State Police Intelligence Unit picked up. Kerney had borrowed the agent's services from Andy Baca.
"How did it go?" Kerney asked, keeping his question vague. Although the electronic-surveillance van that had been parked across the street from police headquarters had disappeared last night, Kerney remained cautious. He scanned the tree-covered ridgeline above the clearing and saw no sign of the agent.
"Ten-four, Chief," the agent said.
"I'll get something for you soon."
"Roger that, and thanks," Kerney said. He disconnected and drove away.
Hidden in the tree line, using a camera with a telephoto lens, the agent had been taking photographs of everyone in attendance at the services. It was a long shot, but just maybe somebody invited to the services might provide a clue to what was really going on.
He called Larry Otero, told him he was taking the rest of the morning off and would be back in the office by noon.
"Steven Summer wants to meet with you, Chief," Otero said. "He's Officer Herrera's lawyer. He specializes in human-rights and discrimination cases."
"You handle it."
"I already made the offer. He only wants to meet with you."
"Have Helen make an appointment for him late this afternoon."
"Summer is an ex-city counselor, Chief. He's tight with the mayor, the city manager, and a couple of his cronies are still on the council. He might not appreciate being put off."
"Should I be more accommodating?" Kerney asked.
"I'd make him wait," Otero said. "But then, I've never liked the guy anyway."
"I'll see him at four-thirty."
***
The doctors at the hospital had kept Brother Jerome overnight for observation. Sloan picked him up early in the morning, drove him to the campus, and gladly settled into a chair while Brother Jerome sorted thro
ugh the papers on his office floor.
Sloan looked around the office in the light of day. Discounting the littered floor, the room reflected Brother Jerome's fastidious personality. Office decorations consisted of a crucifix hung on the wall; a hand-carved wooden statue of St. John Baptiste de la Sane, founder of the Christian Brothers, placed in the center of the top shelf of a large built-in bookcase; and a few family photographs neatly positioned on a plain rectangular credenza behind the desk. A window broke the march of a row of file cabinets neatly lined up against a wall. There was no evidence of clutter. Even the file trays on top of the cabinets were trimmed out in an orderly line.
Lack of sleep made Sloan light headed, and he eagerly accepted a cup of coffee from the worried office receptionist who stepped in to see if there was anything she could do to help Brother Jerome. Sloan told the woman everything was under control and asked her to keep staff and faculty members at bay until they finished up.
Sloan's long night had been fruitless. Security at the college was minimal. The college had an open campus policy. There was no visitor check-in system, no procedure for recording or flagging unauthorized vehicles, and no thorough security patrols of buildings after normal working hours. He'd learned that about the only thing the lone night-shift security officer did was cruise in a car, keep an eye on the dorms, shut down loud student parties that went on too late or too loud, turn off lights that had been left on in classrooms, and rattle a few doorknobs. As a result Sloan had learned nothing that gave him a clue about Brother Jerome's attacker.
However, he did learn from reading the morning newspaper that somebody on campus, probably the security guard, had leaked the story to the press. The front-page headline read
"Professor Attacked at the College of Santa Fe." Not wanting to raise his blood pressure, Sloan had scanned only the first paragraph of the story. But that had been enough to make him fantasize finding the dip-shit security guard and punching his lights out.
Brother Jerome picked up the pile of papers and envelopes, now nicely sorted by size and type, placed it on his desk, and shook his head.
"Nothing was taken as far as I can tell," he said.
"My lecture notes for today's classes are all here, my grade book hasn't been tampered with, and none of the student term-paper outlines are missing."
"Check again," Sloan said, "just to be sure."
He waited while Brother Jerome sat at his desk, carefully went through
the stack, and placed each item to one side after reviewing it.
"One thing," he said, looking up at Sloan. "An envelope came for Father Mitchell yesterday, and it doesn't seem to be here."
Sloan's tiredness vanished.
***
Kerneys plans to move out of the small guesthouse he rented in the South Capitol neighborhood had been delayed by the workload of his new job. He changed from his uniform into cold-weather civvies, and drove his truck to the end of Upper Canyon Road, where he left it in the parking lot of the New Mexico Audubon Society. The house, which bordered the edge of the Santa Fe watershed and reservoir system, had once belonged to a well-known local artist.
He started up a hiking trail that led into the mountains, but as soon as he passed out of sight of the building, he veered off the path jumped a fence, and entered the restricted area of the Santa Fe watershed. He cut across below the lower reservoir to the hills beyond, where Phyllis Terrell's house overlooked the valley, and made a hard climb up the foothills, his bad knee protesting with each step. He topped out at a circular dirt road that served the expensive houses bordering the watershed, hobbled his way to Alexandra Lawton's front door, and rang the bell.
The door opened. Lawton looked over Kerneys shoulder at the empty driveway and then down at his snow-covered hiking boots and wet pant cuffs.
"You walked up here?" she asked. "Why?"
"I needed the exercise," Kerney replied.
"Please, Chief Kerney, I doubt that was the reason."
"I wanted to talk with you privately and off the record."
Lawton stepped back to let Kerney enter. "Come in."
"Could we talk outside?"
The wind had subsided and wet heavy snowflakes drifted out of a late-dark sky, covering the teakwood patio furniture.
