"Ms. Lassiter," Kerney said, waiting for a reaction.
Nita nodded silently in response.
"I understand from the doctor that there is no permanent damage."
"That's what I've been told. My lawyer tells me that I'm probably going to spend die night in jail."
"That's true," Kerney said.
Nita glanced at the door. "Let's get it over with."
"I'd like to talk to you for a minute."
"My lawyer told me not to say anything more to the police unless he was present."
"That's wise advice. But I wasn't planning to interrogate you, just ask a question or two that you may find helpful."
Nita looked Kerney up and down.
"What are your questions?"
"Has your lawyer discussed the possibility of bail?"
A worried look crossed Nita's face. "We didn't talk about that."
"Has he ever practiced criminal law?"
"I don't think so. Just real estate and tax law."
Kerney shook his head.
"You'll need a criminal defense lawyer. I'm going to book you on a murder-one charge, Ms. Lassiter, and with your confession, a judge or grand jury will most likely find there is sufficient probable cause to go to trial. You'll be facing a pretty stiff bond for your release, if the court agrees to let you make bail at all. Do you have property to put up as security?"
"My home and my practice," Nita replied. "I should talk to my lawyer. Is that possible?"
"Of course. You'll be allowed to call him from the jail." Kerney took out a business card, wrote quickly on the back of it, and held it out.
"But in case he doesn't know who to use as a bail bondsman, the name of this gentleman might do. He's honest and reliable."
Nita took the card. "I'll pass the information along."
"Have your lawyer call me if he wants the name of a good attorney."
"Do you have any more helpful questions to ask?"
There was a challenge in Nita's voice. Kerney sensed that Nita's mistrust of police officers ran deep. He let the question go unanswered.
"There are some reporters at the front of the building. To avoid them, we'll leave by way of the rear loading dock." He stood to one side of the door to let Nita pass.
"Shouldn't I be handcuffed?"
"Are you planning to escape?"
"No."
"Handcuffs won't be necessary until we get to my unit. Then regulations take over."
A thin smile crossed her lips. "How very thoughtful."
Without giving Kerney the opportunity to respond, Nita Lassiter walked into the hallway.
Kerney ushered Nita into the booking area of the jail. When the electronic lock of the security door clicked shut behind them, Nita stiffened. Kerney could see panic building in her eyes, so he stayed after the booking process and waited until she returned from a strip search and change-out into a jail uniform. Even with a stiff upper lip, she looked frightened.
He arranged for Nita to be kept in a seclusion cell away from the general population. She gave him what may have been a weak, thankful smile when he left.
He called the on-duty assistant DA and told him that Lassiter was in jail. Wesley Marshall, the ADA--a man Kerney didn't know--asked Kerney to meet him at the county courthouse.
In Marshall's office, Kerney sat quietly while the ADA read the criminal complaint, the transcribed copy of Lassiter's tape-recorded confession, and Kerney's case report on the events leading up to the shooting incident.
A young man in his late twenties, Marshall had dark curly hair, thick eyebrows, and a bushy mustache. He looked up from the documents and stared intently at Kerney.
"You didn't read her rights to her prior to her first confession," Wesley noted.
"She wasn't in custody at that point," Kerney answered.
"Did you have the intent to arrest her at that time?"
"No. She was in her truck when she confessed to killing Gillespie. I arrested her after she attempted suicide. I read her the Miranda rights, placed her in custody, and explained the charges against her."
"Was she coherent at the time?"
"She was."
"Was shooting her necessary?"
"It was. I had no other option. If I hadn't fired, she would have killed herself."
"The level of force may have been excessive."
Marshall thumbed through the paperwork. "Did you perceive a risk to yourself?"
"Facing a loaded weapon is always a risk."
"When you taped her confession at the hospital, was she in full possession of her faculties?" Marshall asked.
"She was."
"Who made that determination?"
"The attending physician," Kerney replied, flipping over a page in the notebook. He read the doctor's name.
The ADA nodded, wrote down the name, scrawled his signature on the documents, and glanced up at Kerney.
"That should do it. It looks like a solid, legal bust to me."
"Are you taking Lassiter before the grand jury?"
Marshall shook his head.
"Nope. We'll do a probable cause hearing before Judge Ross-Gorden sometime tomorrow. My boss wants to move fast on this one."
"Has the DA told you to go for no bail?"
"Damn right he has. A murder-one defendant has never made bail since he took office. I doubt we'll have a problem with the request."
Marshall stuffed the paperwork into a folder and stood. "We're going to push to go to trial as soon as possible. The defense will probably want to depose you in a day or two. I'll let you know when the request comes through."
"Good enough," Kerney said as he pushed himself out of the chair. The bum leg had locked up on him again.
Marshall's office was near the sheriff's department at the back of the building. Kerney knew Judge Willene Ross-Gorden, who had served on the bench for over twenty years. He called her at home from the receptionist's desk in the sheriff's office. After an exchange of pleasantries, he asked the judge if she would have her clerk notify him when Lassiter's hearing had been set.
"Of course," Ross-Gorden replied.
"I was surprised when I learned that you were the arresting officer in this case, Mr. Kerney. I thought you were retired."
