Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel

by Michael McGarrity

  Right at the tail end of his three-hour promise, he called Agent Olivas and said he’d changed his mind and had nothing more to tell her.

  CHAPTER 20

  Otis Roderick played back General Brannon’s voice message for the umpteenth time. Although he wanted to believe her attempt to locate Earl Matson Page had suddenly turned cold, he didn’t buy it. He’d served with the general and knew how she operated. One of her cardinal rules was to communicate important and sensitive information directly. That meant you didn’t send an email or leave a voice message. You made personal contact. Second, although Brannon sounded matter-of-fact, he’d never known the general to give up so easily. It wasn’t her style.

  Granted, her husband had been shot and seriously wounded, an unnerving and terrifying event. But if finding Earl Matson Page meant clearing Kerney of murder charges, Sara Brannon would be nothing less than relentless.

  Roderick sighed. The general was lying.

  He opened the case file on Page. Of all the DEA agents he’d served with in Colombia over twenty-five years ago, only one, Oliver Muniz, remained with the agency, now the special agent in charge of the El Paso Division Field Office.

  Roderick reached for the telephone and dialed Muniz’s number.

  Oliver Muniz hung up the phone, reached for the bottle of antacid tablets in his desk drawer, and quickly chewed a chalky handful. Earl Page, his old partner, his onetime best friend, and the man who had almost ended his career, was apparently alive and living off the grid somewhere in southern New Mexico.

  Signing the department chit for the five million dollars that vanished along with Page had cost Muniz a scheduled promotion and three years of brain-numbing backwater assignments. It took that long to outlast lingering suspicions that he was in on the theft. Even so, Muniz knew he could have, should have, risen further through the ranks.

  Roderick wasn’t one hundred percent sure of his facts, but Muniz didn’t give a tinker’s damn. The evidence was strong enough to embark on a personal manhunt.

  He washed the chalky antacid taste from his mouth with the last of his coffee. As special agent in charge of the El Paso Division Field Office, he supervised West Texas and all New Mexico DEA operations. Which meant Page was on his turf. What good luck was that?

  Page was somewhere near Silver City, being looked for by that retired police chief accused of murder, who’d gotten himself badly shot up. Muniz snorted. Probably another ill-trained, cowboy-type lawman, all too common to these parts.

  Although it was prime-time news, Muniz hadn’t followed the case closely. He’d correct that. He buzzed his second-in-command, and asked her to prepare a briefing report on the Kevin Kerney murder investigation ASAP.

  “I want an update on the current status of the case, with as much information you can get,” Muniz added. “Go through the normal channels.”

  “Are we jumping in on this one?” Samantha Hodges asked.

  “Not officially, Sam. If someone wants to know, just say we’re gathering information on a person of interest.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Get me two experienced field agents, and have them ready to mount a special operation within twenty-four hours. This is strictly a need-to-know assignment, so keep a tight lid on it. I’ll be in command.”

  “Who are you going after?”

  “An old friend of mine I can’t wait to see again.”

  Ordering a clandestine, off-the-books field operation wasn’t something division bosses normally did. Commanding one was even rarer. Sam had but one guess, and she voiced it. “The legendary Earl Matson Page is alive?”

  “Apparently so.” Oliver chuckled.

  She’d never heard Muniz sound happier.

  Clayton didn’t pick up his phone again until Wendell arrived at the coffee shop. While his son dug into a green chili cheeseburger and a mound of fries, Clayton stepped outside, called Dalquist, and told him what he’d found. He read some of the pertinent sections of letters that substantiated a history of violence between Todd and Kim prior to her disappearance. Dalquist was clearly delighted. He wanted everything sent to him immediately.

  “I’ll alert Kerney and Sara,” Dalquist said. “Well done.”

  “There’s more to come, I hope,” Clayton replied. “How’s Kerney?”

  “Recovering peacefully, now that the police officer outside his hospital door has been removed. Guarding a seriously wounded individual who wasn’t going anywhere was simply ridiculous. I found a district judge who agreed.”

