"I'm sure Captain Howell will share that information strictly on a need-to-know basis, so that you can deal with the matter confidentially, as you see fit," Kerney answered.
Harper Springer eyed Kerney for any hint of sarcasm, but all he got was a strong feeling that the man didn't intimidate easily. He didn't like too much of that trait in the people who worked for him.
"I want daily progress reports sent to my chief of staff. Tell Andy Baca if he needs money to pay for any overtime to let me know."
"I'll pass your message along." Kerney stood.
Harper Springer got to his feet. His friendly smile came back as he looked up at Kerney.
"Keep up me good work, Chief."
"It was a pleasure to meet you. Governor. When can I expect your report. Captain Howell?"
"I'll get right on it. Chief."
***
For his role as a detective, Fletcher Hartley had dressed carefully. He wore a blue oxford shirt over a white turtleneck, a black wool sport coat, and gray slacks. As a concession to the unpredictable November weather, he carried an umbrella. In the window of the two-hundred-year-old building on Canyon Road that housed the Prank Bailey Gallery, Fletcher inspected his reflection. All in all, it was an ensemble that would have made Noel Coward proud. To complete the picture he needed a cigarette to hold carelessly in his hand. For a moment, Fletcher regretted that he'd stopped smoking.
He made his entrance, breezed past the gallery manager and the nicely hung, perfectly lit art, and walked to the office at the rear of the building. Bailey's office had a wall of windows that looked out on a remnant of vacant land that two hundred years ago had been part of a sheep pasture.
Frank Bailey stood behind a tall antique clerk's desk that had been salvaged from the basement of a nineteenth-century New England textile factory Stacked against the walls were shipping crates, framed paintings, and piles of art books.
Bailey nodded at Fletcher and kept talking on the telephone as he scribbled notes to himself on the slanted desktop. Bailey sold high-end Western artists, specializing in Charles Russell, Frederic Remington, Joseph Henry Sharp, and Maynard Dixon. Most of his business came from wealthy out-of-state collectors. There simply wasn't any other way to run a successful gallery in Santa Fe.
Content to wait for Bailey, Pletcher settled into one of the two overstufied chairs positioned to give the most pleasing view of the pasture. He unbuttoned his jacket and adjusted his cufis. So far, Fletcher's efforts had yielded nothing, but gossiping with old friends had been entertaining nonetheless.
Bailey hung up the receiver and joined Fletcher. He had long, prematurely gray hair that he wore in a ponytail, green eyes, high cheekbones, and an angular face. In his early forties, he was considered very attractive by the ladies from Dallas and Houston who shopped Santa Fe. His appeal had cost him two marriages.
"It's been a wasted day, Fletcher," he said. "The rich just don't seem to be practicing trickle-down economics right now. What brings you out to see me?"
"I'm assisting the police with their inquiries," Fletcher replied.
"Really?"
"Yes. The art rip-off at the governor's suite." Quite pleased with his use of the correct slang word, Fletcher decided he had to learn more cop jargon from Kerney.
"Wasn't that something?" Frank said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Have you had any recent inquiries to buy or sell a Sharp or a Dixon?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"Has anybody asked for a market appraisal of either artist's work?"
"Not recently"
"Have you had any walk-in browsers who seemed a little peculiar or out of place?"
"This is Santa Fe, Hetcher. Everybody's peculiar."
"Have you heard any gossip?"
"I've heard a rumor that you have a cop living with you. Have you snagged a hunk to comfort you in your old age?"
"If only that were true." Fletcher sighed. "He's a friend, not a lover, and he's staying with me, not living with me. He's very straight and not at all homophobic.
"Now," Fletcher continued, "no matter how interesting I might be, I am not the subject of this conversation. Have you heard any chitchat about the robbery?"
"No."
"It's not the response I was hoping for," Fletcher said as he started to rise from the chair.
"But I can't wait to tell Amanda Talley that she was right," Bailey added.
Fletcher settled back.
"Isn't she that leggy young woman who works at the fine arts museum?"
"That's her. She predicted the robbery would happen," Frank replied.
"She went on and on about how easy it would be to walk off with the collection."
"When was this?"
"During the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum fund-raiser last month at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. I fully expected to see you there."
"I was hanging a show in Seattle. Mostly my smaller pieces. It did very well. What exactly did Amanda Talley say?"
"Just that she had misgivings about the lack of security. She didn't think the works were properly protected."
"Did she share her concerns with others besides you?" Fletcher asked.
"The subject came up while a small group of us were having a drink in the bar."
"Who was there?"
"Bucky Watson, Henry and Carol Jergerson, Roger Springer, and a couple of Rancho Caballo homeowners. I don't recall their names. Bucky knew this one guy who hung out with us. A Spanish or Mexican fellow who seemed interested in Amanda."
"Anyone else?" Fletcher asked.
"Not that I recall. We had one drink together and then everybody went their separate ways."
"How well do you know Amanda?"
"We dated briefly when she first came to town. She's a knockout. She has brains, a great body, and likes to party. I think she's looking for a rich husband so she can quit her day job and be a trophy wife. She'll do it with style, too."
