Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel

by Michael McGarrity

  “He asked me to. Said he’d get fired if his bosses found out he had any family in Duncan.”

  “Why is that?”

  Yeager shrugged. “He didn’t say. He grew up on a ranch outside of Willcox and when his parents divorced, his mother remarried. Her and her new husband bought an old, rundown hotel in Duncan, fixed it up, and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “How did you meet Vic?”

  “He came into my pa’s auto repair shop needing a new water pump for his truck. He was visiting his mom at the hotel. Wasn’t like we were best friends.”

  “What’s the name of the hotel?”

  “The Gleason Hotel.”

  “What happened to Vic?”

  Yeager shook his head. “Man, I don’t know. He just stopped showing up. I figured he moved on to another job. Maybe his mom knows.”

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You won’t tell my ex-wife where I am?”

  Dalquist smiled. “Of course not. I’m a man of my word.”

  In his car, Dalquist searched the National Missing Persons Database for Victor Landis. He’d been reported missing three and a half years ago by his mother, Renee Gleason, of Duncan. His last known address was a ranch at an undisclosed location in Catron County, New Mexico.

  Dalquist called Sara, who was with Clayton. They were thirty minutes outside of Duncan. He updated her about Victor Landis, his mother Renee, the Gleason Hotel, and a mysterious ranch somewhere in Catron County.

  “You and Clayton should return after you finish in Duncan,” he suggested. “All roads seem to be leading to Catron County. It would be nice if you can get an actual location.”

  “I agree,” Sara replied. “We’ll let you know what we find out.”

  Dalquist disconnected, and dialed the California Department of Child Support Services. When he finished squealing on Carl Yeager while preserving his good word not to call his ex-wife, he called Merlin Root, the Catron County sheriff, and asked if he could meet with him at the diner in Glenwood the next morning at eight.

  “What’s it about?” Root asked.

  “The Kerney investigation. I may need some law enforcement assistance.”

  “Should I bring a deputy?”

  “No, I’m hoping to have a peaceful conversation with an Alma rancher, but I may need your help gaining entry to his property.”

  “Who’s the rancher?”

  “Louis Page and his father, Jack.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Root replied.

  Sara Brannon had come to appreciate the harsh beauty of the desert and the formidable barren mountain peaks that drew her attention no matter how close or far away. But she yearned for a greenery different from the high mountain pine forests of the Gila Wilderness and the vast lowlands mesquite and creosote. Entering the verdant farming settlement of Virden along the Gila River took her breath away.

  Sheltered on both sides of a valley by the shoulders of soft hills, rich farmland stretched along the river, lush and green. So different from the stark dryness and the bleak scale of the desert, Virden gladdened Sara’s eyes.

  In Duncan, they parked in front of the Gleason Hotel on Main Street, which wasn’t by any means the town’s principal thoroughfare. That honor belonged to U.S. Highway 70, which cut through the village along the nearby Gila River.

  The hotel, a two-story brick building with a bed-and-breakfast sign hung above the locked front door, faced another inn across the street. There was no response when Clayton rang the bell, but a garden gate at the side of the building was open. At the rear of the building they came upon a woman tending a large fenced garden. At the far end of the lot stood a sizable commercial-grade greenhouse. Several housecats lazed about on garden benches and under shade trees near the hotel’s back door.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked, as she stepped out of the garden and approached, trowel in hand. It was hard to see her face under her cowboy hat, but she was trim-looking in a pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeved pullover.

  “Are you Renee Gleason?” Clayton asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like to talk to you about Victor,” Sara said.

  Renee Gleason’s lips trembled. “Have you found him? Do you know where he is?”

  “We have an idea, and hope you can help,” Clayton said.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Gleason gestured at the back door. “Come in, please. Let me get my husband.”

  She ushered them to a small sitting area adjacent to the front lobby and hurried upstairs. Framed drawings and watercolors of botanical plants were nicely arranged on the walls.

