Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity

by Michael McGarrity

  "This is real life, Mr. Hartley, not a cozy British mystery."

  "I view this crime with great seriousness, Chief Baca, and have no intention of treating it lightly."

  "What do you need to get started, Fletcher?" Kerney asked.

  "As I said, a copy of the list and photographs as soon as possible. I'll contact the research foundation and the Brits as soon as I have it. I'll start talking to local gallery owners to see if any have been approached to buy art from suspicious characters, or have been asked for off the-cuff appraisals on works by the artists in question."

  "I'll get a packet to you right away," Kerney said as he stood up.

  "Send it over with one of those handsome gay officers," Fletcher said.

  "I don't think we have any," Andy replied.

  "Oh, you are very much mistaken. Chief Baca."

  ***

  Kerney got in Andy's unmarked police cruiser and closed the door. "Do I really have gay cops working for me?" Andy asked.

  "Why shouldn't you?" Kerney replied. "Besides, this is Santa Fe, the city different."

  Andy shook his head in disbelief.

  "I don't even want to think about it. How did you meet Fletcher?"

  "Outrageous, isn't he? But he's sharp, talented, and a sweet guy. When I was with the Santa Fe PD, Fletcher had a California boyfriend--one of those dumb, good-looking muscle boys. Fletcher wouldn't increase his spending allowance, so he ripped off Fletcher's Japanese fan collection. It's worth a small fortune.

  "I caught up with the perp when he tried to sell the fans to an Albuquerque antique dealer. The dealer sent him away, tipped me, and I picked up the suspect when he went back to close the deal. It was an easy bust. Fletcher has always been grateful."

  "How grateful?" Andy asked with a grin.

  Kerney grinned back. "Don't try to be funny, Andy. You know my taste in women."

  Andy groaned in response. "Yeah, the type that always seems to leave you."

  Kerney thought about Karen Cox, the ADA he had worked with in Catron County.

  "That's not true. They just don't seem to be interested in long-term relationships."

  "Whatever. By the way, you did a damn fine job on the Gillespie case."

  "Thanks. But it doesn't feel real good."

  "Why do you say that?"

  Kerney put the cassette tape of Nita Lassiter's confession on the dashboard.

  "Listen to the tape. I think you'll find it interesting."

  "I can't wait to hear it," Andy said, reaching into his shirt pocket.

  "Your efforts deserve special recognition."

  He laid the deputy chief shield in Kerney's hand. "Put this beauty in your badge case."

  Kerney stared dumbly at the shield for a minute.

  "What the hell is this for?"

  "You've been promoted. Chief," Andy said, breaking into a grin.

  "I want my best man reporting directly to me on this case, with full authority to act without the bureaucracy getting in the way."

  "I don't need to be a deputy chief to do this job."

  "Maybe not, but I need a second-in-command I can trust to run this investigation. Most of my senior commanders were vying for my job, and they're still pissed off that they didn't get it. I can't risk the possibility of sabotage."

  "Why turn over the reins to me?" Kerney said. "Handle the case yourself. I'll work with you on it."

  "I don't have the time. I've got a whole department to run and two months before the next legislative session to convince the joint budget committee to give me the money I need to upgrade equipment. I want a computerized fingerprint system, a new dispatch system, onboard laptops for every patrol car, and better firepower for the field officers."

  "Making me chief deputy isn't going to win you any popularity contests," Kerney said.

  "Your appointment has the governor's blessing, and that's all I care about. Harper Springer knew your parents when they served together on the New Mexico Cattle Growers Association, and he knows you by reputation. Besides, he likes the idea of having a shit-kicking cowboy working for him. Said it was the one minority group he hadn't hired enough of in his administration."

  "So who do I work for? You or the governor?" Kerney prodded.

  "For me." Andy cranked the engine and slid into a Harper Springer twang. "But, hell, son, we all work for the people of this great state. So let's recover the goodies and catch the bad guys before the governor's opposition starts slinging mud at him."

  Since Andy's information on the robbery was preliminary and sketchy, Kerney was up to speed in the three minutes it took to reach the Roundhouse.