"Would you say she has a criminal mind?"
Frank laughed. "Amanda? I don't think she weighs herself down with scruples, but I don't think she'd go that far, either."
"Is she your garden-variety gold digger?"
"Not at all. Amanda's hard to pigeonhole. She's tough-minded, very dear about who she is, and doesn't play any dumb games. Whoever corrals her gets a prize."
"You sound smitten."
"I'm just one of many strewn in her path."
"Would you mind writing down the people you just mentioned?" Fletcher asked, holding out pen and paper.
"I'm terrible with names."
"You're such a damn princess, Fletcher," Bailey said, taking the proffered items.
Fletcher smiled broadly. "Someone has to set the standards for the common folk to emulate."
***
Carlos Ruiz was glad to be back in Mexico. Santa Fe's wintry November weather didn't suit him, and the late-afternoon Juarez sun warmed his bones. Little more than three hundred miles separated the two cities, but they were worlds apart in climate. There was no answer when he knocked at the door of the Juarez apartment Nick Palazzi shared with his Mexican girlfriend. That suited Carlos just fine. Inside the apartment he could hear the two chattering monkeys Palazzi's whore kept as pets. He hated those fucking monkeys; they were always climbing all over him and sitting in his lap whenever he had to stop by on business for De Leon Before he turned away, he thought about breaking in to shoot the ugly little fuckers just for the hell of it.
At the Little Turtle, De Leon nightclub and gaming establishment, Carlos scanned the room looking for Palazzi. The crystal chandeliers above the gambling tables were dimmed low and a full house of players spilled over to the long antique bar and the nearby dining tables under the mezzanine. Carlos looked up at the mezzanine. Palazzi and his whore sat at a table near the railing, engrossed in conversation.
Before Carlos could move to the staircase, he was stopped by three of De Leon friends, who wanted to know if Enrique was back in town. He answered politely, keeping
an eye on Nick, who caught sight of him, waved, and came down the mezzanine stairs to meet him.
"What's up, Carlos?" Palazzi asked, studying Ruiz carefully. Even with De Leon reassurance on the phone that everything was all right, Ruiz's unexpected appearance made him uneasy.
"The patron wants the body moved to Mexico and the van recovered, if possible."
"No problem," Nick said. "I can take you to both."
"Don Enrique wants you to stay put," Carlos said.
"It would be too much of a risk for you to go back right now. Tell me where they are and I will do it."
"Is De Leon pissed?"
"No," Carlos answered.
"He understands that you had no choice in the matter."
"You'll need a driver for the van," Nick said hopefully
"I can't take you with me. Nick," Carlos said with a smile as he led Palazzi through the back door to the old stone warehouse at the rear of the Little Turtle.
"You killed a gringo cop. You have to stay in Mexico. Just tell me where I need to go, and enjoy yourself with your chica. He closed the soundproof door and walked Nick to the loading dock.
"The van is parked at a Wal-Mart in Silver City, on the side of the building," Nick said.
"And the body?"
"In the Black Range on State Road 152 there's a big sign that says Emory Pass. You can't miss it. Walk straight behind the sign about a hundred yards. I stashed the body there and covered it with rocks. Facundo helped me carry it. He knows exactly where it is."
"I'll take Facundo with me," Carlos said.
"Gracias, Nick. Go have a good time."
When Palazzi turned to leave, Carlos reached out and broke his neck.
***
At quitting time, Andy's secretary brought Kerney the typed transcript of Robert Cordova's statement. He stood by the conference room windows watching the last brush stroke in a red sky change to twilight, and thought about Robert's account of the rape of Nita Lassiter. Robert's recall, while disjointed, had been fresh and detailed, as though it had happened days instead of years ago. Kerney stayed at the window and read through the meat of Robert's statement. KK: "Robert, tell me what happened on May is, 1980."
RC:"Addie and I--"
KK: "Can you identify Addie more precisely? "
RC: "Anita Lassiter. Her nickname was Addie when I lived with her family. That's what I call her."
KK: "Go on,"
RC: "It has a big head with round spots for the body. And ears and little fact."
KK: "Back up, Robert. What are you talking about?"
RC: "The snake, man."
KK; "Let's start over. Were you with Addie--Nita Lassiter--on May 18, 1980?"
RC: "Yeah. After school, Addie and me went snake hunting. I wasn't crazy then. I was pretty cool. Had a lot of friends. Everybody liked me."
KK; "Where did you and Addie go?"
RC: "Serpent Gate."
KK; "Tell me about Serpent Gate."
RC: "I already told you. It has ears and little feet, just like the one on Pop Shaffer's fence."
KK: "Where is it?"
RC; "Out of town. Snakes live there. Addie says it's because of the gophers and mice. Snakes eat them."
KK: "And there's a serpent like the one on Pop Shaffer's fence?"
RC: "It's identical. Some Indian put it there hundreds of years ago. It's on a big boulder. There's lots of other stuff scratched and painted in the rocks."
KK: "Rock art?"
RC: "Yeah."
KK: "What happened at Serpent Gate?"
RC: "He kept saying, 'Do you like my snake, Addie? Tell me you like it.' Stuff like that."