  They sat on a small Victorian-style love seat with a large front window behind them, facing two wooden armchairs across a coffee table covered with magazines. Renee and her husband, Ed, soon joined them, both looking anxious and unsettled.

  Ed was about the same height as his wife and just as trim. “What can you tell us?” he asked in a surprisingly deep baritone voice.

  “We think Victor’s former employer holds the key to his whereabouts,” Sara answered.

  “We never knew who that was,” Renee replied. “Vic said he was bound by a confidentiality agreement and couldn’t discuss anything about his boss or the ranch.”

  “Who was his boss?” Ed demanded.

  “Let’s back up a little bit,” Clayton said. “When was the last time you heard from Vic?”

  “It’s been three and a half years.” Renee jumped to her feet. “He sent a note that he was quitting his job. Let me get it.” She rushed upstairs.

  “You’re not here with good news, are you?” Ed asked quietly.

  Sara smiled. “We don’t have bad news for you, Mr. Gleason. We hope to find him.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, if you can’t do that, at least find a way to give my wife some peace of mind.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Sara said.

  Renee returned, thrusting an envelope into Sara’s hand. It was postmarked Glenwood, New Mexico, three and a half years ago. It read:

  Dear Mom,

  I’ve quit my job as of the end of the month and plan to go north to Canada and find work there on one of those big Alberta outfits. I hear they’re always looking for good hands. Saved up some money, so I’ll probably make some sightseeing stops along the way. I’ll write when the dust settles. Give my best to Ed.

  Love,

  Vic

  “We haven’t heard from him since,” she said. “He’d never go off like that without visiting first. Another thing: His handwriting’s all shaky. He didn’t have the best penmanship, but he could write better than that.”

  “Is he a drinker?” Clayton asked.

  “Not a heavy one,” Ed replied. “He’s a hardworking man who loved his work and enjoyed a drink or two.”

  Sara leaned toward Renee. “Did Vic ever talk to you about his job, or the ranch?”

  “He said the man who owned it was rich and very eccentric, and lived there with his wife and his father. He said everybody had to check in when entering or leaving the property, and there were lots of high-tech security gadgets.”

  “Were there guards or security officers?” Clayton asked.

  “No, just the gadgets,” Ed replied. “It didn’t bother Vic, because he was mostly out with the livestock or working with the ponies, and the pay was really good.”

  “That’s very helpful,” Sara said. “Did he ever tell you where it was?”

  Renee shook her head. “No, but on his last visit, he said the ranch had an electronic gate with a speaker phone, keypad, and camera. The access code changed every month, and he was always getting into trouble for forgetting it and having to call in.”

  Clayton and Sara glanced at each other and stood up.

  “Thank you for your time,” Clayton said.

  There were tears in Renee’s eyes. “Nobody has come to talk to us about Vic since the day the deputy took the missing person report. Please find him.”

  Sara took
Renee’s hand. “We’ll let you know what we learn.”

  Ed Gleason stood. “I’m sorry, you never told us what agency you’re with.”

  “We’re with army CID,” Sara answered. “Because of national security, I can’t tell you more.”

  Ed nodded soberly. “We understand.”

  In the car, Clayton shook his head. “That’s got to be hard, having a son missing for over three years.”

  “Awful,” Sara agreed.

  “Are you thinking foul play?” Clayton asked.

  Sara shrugged. “I don’t have a clue. Maybe.”

  Clayton drove to the end of the block and made a U-turn. “Army CID agents, are we?”

  “It was the first thing I could think of.”

  As they crossed Highway 70, Clayton saw a black Ford Explorer with U.S. government plates turn onto Main Street.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was after dark when Paul Avery got back to his rented cabin in Glenwood, bone-weary from his search for the cell tower, which he’d finally located on a distant foothill. Disguised as a pine tree, it stood on posted private land he’d yet to access, stymied by jeep trails that petered out far from his destination. His unmarked unit took a beating, the undercarriage scraping against rocks, the springs and struts stretched to the limit, and the body scratched and scraped from overhanging tree branches.

