It was Amanda who had told De Leon how easy it would be to steal millions of dollars of American art. Not from a museum, but from the executive suite of the governor of New Mexico, who by tradition could select any pieces he desired from the state museums to decorate his offices. She had been bubbling over with the scheme, high on coke and champagne in this very bedroom, fantasizing about a great art theft. She'd miss all the headlines, too, unfortunately for her.
Amanda had offered De Leon good sex and a great opportunity to steal from the wrteamericanos. Enrique took full advantage of both. He turned on the lamp next to the bed. Amanda wore only a pair of panties. In her late twenties, her body was exactly the type that appealed most to Enrique; slender legs with just a hint of roundness to the stomach, full breasts that were not out of proportion to her frame, a face with a somewhat haughty, aristocratic cast to it. And this lovely blond hair. There was no need for her to suffer.
"Thank you, my dear," De Leon whispered to the unconscious woman.
He found Carlos waiting for him in the dark living room.
"Kill her quickly and cleanly," he ordered.
"Yes, patron. And the body?"
"Have the men take it to Mexico. Dispose of it at the ranch. No trace of her is to be found."
"As you wish."
***
De Leon waited until the van left and Carlos was occupied with removing all traces of Amanda's presence from the house before he went to the wine cellar. The room, which was next to the garage, contained a wet bar, built-in wine racks, recessed lighting, and a table and chairs for wine tasting. Stacked neatly against the walls were almost three dozen framed paintings and prints, but what attracted De Leon immediate attention were the objects on the table. De Leon knew what the glass display cases in the governor's office contained, yet seeing the bounty firsthand was still impressive. Among the items were two large pottery storytellers by the renowned Pueblo Indian artist Helen Cordero, a small bronze by Alien Houser, the famous Apache sculptor, a Western Apache storage basket, a Tesuque Pueblo buffalo-head shield from the mid-eighteenth century, an old retablo of Saint Rita, and an exquisite hand-carved wooden bulto of the Virgin of
Guadalupe.
Immediately De Leon knew which piece would remain in his possession; the Guadalupe bulto would go in the private chapel at his hacienda outside of Juarez.
He turned to the paintings. As the museum curator assigned to select the art for the governor's office, Amanda had chosen well: three Georgia O'Keeffe oils, a Joseph Henry Sharp Indian portrait, a Maynard Dixon cowboy scene, a Henriette Wyeth still life, a Peter Hurd landscape, a Gerald Cassidy portrait of a cowgirl sitting on a fence post, and twenty-five Gustave Baumann color woodcut prints, taken from the gallery space behind the reception area to the governor's offices.
The O'Keeffes were seven-figure treasures, and the rest would fetch in the six-figure range, with the exception of the woodcuts, which were significantly less valuable but expensive nonetheless. De Leon did some quick mental calculations; it was an eight-million-dollar haul at the very least, and since it would eventually be sold to foreign buyers on the black market, De Leon would add a 30 percent commission. Everything but the bulto of the Virgin of Guadalupe would remain in the wine cellar for six months. When the investigation into the theft cooled, De Leon would move the collection to Mexico.
He studied the O'Keeffe paintings carefully, thinking that he might keep one, perhaps to replace the U.S. Army cavalry saber and scabbard that hung over the fireplace in the billiard room of his hacienda. He wanted to move the sword to his library. It was the only item De Leon possessed from a trove of priceless American military and historical artifacts he had arranged to buy and resell on the Asian market. The cache, taken by Apaches during the Indian Wars, had been discovered in a secret cave on White Sands Missile Range and smuggled off the base. But the shipment had been intercepted by a gringo cop named Kevin Kerney before it could be delivered to De Leon. De Leon had bartered with the U.S. Army for the sword, two hundred thousand dollars in diamonds, and the release of Carlos from custody in exchange for a quantity of letters written by members of the 8th US. Cavalry during the Indian Wars. The smugglers had given the letters to De Leon as proof that the cache was authentic before he agreed to broker the deal.
Putting the sword in the library, where he spent the majority of his time at the hacienda, would serve as a reminder that not every venture succeeded as planned. He adjusted the climate and humidity controls, turned out the light, and entered the security code to the door. Carlos and the team had
done well.
***
Andy Baca, chief of the state police for two months and counting, stood in the governor's private office on the fourth floor of the Roundhouse, the colloquial name for the state capitol. A circular structure modeled on Pueblo Indian kivas, the building had been nicknamed by political pundits while it was still under construction, and the label had stuck. The governor's cherry-wood desk, matching sideboard, and executive chair sat in front of the only windows in the office, which were flanked by two empty, expensive brass-and-glass display cases. On the side walls were two private entrances: one connected to the chief of staff's office and the other to a large conference room. In one corner was a leather couch, coffee table, and several oversize learner chairs. The rest of the space was taken over by two straight-backed chairs in front of the governor's desk, a small conference table with chairs, and a credenza that stood against the
wall to the private bathroom.