"It's not a particularly pleasant day to sit outside," she said.
"I'll explain my reason if you'll get your coat," Kerney said.
Lawton studied Kerney's expression, nodded in assent, and pulled a parka off the hall coatrack. "This better be good, Chief Kerney."
Kerney waited to speak until Lawton closed the front door. "I wonder if you ever heard Mrs. Terrell talk about being under electronic surveillance."
"That's absurd," Lawton said.
"Why would anyone want to spy on Phyllis?"
"The ambassador is engaged in highly confidential government work. Protective services and precautions to keep foreign-service staff and their immediate family members safe from harm are standard protocols in the diplomatic corps."
"But why should they bother with Phyllis?" Lawton asked. "After all, she was living apart from the ambassador, divorcing him."
"A wife, even an estranged one, could still be a kidnapping target," Kerney said, "and the ambassador did visit her upon occasion. State Department officials are vulnerable to acts of terrorism."
"Why don't you talk to the government about this?" Lawton asked sharply.
"I did," Kerney replied, "and got nowhere. You know, the federal government has a good deal of latitude when it comes to protecting high-ranking officials. Frequently, citizens who have personal relationships with people in sensitive positions, diplomats, or their immediate family members, undergo deep background investigations, often without any knowledge that they've been scrutinized."
Lawton shivered, partly from the cold and partly because of Kerney's words.
"All they would learn about me is that I'm pro-choice and in favor of banning all handguns. You're pushing my natural skepticism about our government into paranoia. Why are you doing this, Chief Kerney? From what I've read in the papers, Phyllis's murder has been solved."
"That's correct," Kerney said. "But Santiago Terjo is missing. If I can determine that surveillance is in place at the Terrell residence, I can ask for a court order that will allow me to access all recorded conversations. It may be helpful in finding him."
"Santiago missing? Are you quite sure? His truck is parked at the stables."
"Have you seen him over the past several days?"
"I haven't seen him since the day he was arrested. I hope nothing bad has happened to him."
"Let me change the subject, Ms. Lawton. Have there been any problems with the utilities in the neighborhood recently?"
"Around the holidays an electrical transformer had to be replaced. We were without power for several hours."
"Were you given the location of the faulty transformer?"
"No, but I was home when it happened and watched from my picture window when the man came to fix it. It was the one at the bottom of the hill between Phyllis's driveway and my road."
"Was that about the time Ambassador Terrell came to Santa Fe?" Kerney asked.
Lawton nodded. "Yes, a day or two before. I remember Phyllis was in a snit about his visit. She didn't want to see him, but he was insistent."
"Did she go into any detail?"
Lawton shook her head.
"I noticed you weren't at the cemetery this morning."
"I knew nothing about it."
"Do you know of any other neighbors who might have wanted to attend?"
Lawton shrugged a shoulder. "Randall and Lori Stewart might have gone. Phyllis had little contact with the rest of the people who live nearby."
"The Stewarts were friends of Mrs. Terrell?"
"Phyllis and Lori got along well, and sometimes Randall would help her when her computer crashed, or if she needed help moving rocks when Santiago wasn't around."
"The Stewarts live wher
e?" Kerney asked.
"Two houses up the hill. Randall's probably at work. He's a stockbroker. But Lori should be there. She's a fine arts dealer who works out of her home."
"Did Phyllis talk to you about her love life or her relationships with men?" Kerney asked.
"She was closed mouthed about the subject of men. But I attributed that to what she was going through with the divorce. In fact, she hardly ever discussed the ambassador or the reasons she was divorcing him."
"She said nothing?"
"Just that she couldn't live with him."
"Why the long, drawn-out divorce negotiations?" Kerney asked.
"Property settlements can be very difficult when a great deal of money is involved. Phyllis wanted to make sure she kept all of hers." Lawton wrapped her arms tightly around her body. "Why am I standing out here freezing, Chief Kerney?"
"Ambassador Terrell most likely has the highest government security clearance possible. Sometimes federal agencies will monitor the conversations of family and friends. It's a good way to make sure classified information isn't being inadvertently discussed."
"Are you saying I'm being spied upon?"
"I doubt it," Kerney said. "But then you never know."
Lawton searched Kerney's face. "This is unreal. I don't like what you're saying at all. What can I do?"
"Call in an electronics expert to sweep your house inside and out. The cost may well be worth your peace of mind." He shook Lawton's gloved hand. "Thank you for your time."
"Unreal," Lawton said again, shaking her head as she went inside.
***
The woman who opened the door at the Randall Stewart residence had her long brown hair pinned up. She wore bright yellow rubber kitchen gloves. In her forties, she had tired eyes and seemed decidedly unhappy about the interruption.
Kerney showed the woman his shield and asked if she was Mrs. Stewart.
"I'm Cynthia Cabot, the housekeeper," the woman replied. "The Stewarts are out of town on a skiing vacation. Where's your police car?"
"I walked up from Ms. Lawton's house," Kerney said. "When did the Stewarts leave?"
"I'm not sure. There was a note on the kitchen table when I arrived this morning. The trip wasn't planned ahead of time, I can tell you that. Mrs. Stewart always lets me know when they'll be gone. This must have been a spur-of-the-moment thing. And they took the boys out of school to go with them."
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