  “That’s good,” Clayton said.

  “Call me after you’ve turned yourself in and made bail. Impersonating a police officer. How impertinent of you.”

  Clayton laughed, disconnected, and dialed Paul Avery. “Did Carla Olivas tell you I called?”

  “She did,” Avery replied. “What’s this about overlooked evidence?”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Clayton replied. “Why should I make your job easier?”

  “Come on, Clayton, give. You wouldn’t have even mentioned it unless it helped your case. Where are you? Let’s get together and talk.”

  Clayton checked his watch. Avery needed about fifteen more seconds to pinpoint the nearest relay tower that was bouncing his cell phone signal. That should be clue enough as to where to look.

  He decided to drop a bigger hint in case Avery had suddenly turned completely dim-witted. “Check the Barranco Canyon crime scene.” He turned off the phone and put it in his shirt pocket.

  Inside the café, Wendell was dipping the last of the fries in a puddle of ketchup on an otherwise empty plate.

  Clayton paid the bill and put a tip on the table. “Let’s go. When we get to Las Cruces, drop me off at the jail. Ask your mother to come and pick me up.”

  “Busted for impersonating a police officer, right?” Wendell asked.

  “Right.”

  Wendell grinned at his father as he gunned the Jeep down the highway. “This is more fun than hitting the stacks at the library.”

  Clayton grinned back. “I’m always up for some quality father-son time with you.”

  Juan Ramirez waited in the reception room of Dalquist’s law offices in downtown Santa Fe. The day before, he’d received a letter from the lawyer, asking him to keep a two o’clock appointment to discuss his continued employment at the Kerney ranch.

  Juan wasn’t sure what to think. But he figured maybe Kerney wanted him to stay on, with more hours and better pay. A contract or something like that.

  Juan liked getting the cash Kerney paid him. But if he made more in a paycheck, he could quit the pinche rancher who worked him like a dog and never gave him any raises. That would be que bueno.

  At two o’clock, the door to a rear office opened and a man Juan assumed was Dalquist stepped out. Short, old, with a round face, he smiled broadly and shook Juan’s hand firmly. Up close, Juan recognized him as the gringo lawyer he’d see on television every now and then.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Ramirez. I’m Gary Dalquist.”

  Juan removed his hat. “I’ve seen you on TV.”

  “An unfortunate aspect of my profession, I’m afraid,” Dalquist said. He gestured at a closed door adjacent to his office. “Please, come to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “It’s about work for Senor Kerney, right?” Juan asked as he followed.

  “Exactly,” Dalquist replied, stepping into a small kitchen that reminded Juan of his tia Sophia’s, with the same old fashioned black-and-white linoleum floor and big cast-iron kitchen sink. On the table were two coffee cups, a sugar bowl, and an open laptop computer.

  “I want to show you something,” Dalquist said as he fetched a carafe from the stove and poured coffee.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see,” he said, sitting down. He turned the laptop screen toward Juan and played the surveillance video of Ramirez inside the Kerney residence.

  Juan froze as he watched himself looking through p
apers on the desk in Kerney’s office, searching a built-in desk in the kitchen, opening bedroom dresser drawers, pawing through the contents, and snooping inside closets.

  “I was just checking that everything was okay,” he said lamely. “I’ve got a key for when they’re away.”

  Dalquist shook his head in dismay. “You broke the law, and with a felony conviction on your record.” He let the thought of jail time hang in the air.

  “I was just trying to help get my sister’s son out of juvie,” Juan explained, his face flushed with anxiety. “I was doing it for a cop. He said it would be okay.”

  Dalquist smiled sympathetically. “I knew there was a reasonable explanation.” He placed a digital recorder on the tabletop. “Is your nephew still incarcerated?”

  Juan nodded. “That pendejo cop has done nothing to help him.”

  “What are the charges against the boy?”

  “He stole some things from a car and ran away from the police.”

  “Nothing more serious?”

  Juan shook his head.