Unhappily, Andy stared at the empty walls, fully aware the theft would draw intense public scrutiny and criticism. Failure to solve the case could damage the department and probably cost Andy his job. Andy wasn't about to let that happen. He had retired from the state police some time ago when he realized his chances of becoming chief were nil, and moved to Las Cruces with his wife. Bored with retirement, he ran for county sheriff, won the election, served one term in on ice and was asked to return to the state police as chief. It was a dream come true, the capstone to his career that he had always wanted. But not for the prestige the appointment brought. Under his calm demeanor, Andy was a reformer, and he wanted to modernize and improve the department.
In uniform, Andy wore a light gray shirt with his rank on the collars and badge over the left pocket, a black tie, black pants with a gray stripe, and highly polished black shoes. On his belt was a high-rise holster containing a .357 revolver with a four-inch barrel. It was the one personal touch he had allowed himself since taking over the job. Every other officer under his command carried the required standard-issue nine millimeter semiautomatic.
Captain Vance Howell, the officer in charge of security for the governor, stood silently next to Andy, waiting to get his butt chewed. He had come up through the ranks junior to Andy and served under him briefly just prior to Andy's retirement as a captain. Now Baca was back as chief.
Howell knew exactly why Baca had been tapped for the job--it was politics, pure and simple. The governor, a Republican, wanted more money from the legislature to build new prisons, and the Democrats, who controlled the legislature, wanted their man sitting in the chief's chair.
Howell had hoped to get the appointment himself, but now he would have to wait until Baca stepped down. He had the governor's promise on it, which was good enough for him. And if Baca failed on this case, Vance might get a crack at the chief's job sooner than he had anticipated.
Andy scanned the paper in his hand and turned to Howell. "Is this the complete inventory of the stolen property?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," Howell replied.
"The cultural affairs office verified it." Technically, Howell's sole responsibility was the safety of the governor and his immediate family, but that didn't mean Baca wouldn't try to lay the blame for the theft at Vance's feet, if the need arose. Vance decided to test Baca's intentions.
"I guess you could say it was my henhouse that got robbed."
Andy shook his head and looked up. At
six foot four, Howell towered over Andy's five-ten frame.
"That's not the way I see it. Captain. But I think we need to get you out of the henhouse for a while. I'm placing you and your staff on administrative leave."
Stunned, Howell reacted quickly.
"Is that necessary, Chief?"
"This job required inside knowledge. Until we get a handle on the case, everybody who works in this building is suspect."
"My people won't like it."
"And I don't like doing it," Andy replied, checking his watch. He needed to get this investigation under way pronto.
"I want you and your entire unit at headquarters in an hour to meet with Internal Affairs. A temporary plaindothes detail is on the way to relieve you until the IA investigation is concluded."
"I know my people, Chief. Nobody in my unit had anything to do with this."
"We're going to cover all the bases anyway. Captain. You know the drill."
Howell nodded glumly.
"Who's running the investigation?"
"Kevin Kerney" Howell stifled a surprised expression.
"Is that wise, Chief? Kerney's new to the department and he has no command authority."
"He does now," Andy replied.
"When you meet with him, you'll be talking to the new deputy chief."
"Is the posting temporary?"
"No, it's not. Captain."
"You've jumped him over a lot of senior commanders."
"I'm sure I'll get an earful from all of them," Andy replied. "When the bitching is over, Captain--and it better be kept to a minimum--I expect everyone to cooperate with Chief Kerney."
Howell swallowed hard. "I'll be glad to."
"I know you will, Captain."
Vance Howell left Andy alone in the office and walked down the hall thinking that there were going to be a number of rightly puckered assholes, including his own, tiptoeing around Andy and his new deputy chief.
***
Dog-tired and not in a good mood to begin with, Kerney crawled through the early morning rush-hour traffic on St. Francis Drive, pissed off with the congestion and the yuppies in their leather-lined, air-conditioned, four-wheel-drive sport utility vehicles used for fetching children from school, shopping excursions to Albuquerque malls, and getting up to Taos for skiing. The changes in Santa Fe had turned the city into a seemingly endless array of strip malls, bedroom subdivisions, and gated communities for the rich. The folks in places like Mountainair referred to the state capital as Santa Fake, and it rang true enough to make Kerney realize that the chamber of commerce growth mentality had won the war over those who wanted to preserve the tradition of the ancient city. Nothing had stopped the greed.
After dealing with the crime scene unit at the Von Hewett Ranch and undergoing an interrogation about me shooting, Kerney had driven to the Albuquerque hospital where Nita had been ransported. Although he had a brief confession in hand, he wanted to get a complete statement from Lassiter before the lawyers showed up to circle their wagons.
He had waited until she was out of the recovery room, in her hospital bed, and fully consdous before reading Nita her rights and tape-recording her confession.
She retold her story in greater detail and with such candor that Kerney found it hard to suspend judgment about the possibility of Gillespie's guilt. He had left the hospital feeling slightly sickened by the ugliness of the man's actions, and not at all happy about busting Nita Lassiter.
He got out of the traffic flow and drove into the south capitol neighborhood, an older residential area within walking distance of the downtown plaza and the seat of state government. At the end of a paved street, a private dirt lane led to two houses. He turned into the driveway of an adobe house almost completely hidden by a small rise at the front of the lot.