  He’d better return with something tangible to show Mondragon, otherwise he’d be chewed out big-time for the damage to the unit. He sat in the vehicle and pulled up the computer search results on the three DEA agents who’d stayed at the cabins. All were out of the El Paso office. He couldn’t guess who they were looking for in the backwoods.

  The diner across the highway was closed, as was the office for the rental cabins. Two nearby cabins had been rented while he was gone, both to drivers of newer-model SUVs with New Mexico plates. He could see thin ribbons of light and movement behind closed window curtains.

  Hungry, but unwilling to drive miles out of his way for a meal, he settled on packaged junk food from the snack machine outside the manager’s office, washed it down with the complimentary bottle of water in his cabin, fell into bed, and woke up in the morning hungry.

  Fortunately, the village diner opened early to accommodate local farmers and ranchers in need of coffee and conversation before continuing their daily chores. Avery showered, dressed, and stepped outside into the cool, clean air. The two SUVs from last night were still there and the curtains in the front windows of the cabins were open, but no one was visible inside.

  He crossed the highway to the diner, where a line of parked trucks testified to a good breakfast crowd. Inside, the clatter of dishes, the din of conversation among the locals, the cook in the kitchen clanging about, and a skinny young waitress with a toothy smile whisking by with plates of food momentarily occupied his attention. A glance at the back of the room, across tables filled with customers busily chowing down, made him freeze. Clayton Istee was staring hard at him from a corner table he shared with Gary Dalquist and Kerney’s wife.

  Clayton was the last person Avery wanted to see. As he approached, Clayton stood, a challenging look on his face. For a second, Avery thought he was going to get punched.

  “Join us,” Dalquist said congenially, gesturing at the empty chair. “We’re just having our first cup of coffee.”

  Avery forced a smile and sat.

  Clayton returned to his chair, his expression unchanged. “I heard you got booted off the investigation.”

  Avery nodded. “Yeah, I was following in your footsteps. But I still have a job, and you don’t.”

  Clayton’s back stiffened.

  Dalquist interceded with a broad smile. “No time for quibbling, gentlemen. I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Avery. You’ve met Sara Brannon, haven’t you?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Avery smiled thinly at Kerney’s wife. “My pleasure, ma’am.” He’d been told she was attractive, and that was true enough. But she also looked like she could handle herself.

  Sara nodded. “Are you here to keep an eye on us?”

  “No,” he replied, pausing to order coffee from the waitress. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing what you’re up to.”

  “You first,” Clayton said.

  Avery considered telling the truth, but decided against it. “It has nothing to do with any of you.”

  Clayton looked doubtful. “I don’t believe that.”

  Avery shrugged. “Like you said, I’m off the case. Why are you here?”

  “Stop playing games, Paul,” Clayton snapped.

  “Don’t get in my way, Clayton.”

  “Or what? You’ll arrest me?”

  Avery smiled. “Why don’t you pay another visit to Bud Elkins at the veterans center? Maybe there was something he forgot to tell you while you were pretending to be a cop.”

  The waitress approached with Avery’s coffee and asked if everyone was ready to order. Hungry as he was, Avery stood and put several dollar bills on the table.

  “Give us a few more minutes,” Dalquist said. She retreated, and he turned to Avery. “Before you go, let me explain our purpose here. A man who owns a nearby ranch and goes by the name Louis Page is really Earl Page, a former DEA agent who stole five million dollars from a drug cartel many years ago. The woman who lives with him is Loretta Page, Kim Ward’s cousin. We think Loretta can help clear Kerney’s name.”

  “Why should I believe this?”

  Clayton gave him a frosty look. “We have no reason to lie.”

  “Have you spotted an electronically controlled ranch gate anywhere nearby?” Sara asked.

  Avery blinked. Yesterday he’d passed it twice. “No.”

  Dalquist’s phone rang.