  "What kind of vehicle would it take to move the artwork out of the city?" Kerney asked as he opened the passenger door of the cruiser. Andy handed him the list of the stolen items.

  "Nothing big; a panel truck, van, or small rental trailer would do it."

  "Any idea when the break-in occurred?" Kerney asked as he scanned the inventory.

  "Not more than three or four hours ago. What do you have in mind?"

  "If the stuff's not airborne it's either stashed somewhere or on the road. How about telling the district commanders to have their patrol officers do some selective traffic stops? Give them a profile of what kind of vehicle to look for. We might get lucky."

  "I should have thought of that," Andy said, reaching for the microphone as he drove away.

  Kerney was braced for an ID by a uniformed female officer on duty in the reception area of the governor's suite. Her black uniform with gray piping had no chevrons on the sleeves and the collar insignias were silver, which identified her as a junior patrol officer.

  He showed her his badge while he read the brass nameplate over her right shirt pocket. Patrol Officer Yvonne Rasmussen stiffened and pulled in her chin. No more than five-four, about twenty-five years old, with short brown hair and light gray eyes, everything about Rasmussen's bearing told Kerney that the young woman was ex-military.

  "Chief," the officer said.

  In spite of himself, Kerney liked the way his new title sounded.

  "How soon can you get someone to relieve you?"

  "Ten minutes, sir."

  Sending Yvonne Rasmussen to Fletcher's door would probably bring a chuckle from the old man the next time Kerney saw him. He handed the officer the list of stolen merchandise, and asked her to make a copy as soon as she was relieved, get photographs from the museum of all the items, and take everything to Fletcher's house. He gave her the address.

  "I'll take care of it, sir," Rasmussen said as she folded the list and slipped it in her pocket.

  "Can you have my vehicle picked up and brought to me?" he asked as an afterthought, fishing for his car keys.

  "It's at the same address."

  "Can do, sir."

  "Great," Kerney said, handing over the keys. "Thanks."

  "No problem, sir."

  "Who is in command of the crime scene investigation?" he asked.

  "Lieutenant Marcella Pacheco, sir."

  "Where is she?"

  "Meeting with the governor's chief of staff."

  "Have her report to me in Captain Howell's office when she's finished."

  "Yes, sir."

  Kerney gave Officer Rasmussen a smile and limped away, thinking his blown-out knee needed rest.

  Vance Howell's office was a small room right off the reception area. Yellow crime scene tape blocked passage down the corridor that led to the governor's suite. Kerney could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner and the voices of the crime scene technicians as they worked the area.

  He toured the crime scene before heading to Howell's office, where he found Lieutenant Pacheco waiting for him.

  ***

  A blowout on the interstate just north of the Truth or Consequences exit slowed down De Leon men. With the Border Patrol checkpoint station only a mile up the road, it was a bad place to get a flat tire. Custom agents, state cops, and Border Patrol officers were thick as flies along this stretch of highwa
y, and Nick Palazzi flinched every time a patrol unit cruised by. He watched Emilio and Facundo change the tire while he stood guard at the back of the van, next to the green-and-white highway sign that announced the Truth or Consequences exit. Nick had spent many nights in local motels waiting for the Border Patrol checkpoint to shut down so he could move De Leon drugs safely up the pipeline, and he knew the town had been named for an old television show from the fifties. To Palazzi's way of thinking, it was a stupid name for a town.

  Emilio had been the driver, Pacundo the muscle, and Nick the trigger-man on the Santa Fe job. De Leon information and planning had been good, so nobody had gotten hurt except for the dead woman in the back of the vehicle. Nick was nervous about the body, and he had his hand wrapped about the grip of the handgun inside his windbreaker pocket just in case a curious cop decided to stop and check them out.

  He knew better than to try to hurry along the two men. An American, Nick had spent four years rotting in a Mexican prison and the past two years working for De Leon Both experiences had only hardened his prejudice against Mexicans, especially the mixed bloods, who were about

  one baby step out of the fucking Stone Age.