He parked at the side of the house by the door to the attached guest quarters, dragged himself inside, stripped off his boots, and fell across the bed, still smelling like horse shit.
***
In kerney's dream, a soft voice told him to wake up. It sounded remarkably like Fletcher Hartley, his host and old friend, who had offered Kerney the use of the guest quarters. The soft voice changed as Fletcher Hartley raised his easy baritone several notches in volume. "Kevin, you must wake up."
Kerney opened an eye to find Fletcher standing over him. The door from the guest addition to the main house stood open. Fletcher wore a black silk kimono with brilliant orange, blue, and yellow hand-stitched flowers and butterflies. The kimono hung open to reveal a pair of boxer shorts and Fletcher's spindly but well-muscled legs.
Using the services of the best plastic surgeon in the state, Fletcher had removed a good twenty years from his seventy-five-year-old face. He was eccentric, vain, and one of the most interesting people Kerney knew.
Kerney sat up, stared groggily at Fletcher, and looked at his wristwatch. He'd been asleep for an hour.
"What is it?" he asked grumpily.
"There's a very impressive looking policeman sitting in my living room demanding to see you."
"Who is it?"
"Andy Baca. You don't smell very nice, Kevin. What in the world have
you been doing?"
"Delivering a foal," Kerney grumbled as he reached for his boots.
"It was a difficult birth. Both mother and child are doing fine."
"I'm glad to hear it. Policemen do such interesting work." Fletcher put his hand on Kerney's shoulder to stop him.
"Shower and change first. I will not have you trailing that barnyard smell into the house."
"Don't be so picky, Fletcher. You made your reputation as an artist painting barnyard animals."
"How they look on canvas and how they smell are entirely different matters. Go shower. I'll keep the good Chief Baca entertained. Do you think he likes gay old men?"
"Andy's straight."
"Pity," Fletcher said.
"Give him your best pitch, anyway," Kerney replied as he walked to the small bathroom. "Maybe you'll change his point of view on the subject."
"I may just do that," Fletcher said, closing the door on his way out.
***
Kerney entered the living room to find Andy Baca sitting in a Mexican colonial chair while Fletcher stood in front of the corner kiva fireplace explaining the history of the twelve framed nineteenth-century Japanese fans that climbed the wall above the franco. On the other side of the fireplace was Fletcher's large portrait of a Holstein dairy cow bordered by hand-stenciled hearts. Andy looked a bit nonplussed and uneasy, which made Kerney feel a little better about being yanked out of a dead sleep.
"What's up?" he asked Andy when Fletcher finished his discourse on the history and rarity of the fans.
Andy stood. "I'll tell you outside."
Kerney sank onto the Mexican colonial couch opposite Andy's chair.
"Whatever it is, tell me here so I can go back to bed when you're finished."
"You don't have time to sleep, Kerney. The art collection at the governor's office was ripped off early this morning. I need you at work, now."
Kerney sat up on the couch.
"The entire collection?"
"Everything."
"Any leads?"
"Not yet," Andy answered. "I figure it to be an inside job."
"What makes you say that?" Fletcher asked.
Andy eyed Fletcher uncomfortably. "By the way it was done, Mr. Hartley."
"I see," Fletcher said.
"I certainly wouldn't want you to divulge confidential information. Chief Baca, but as I recall, Governor Springer had a very valuable collection of art in his offices."
"You're familiar with the collection?" Andy asked.
"Partially," Fletcher replied" Do you have a complete list of what was taken?"
Andy glanced at Kerney, who nodded in Fletcher's direction. He got up and gave the list to Fletcher, who read it quickly and handed it back.
"The Dixon and the Sharp paintings, I arranged to have purchased by the museum
when I was director. The O'Keefie paintings were donated to the museum by Georgia herself. Everything that was taken must be recovered. They are treasures much too valuable to lose."
"You were director of the fine arts museum?" Andy asked.
"For many years."
"Fletcher may be able to help," Kerney suggested.
"I insist upon it," Fletcher said.
"First, I must contact the International Foundation for Art Research in New York and the Art Loss Register in Great Britain. I'll need photographs along with a copy of the list. I can send the information to them by computer."
"How does that help?" Andy asked.
"It alerts the international art establishment worldwide. If any queries are made to a reputable dealer offering to sell one of the pieces, it will be reported immediately."
"That could make a difference," Andy said.
"But there's no time to waste on our investigation," Fletcher added. "After the first forty-eight hours, ninety percent of stolen art is never recovered."
"That's not what I want to hear," Andy said.
"Nevertheless, it's true. Do you have an officer who specializes in art thefts? Preferably someone who knows the local dealer network and has a background in art?"
"Kerney is about as close as I can come to an expert," Andy answered.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Kerney said.
"That will have to do," Fletcher said.
"Kevin has a good general knowledge of art." He turned to Kerney. "And I know the dealers. I will contact them on your behalf. It will save a good deal of time."
Before Kerney could reply, Andy got to his feet. "I'll draw up a consultant contract. We'll pay you for your
services."
Fletcher waved off the offer. "I don't need the money, Chief Baca. Let's just say I'll assist the
departent in making some inquiries."
Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity Page 6