  “Does he have legal representation?”

  “The public defender.”

  “Good. If you agree to cooperate and tell me everything, I’m sure I can convince Mr. Kerney not to press charges against you. Also, I might be able to help get your nephew released from juvenile detention.”

  Juan searched Dalquist’s face. “There is no more work for me at the ranch, is there?”

  “Sadly, that’s correct. But your sister could well have her son home soon, and you can continue to have your reputation intact with no one the wiser to what you’ve done.”

  “I can’t pay you.”

  “You don’t have to. Do we have an agreement?”

  Juan nodded. “I’m sorry for what I did.”

  Dalquist turned on the recorder. “Shall we begin?”

  An hour later, Dalquist thanked Juan for his time, made an appointment for him to return in the morning to sign a transcribed copy of the recording, and told him his caretaker services at the Kerney ranch were no longer required.

  Juan handed him the ranch keys. “You’ll help my nephew?”

  “As promised,” Dalquist replied.

  “And if that state cop calls me?”

  Dalquist gave Juan his business card. “Say nothing about our meeting and have the officer contact me.”

  “Okay.”

  Standing in the open front doorway, Dalquist watched Ramirez trudge dejectedly to his pickup. Manipulated by the police, he was more victim than culprit, and Dalquist felt a twinge of regret for the price he was going to pay. He pushed down an impulse to speak to Kerney on the man’s behalf, and returned to his office smiling. Picking up the phone, he left a message for Lynn Stavish, the chief district public defender, asking her to call him at her earliest possible convenience.

  Stavish would jump at the opportunity to use his pro bono services on behalf of Ramirez’s nephew.

  He played back his Q&A with Ramirez. If Kerney’s case went to trial, he’d smear egg all over Agent Avery’s face, as well as the incompetent bureaucracy of the New Mexico State Police.

  Juan sat in a Pecos bar brooding over his second shot of tequila. He’d lost a half day’s pay meeting with that lawyer, thinking maybe a better job was waiting for him. Instead, now he’d have even less work and less money. He should have told that lawyer nada.

  He took out Dalquist’s card and studied it. Why should he follow the abogado’s advice and say nothing to the police? He was loco to think the man would help his nephew, just as he was estupido to believe the cops. He’d been royally screwed by all of them.

  He deserved to get something out of it. The police paid informants, didn’t they? That’s what he’d been doing for Sergeant Medina and Agent Avery, wasn’t it? Five hundred dollars, Juan decided. That’s what he wanted, and he wouldn’t take less. If they blew him off, he’d talk to Rudy Velasquez, an old high school classmate who worked for the Santa Fe daily newspaper. Tell him the whole story of what they made him do. With Kerney being accused of murder, it would be front-page news. Maybe Rudy would pay him for—what’s the word?—an exclusive.

  He downed the shot of tequila, paid his tab, and left the bar. From home, he called Sergeant Medina at the Santa Fe Sheriff’s Office.

  “Get my nephew out of juvie today,” he demanded.

  “Can’t do it,” Medina replied. “The chief juvenile probation officer refuses to cooperate. Says there are additional charges pending from another auto burglary the city police are investigating.”

  “Do it, and get me five hundred dollars, cash.”

  “I can’t do that, either. You were assisting the state police, not me.”

  “Tell your state police compadre, no money, I go to the newspapers. I’ve already met with Kerney’s lawyer. He’s got a video of me in the house looking for stuff. Says he won’t do nothing about it.”

  “Are you sure about the video?”

  “I saw it. I want five hundred dollars. You tell Avery.”

  Juan hung up. For the first time today, he felt good. Chinga all of them.

  Avery brought Carla Olivas and James Garcia with him to the crime scene at Barranco Canyon. They didn’t find a thing of interest until Garcia noticed dirt disturbed in front of a wooden lid covering a section of the skirting. They pulled it off and saw six boxes. Fresh scuff marks in the dirt showed that someone had recently removed and then replaced them.

  “Clayton?” Garcia proposed.