  He stamped his feet against the cold. An Arctic low pressure system had entered the state, and the morning was dismal under a dreary sky. Creosote bushes sprinkled over the desert sand hills fluttered in a stiff breeze that swirled and lifted small dust plumes into the sky.

  Just as Emilio tightened the last lug nut on the spare, a state police cruiser rolled into view at the top of the hill. Nick told Facundo and Emilio to stay put as he watched the black-and-white patrol car coast to a stop ten feet behind the van. He waved with his free hand and smiled at the officer, who waved back, keyed the handset to his radio, and started talking. Nick figured the cop was calling in the license number, which was cool since the van wasn't stolen and had valid Texas plates.

  Nick started to move toward the cop car, but the officer motioned him to stop. He shrugged and complied, watching as the pig waited for a response to his radio inquiry on the van. Finally, the cop opened the driver's door and stood behind it for cover. Not a friendly sign, Nick thought as his finger found the trigger of the weapon concealed in his windbreaker.

  "Just a flat, Officer," Nick called out in a friendly voice. "We've got it fixed and we're ready to roll."

  Officer Jerry Rogoff kept all three men in view. There were no wants or warrants on the vehicle.

  "Heading home?" Rogoff asked.

  "Trying to," Nick replied with a smile.

  Nothing looked out of the ordinary to Rogoff, but the special bulletin on the Santa Fe art theft made a closer inspection necessary. He nodded, stepped around the open cruiser door, and walked toward the three men. The Anglo man stood near the rear door to the van, while the two Hispanics waited quietly at the rear left fender, a tire and jack at their feet.

  "Mind opening the rear door?" Rogoff asked the Anglo man, stopping six paces away, out of striking distance.

  Nick smiled. "Not at all." He pulled on the latch and swung the door up. As the cop switched his gaze to the van. Nick shot him twice through the pocket of his windbreaker, the rounds punching into Rogoff's bulletproof vest.

  Slammed back by the impact, Rogoff pulled at his sidearm. Nick put a bullet in the cop's forehead before he could free the weapon.

  Palazzi studied the road map while Emilio pushed the van to its maximum down the highway. Facundo was in the backseat clutching an M16 loaded with a thirty round banana clip. They had to get off the highway before a wolf pack of cops swarmed all over them. The best possible plan was to cut through the old mining towns of Hillsboro and Kingston, climb the mountain road through the Black Range, and swing down to Silver City. There they could lose the van, steal a car, and make a straight run to the border. After that, if they punched it hard, they could be in Mexico in an hour.

  The problem was the dead woman. They had to lose the body before switching vehicles. Emory Pass at the top of the mountain range west of Kingston looked like a good place to stop. A ten-minute hike off the road should do it. Nick thought. With any luck, it could be years before the remains were found, if ever.

  "Take the next exit," Nick ordered Emilio.

  ***

  At the state police headquarters on the old Albuquerque Highway, Kerney turned Andy's conference room into a temporary office. The room had exposed brick walls, a large wall-mounted chalkboard, and three long tables pushed together to form a U. Windows provided a view of the parking lot, the highway, and a new car dealership across the road. The word of his promotion had spread quickly throughout the building, and the range of staff reaction ran from polite congratulations to studied indifference. Kerney expected as much; cop shops were paramilitary societies, and any promotion outside of the traditional practice of rank and seniority always sent shock waves through the system.

  Andy had gone back to the Roundhouse to meet with a legislative finance committee on his proposed budget, so Kerney was on his own. He selected several agents to assist him, met with the criminal investigations commander, and got busy pulling together a team. The report of Officer Rogoff's murder came in as he completed making initial assignments. He took two agents off the theft case and sent them down to T or C to take charge of the homicide investigation, and ordered field commanders in the southern part of the state to swarm their districts with patrols in an attempt to locate the vehicle and suspects.

  Rogoff's murder put everyone in a foul, tight-lipped mood. By the end of the morning, all that could be done at the command level was under way. Kerney tapped more agents for field assignments to supplement the team. Almost every criminal investigator on duty was working the case one way or another.