"I can't seem to stay that way. Judge." Ross-Gorden chuckled.
"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. My clerk will call you."
***
A hand shook Kerney awake. "Get up," Fletcher commanded.
"It's time for our morning run."
"Hump," Kerney said into his pillow.
Fletcher shook him a little harder and Kerney turned to see Hartley standing over him, dressed in sweats and running shoes. In the few weeks Kerney had been bunking with Fletcher, he had joined him on an early morning two-mile jog around the quiet streets when his schedule allowed.
Kerney enjoyed Fletcher's company on the morning runs. Before returning to Santa Fe, he'd lived alone in a borrowed house in Reserve, New Mexico, while serving as the interim sheriff. Breaking up the local militia's plans to assassinate Forest Service employees hadn't won him any popularity contests among many of the residents of Catron County.
"If you want to become an ageless beauty like me, you must remain fit," Fletcher said.
"What time is it?"
"Six."
"It's too early."
"Then I simply won't tell you what the very nice art theft investigator I spoke to in London told me."
"I'll get up," Kerney said. "Give me a few minutes to get dressed."
Kerney dressed, met Fletcher outside, and the two men ran together in silence, trotting past Victorian cottages, sprawling flat-roofed adobes, and two-story homes reminiscent of Midwestern farmhouses.
Halfway into the run Kerney broke the silence. "What have you learned?"
"It's mostly a rehash of what I mentioned yesterday. We should be talking to gallery owners who deal in the works of the artists on the list," Fletcher explained.
"Partic
ular attention should be paid to recent new clients looking to either buy or sell. Some of the more intelligent thieves will approach dealers before they pull the job to get a feel for what the market will bear once the objects are in hand. Others, who have no idea what they have stolen, will do the same after the fact."
"I'll put somebody on it," Kerney said, slowing down a bit to accommodate Fletcher's pace. In the cold morning air, his breath turned to frost.
"No need," Fletcher said. "I've been doing it myself. I've spoken to a. number of dealers by phone, and left messages for others to call me."
"Has anything interesting come up?"
"Not as it pertains to the investigation. This morning I plan to visit a number of galleries. Fortunately, whoever chose the collection for the governor's office had good taste. I won't have to go into those vile places on the plaza and Canyon Road that sell romanticized cowboy and Western sleaze art."
"You don't like cowboys?"
"I love cowboys," Hetcher responded as he turned the corner, keeping a steady, slow pace. "But I hate bad taste. By the way, you need to be more attentive to my wishes."
"How so?"
"That young officer you sent over with the inventory and photographs had the right sexual orientation, but she was the wrong gender."
"I'll keep that in mind next time. Did you get any additional feedback from the research foundation and the Art Loss. Register?"
"Yes, indeed. It could be that the works were stolen to fill an order, but that's considered unlikely. Most thefts are done by uneducated crooks who have no appreciation of what they've stolen. In other situations, it may be a curator who can't resist an opportunity to steal, an art lover who is obsessed with a certain work, or a professional criminal who knows how to sell the item."
"That's not much help."
Fletcher shrugged a shoulder as he ran comfortably at Kerney's side. For a man in his mid-seventies, he was in remarkably good physical shape.
"Over two hundred and fifty works by Picasso are listed as stolen. Signed paintings, prints, etchings, and lithographs--worth a fortune. Art theft is not an easy crime to solve."
"Anything else?" Kerney asked, thoroughly discouraged by Fletcher's report.
"The market in stolen fine art is global. What was taken from a church in Spain might wind up in a Brussels gallery five years later. Georgia O'Keefie's work is admired worldwide, and much in demand. Certain collectors are not terribly concerned about the legality of the purchases they make."
"Did you get any names of potential local buyers?"
"Not yet," Fletcher answered, slowing to a walk. His face was rosy from the exertion of the run. They were within sight of the dirt lane at the end of the street that led to the house. "However, people who buy high quality stolen art are typically rich, influential, and usually avoid prosecution."
"We need something to break soon," Kerney said.
"According to the newspaper, this mischief has put some egg on the governor's face. Is it trickling down to you?"
"Not yet, but I'm sure he'll pass it on soon enough," Kerney predicted.
***
Captain Vance Howell slouched down in the chair across from Kerney, reached for a coffee cup on the conference table, picked it up, and took a sip. The call to meet with Kerney early in the morning forced Howell to dress hurriedly and miss his second cup of coffee. In civilian clothes while on administrative leave, he wore a pullover crew neck sweater that made him look big and beefy, a pair of blue jeans, and work boots. His long legs were stretched out under the table. Howell studied Kerney as he took another sip. Kerney's congenial expression gave nothing away. Howell smiled back at the new deputy chief, took one last sip, and put his cup down.
"Has Internal Affairs finished their investigation on my team?" he asked. For ten fucking hours yesterday, he had been put through the wringer by two hotshot, button-down IA agents, and he didn't relish undergoing a repeat performance with Kerney.
"Not yet," Kerney answered.
"Is there a problem?"
"None that I know of. I'm more interested in some crime scene evidence I'd like to ask you about."
"Ask away," Howell said.