  “Possibly,” Avery replied.

  Carla laughed. “Of course it was Clayton. The sheriff’s office would have hauled them away as evidence.”

  Carefully they went through the contents piece by piece, logging everything as evidence.

  When they finished, they loaded the boxes in the SUV Avery had borrowed from the uniform division, and started for Las Cruces.

  “I wonder what Clayton took,” Avery said as they bumped down a stretch of washboard ranch road.

  “Nothing,” Carla said snappishly. “He wouldn’t be so stupid as to steal evidence from a crime scene. That would be big trouble.”

  “Well, he was stupid enough to get shit-canned from his job, wasn’t he?” Avery shot back.

  “He’s smart enough to have found those boxes the Grant County SO missed,” Carla replied. “I bet he copied what he needed, and would love to have us withhold it from Dalquist.”

  “We don’t know what he found,” Avery retorted. “Maybe it was something else entirely and he took it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Give it a break, you two,” Garcia groaned from the backseat. “Clayton was a damn good boss and our friend as well. Stop beating up on each other because the man disappointed us.”

  “I’m just trying to do my job,” Avery muttered sourly.

  At the roadblock to the canyon road, Avery asked the reserve deputy on duty if he knew that the crime scene had been disturbed.

  The old deputy shook his head. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, tell your supervisor it’s been trashed big-time. He may want to investigate.”

  “I’ll call it in,” the deputy said as Avery drove away.

  They were on the highway to Deming when Avery’s phone rang with an incoming call from Gabe Medina at the Santa Fe SO. He pulled off the road and answered.

  “Your CI got busted by Kerney’s lawyer,” Gabe reported. “And he copped to it.”

  “What?”

  “The lawyer has video of Ramirez rifling through belongings in Kerney’s ranch house. Juan wants five hundred dollars and his nephew out of juvie or he goes to the press.”

  “What?”

  “Pay attention, Paul, you’ve got a problem.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Avery disconnected, took a deep breath, and slowly eased back into traffic.

  Garcia leaned forward from the backseat. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Avery replied, fervently hoping it
was true.

  CHAPTER 21

  Before Kerney’s discharge from the hospital, Gary Dalquist held a strategy meeting with the family in a small second-floor conference room. Kerney walked in with Sara and was greeted by Dalquist, Clayton, and Sara’s parents.

  “What’s the agenda?” Kerney asked as he gingerly settled into a comfortable padded chair.

  Dalquist smiled. “It’s time to look at where things stand and go from there.”

  “Where do things stand?” Kerney asked. He took Sara’s hand as she sat beside him.

  Dalquist opened a folder. “On the positive side, we have some good news. The letters Clayton found at the crime scene show a history of violence between Todd and Kim that predates her disappearance.” He passed copies he’d printed at his office to Kerney.

  “If we must go to trial, that’s very powerful ammunition.” He paused to give more papers to Kerney. “Additionally, Juan Ramirez has made a sworn, notarized statement that he was coerced by New Mexico State Police Agent Paul Avery to conduct an illegal search of your house. I’ll use that to call into question all their evidence against you, and hammer away at police stupidity and ineptitude.”

  Dalquist thumbed through some papers. “Clayton also discovered legal documents detailing the reasons Lucille Ward changed her name, and a series of letters Marks wrote to her about his made-up attempts to find Kim. I’ve copied everything for you.”

  “Good,” Kerney said.

  Dalquist closed the folder and clasped his hands. “Lastly, while getting shot was gravely unfortunate, it eases our worry about going to trial too soon. I have doctors who will certify you need a lengthy convalescence. We’ll have more time to prove your innocence, which we must use wisely.”

  “What are the negatives?” Kerney asked.

  “Before we get to those, let’s deal with the charges against you and Clayton for impersonating a police officer,” Dalquist replied. “From what Clayton has told me, at the Fort Bayard Veterans Center, you introduced him as a cop, but he displayed no police credentials, and did not identify himself to anyone as an officer.”