  He pushed the paperwork to one side and walked stiffly to the window. Bone tired, he stared at the traffic on the highway, trying to clean out the cobwebs in his head. As he turned back, Andy came into the conference room through his office door, dumped his briefcase on the table, and sank into a chair. Kerney joined him at the table.

  "Where do things stand?" Andy asked.

  "We're working from a list of all the people with access to the underground garage at the state capitol," Kerney replied.

  "It includes everybody on the governor's staff, the lieutenant governor and his staff, cabinet officers, legislators, and some of the state employees who work in the building."

  "I hope you told our people to be diplomatic."

  "Of course," Kerney replied.

  "We're running fresh background checks on everybody, looking for shady relationships, money problems, or indiscretions that might be suspect.

  I've got the two night janitors in interrogation, but neither of them seems to know a damn thing."

  "Has anybody with access to the garage or private elevator turned up missing?" Andy inquired.

  "No such luck," Kerney answered.

  "What's the status on the Rogoff shooting?"

  "No breaks yet. We've got a license number and description of the vehicle. Every law enforcement agency in southern New Mexico is looking for the van.

  The one bit of good news is that Rogoff had his video camera on. We've got the shooting on tape, with good pictures of the killer and his cohorts. A copy of the video has been sent to the FBI to see if they can make a match." Kerney paused.

  "What else?"

  "The killer opened the rear gate of the van before he shot Rogoff. There was no artwork inside, but something wrapped in a sheet was behind the backseat. Our lab people think it might have been a body. They're analyzing the videotape now."

  "Do you think the shooting and the robbery are connected?"

  "That's the way I read it."

  Andy nodded in agreement, stood up, and reached for his briefcase.

  "How are the budget hearings going?" Kerney asked.

  "I'm due back tomorrow morning. The committee wants me to cut ten percent from my request for new money for equipment."

  "Will that ding the depa
rtment?"

  "Not really," Andy said, walking toward his office.

  "I padded the budget by twenty percent, figuring I'd have to take a cut somewhere down the line." He stopped at the door. "Catch Rogoff's killer, Kerney."

  "That's the plan."

  ***

  During the remainder of the day, Kerney kept in touch with the field investigators as they worked their lists and conducted initial interviews. He didn't expect anything interesting to pop up at the information gathering stage, and nothing surfaced. Likewise, the background checks were raising no red flags. Night had settled over the city by the time Kerney left headquarters and walked to his car. Going thirty-six hours on an hour's sleep had drained him, but his day wasn't finished. Nita was about to be discharged by the doctors, and she'd have to be booked into the Torrance County jail.

  Nita had been moved by the deputy sheriff guarding her from the hospital room to an office in the administrative wing, which got her away from family and friends who had congregated throughout the day.

  Grateful for the deputy's good sense, Kerney thanked the officer.

  "She doesn't act like a cold-blooded cop killer," Deputy Henry Delgado said as he nodded at the open door to the office where Nita waited.

  "In fact, she's been so damn easy to guard, I've had a hard time believing she killed a cop."

  "She had her reasons for doing it," Kerney replied.

  "They better be damn good ones," Delgado noted.

  An older officer, probably near retirement, Delgado still looked like he could mix it up with the bad guys and come out on top. He had short-cropped hair, a high forehead, and a chunky face with deep-set brown eyes. Kerney liked the man immediately.

  "Has she spoken with an attorney?" Kerney asked.

  "Yeah. A lawyer was in to see her. He wasn't anybody I knew."

  "Did you get a name?"

  "He gave me his card." He passed it to Kerney and smiled apologetically.

  "I don't mean to rush you, but am I done here? My grandson is the point guard on his junior high school basketball team. He's got a game tonight. I try not to miss any of them."

  "Take off. And thanks again."

  Kerney entered the office to find Nita Lassiter sitting on a small couch. She stood up quickly. She wore a black tailored jacket that broke just below her hips, a pair of double-pleated gray trousers, and square-toed black pumps with low heels. The sophisticated outfit favored her good looks. Her right arm was secured against her side by a sling.