  Avery used the distraction to head for the door.

  Clayton watched him weave his way around the tables. “He’s lying.”

  “I agree,” Sara said. “We should tail him.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dalquist ended his phone conversation. “Sheriff Root can’t join us. He’s detained investigating an overnight burglary. Now, what’s the best way to get to the Page ranch?”

  Clayton stood. “Sara and I will follow Avery. See if you can find the local fire chief. I bet he knows where the gate is and even has the access code. The station is just down the road.”

  “I’ll go there now,” Dalquist said.

  The waitress reappeared just as they were leaving. Sara left a large tip to cover inconveniencing her as they hurried out.

  The night before in his Duncan hotel room, Muniz had studied high-definition NSA satellite photographs of ranches in and around Alma. He zeroed in on one that had CCTV cameras at various locations, a cell tower, satellite dishes, a large solar array, an electronic gate with a camera and speakerphone, and a backup generator for emergency power.

  It smacked of somebody who paid attention to details and was prepared for either an incursion or a siege.

  Convinced he’d found Earl, he used latitude and longitude coordinates from the satellite images and emailed a completed criminal complaint to Hodges, requesting she get an arrest warrant for Earl Matson Page as soon as possible. She promised to get right on it.

  He left Duncan two hours before dawn without hearing back from her. As soon as he entered the Apache National Forest, his phone service went dead. With the rising sun in his eyes, he drove on an empty, twisting highway through high-country forests and meadows, glancing impatiently every now and then at his phone. It didn’t show any signal strength until he crossed into New Mexico. There were no waiting messages.

  He pulled off the pavement and speed-dialed Sam’s number. It rang once and went dead. He tried several more times before giving up and driving on. He stopped in front of the post office in the tiny ranching settlement of Mule Creek and reached for his phone just as it rang.

  “The warrant has been signed,” Sam said. “You should have it on your tablet.”

  “Thanks,” Muniz said, checking. The warrant was there. He re
sisted the impulse to ask what had taken her so long.

  “Want me to ask for local law enforcement assistance?”

  “No, I want to look around first.”

  “Ten-four, and congratulations.”

  “Not yet, Sam. Not yet.” He disconnected. When he got to Glenwood, he topped off the tank at the gas station, and watched a man leave the diner, cross to the cabins, and drive away in an unmarked police unit with New Mexico plates. Curious, he found the owner, Darryl Wheatley, in the office and asked who he was.

  “Cop, same as you,” Wheatley replied sullenly.

  “Don’t leave me breathless, waiting for more,” Muniz snapped. “What else can you tell me?”

  Wheatley’s attitude wilted. “Okay, okay. His name is Avery and he’s with the state police. Checked in yesterday. Asked me if I knew of anybody with a cell tower on their property. The wife said he asked her the same thing.”

  “Well, do you?” Muniz demanded.

  Wheatley ran a finger over his mustache. “Can’t say that I do.”

  Muniz wondered how many locals were being paid for their silence. Security and fences kept people out, but money passed around to the locals might give Page an early warning system for a fast getaway.

  Through the office front window, he saw two men and a woman cross the highway to the cabins. He didn’t recognize the men, but something about the woman clicked. It was the accused ex-cop’s wife, Sara Brannon.

  Apparently it was about to become open season on his old buddy. Muniz watched the younger man and Brannon drive away in an SUV. The older man left in another SUV, headed in the opposite direction.

  Wheatley stared at Muniz with wary eyes.

  “How much does Page pay you to keep people away from his ranch?”

  Wheatley blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Muniz reached across the counter, grabbed Wheatley by the shirt, and pulled him close. “You’re going to tell me where the Page ranch road is, or I’m going to have federal and state tax agents climbing up and down your backside tomorrow.”

  Wheatley shook his head. “I’ll tell you.”

  Muniz released his grip. “Talk.”

  Wheatley talked. Muniz was out the door before Wheatley stopped blathering.