"The technicians discovered female pubic hairs in the governor's suite. Would you consider that unusual?"
"I don't think so. A lot of staff members use the governor's bathroom when he's out of the office. The door stays unlocked most of the time. It could be the first lady, for all I know."
"The first lady isn't a blonde," Kerney replied.
"That's right, she isn't," Howell said.
"But blond pubic hairs found in the bathroom don't seem like substantial crime scene evidence to me."
"Evidence is evidence," Kerney said, wondering why Howell seemed to think that pubic hairs were only found in bathrooms.
"Governor Springer was out of the office for a week until yesterday."
"That's correct."
"How frequently are his offices cleaned when he's away?"
"When he leaves town, the janitors will shampoo the rugs, wash the walls, and clean the place top to bottom. After that, it's just a quick wipe down until he gets back."
"Was that done last week?"
"Yeah, the day after the governor left. Why all the cleaning questions. Chief?"
"The pubic hairs we found were from the carpet in front of Governor Springer's desk."
Howell tried to stifle his reaction, but grinned anyway. "I'll be damned. Somebody's been getting their rocks off in the old man's office."
"Possibly," Kerney said.
"Work up a list of names for me, Captain. I want to know the identity of every blond female who might have had access to the governor's office last week. That includes staff members, any visitors, girlfriends, wives, or friends. Everybody."
"I'll do what I can, but it won't be inclusive," Howell said. "I have no idea who comes and goes when he's not there."
"Ask people," Kerney said flatly, thinking Howell needed to stop worrying about covering his ass and get with the program. Howell nodded and got up from his chair.
"Am I back in harness. Chief?"
"This is a special assignment, nothing more. I'll let you know when you're cleared to return to regular duty."
The conference room telephone rang as Howell made his exit. Kerney picked up the receiver to find Judge Ross-Gorden's clerk on the line. Nita Lassiter's arraignment had been set for one o'clock. He hung up and went into Andy's office.
"What's happening?" Andy asked hopefully.
"Nothing. I'm grasping at straws, or pubic hairs, to be more exact."
"Is this a Clarence Thomas joke?" Andy asked.
Kerney explained his comment.
"This could create a bad news day for the governor if word of it leaked out," Andy said.
"It won't. But I'll bet even money Springer will hear about the pubic hairs from Captain Howell."
"Why do you say that?"
"I put a tail on Howell yesterday evening after IA finished interviewing him. He went straight to the governor's ranch. I believe the captain may have divided loyalties."
Andy pressed his lips together tightly before responding. "Let's see what plays out before we jump to conclusions. But if Howell does tell the governor, Springer won't like it. He's a conservative Republican who beats the family values drum every chance he gets. He may want me to put the brakes on the inquiry."
"What do you want me to do?" Kerney asked.
"Keep at it. I'll take the heat, if it comes."
***
De Leon was not an early riser, nor did he have a sunny disposition upon awakening. At ten o'clock in the morning, Carlos waited in the library for De Leon to appear. The room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the centerpiece was a reproduction of the last Mexican viceroy's desk positioned to take full advantage of the view of the mountains. There were whitecaps of snow on the peaks, which Carlos found uninviting; he didn't like snow.
He sat in a reading chair next to a wall
of first editions and rare books, with the morning newspaper in his lap. In spite of the fact that his upper false teeth fit perfectly, Carlos adjusted the plate with his thumb. It was an old habit hard to break. His new plate had been provided by the U.S. Army after he'd been beaten by Kerney in the El Paso rail yards, dragged along the tracks tied to the bumper of the gringo's truck, and stripped naked, bound, and left in the dirt to be arrested by military police.
It had happened eighteen months ago, but Carlos would never forget it. Kerney had come thundering back into his mind as soon as he saw the newspaper article announcing the gringo's appointment as deputy chief of the state police. Carlos wanted the patron to wake up, read the paper and order him to kill the motherfucker.
De Leon came into the room just as the telephone rang. Carlos started to rise but el jefe waved him back down, picked up the receiver, and sat in the high-backed antique Spanish Colonial chair behind the desk.
"What is it?" De Leon asked in Spanish, not waiting for the caller to identify himself. Anyone with access to the phone number was an employee.
Carlos watched De Leon eyes harden as he listened to the caller. When he finally spoke his voice was cordial but his jaw tightened.
"You did what was necessary considering the circumstances," De Leon said, switching to English.
De Leon listened some more.
"Is the body well hidden?" he asked.
Carlos immediately became more attentive.
"No, stay where you are," De Leon ordered. "I'll get back to you."
He replaced the receiver and glared at Carlos.
"Patron?" Carlos asked.
"It seems that Nick Palazzi decided it was necessary to kill a state policeman on his way to Mexico. He was reluctant to tell me about it until today. He also felt it necessary to bury Amanda Talley's body and steal a car before he crossed the border."
"What do you wish done?" Carlos said, remembering to respond in English.
"Visit with Nick, Carlos. Have him tell you exactly how to locate Amanda's remains, and when he's told you everything, kill him. Make all traces of Amanda vanish, and get the vehicle safely across the border.
Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity Page 8