KK: "Slow down, Robert. Who are you talking about?"
RC: "Paul Gillespie He fucked her, man. Had her pinned to the ground. Raped her, man. Her panties were down at her ankles. Kept saying, 'Jesus Christ, you have a tight pussy.' He beat me up, man. Bad. I passed out for a minute or two."
KK: "Was he alone?"
RC: "Yeah. He had a rifle. I should have killed him. Addie made me promise not to tell anybody."
KK: "Maybe Addie wanted to have sex with Gillespie."
RC: "Fuck you. Addie isn't like that."
KK: "How do you know?"
RC: "He held the rifle under her chin. Said she had to fuck him or he'd shoot both of us. Then he slapped her. He was drunk."
KK: "How drunk?"
RC: "Well, maybe not drunk. But he had a six-pack of beer with him."
KK: "Can you remember anything else?"
RC: "No. Will you take me to jail now like you promised?"
KK: "In a minute. Nita means a lot to you, doesn't she?"
RC: "She's my best friend. She doesn't let anyone but me call her Addie."
KK: "Is that why you didn't want to tell me you saw Nita outside the police station the night Gillespie was killed?"
RC: "Who says I saw her?"
KK: "Nita does."
RC: "She's lying. I didn't see nothing."
KK: "You need to tell me the whole truth, Robert."
RC: "I want to go to jail now."
KK: "Nita wants you to tell the truth."
RC: "Satan killed Paul Gillespie."
KK: "Try to remember what you saw outside the police station."
RC: "Crazy people don't have to remember."
KK: "We're going to have to talk about this again."
RC: "No way."
KK: "You're one tough customer, Robert."
RC: "That's right."
Kerney stared out the window, thinking about Nita Lassiter, her pregnant daughter, and Robert, wondering how many other victims Paul Gillespie had left behind.
Sergeant Gilbert Martinez, the lead agent on the art theft case, stood in the open doorway of the conference room waiting for the new deputy chief to notice him.
Chief Kerney stared out the window with a sheaf of papers in his hand, apparently lost in thought.
For ten of his fifteen years on the force, Martinez had been assigned to the criminal investigations unit in Albuquerque with officers and supervisors he knew well. His promotion to sergeant and transfer to Santa Fe had come through two months ago. Now he had a new boss he didn't know, responsibility for a case that could turn into a political time bomb, and information that made him believe the bomb might be ticking.
Over the years, Gilbert had watched some damn fine agents and investigators get demoted back to patrol duties or dumped at a desk job because they pissed off a department bigwig or politician. And while the brass bragged about having the best cop shop in the state--which wasn't an exaggeration--it was still a bureaucracy, where people covered their asses and shit flowed downhill.
Two brief meetings with Kerney had not yet told Martinez what kind of cop the deputy chief would turn out to be when faced with the tough decisions. He was about to find out.
Tired of waiting to be noticed, Gilbert cleared his throat to get Kerney's attention.
"Come in, Sergeant," Kerney said as he turned, spotted Martinez, smiled, and walked to the conference table.
"Grab a seat."
The chief looked tired and his limp seemed more pronounced.
"Thank you, sir."
Tall, slender, with blue eyes and light brown hair graying at the temples, Martinez didn't fit the popular stereotype of a Hispanic. An unruffled man with a gentle way of speaking, Gilbert looked more like a college professor than a cop. He sat across from Kerney and opened a thick file.
"We've got a potential hot potato on our hands, Chief."
"What's the problem?"
"I talked to a journalist with some reliable sources. He relayed some rumors floating around about Roger Springer, the governor's nephew, that may be of interest."
"What kind of rumors?" Kerney asked.
"Springer's marriage fell apart midway during the governor's first term. Springer is a lawyer. He was serving as deputy general counsel on the governor's staff at the time. Rumor has it that Springer was screwing around with some of the
women in the governor's office.
Springer left his position to enter private practice with a firm here in town. According to my source, the governor called in a few favors to keep the situation hushed up."
"How did he do that?" Kerney asked.
"The two women in question got promoted into jobs at state agencies. One now works in the health department and the other one has a position at the state library."
"Go on," Kerney said.
"From what I've been told, it's like Springer never left his uncle's staff. His law firm has a consultant contract with the governor's office. He's handling litigation with Texas over the apportionment of water rights in the Pecos River. He has free and unrestricted access to the governor's suite."
"Does that include underground parking and use of the private elevator in the Roundhouse?" Kerney asked.
"According to the night janitors, it does. Springer sometimes shows up late at night, with different women in tow. It has happened three or four times."
"Are any of them blondes?"
"I don't know," Martinez replied.
"Is he currently dating anybody on the governor's staff?"
"If I can believe what I've been told, he's not."
"What else have you learned about Springer?"
"He runs with a fast crowd of thirty-something yuppies. He drinks at the best watering holes, gets invited to the most prestigious gallery openings, has opening night tickets to the opera, dates a lot of different women--that sort of thing. He lives high off the hog, but supposedly can afford it."
"Have you verified his financial status?"
"Not yet," Gilbert replied. "One more thing. Chief.
Some of the people Springer hangs with are known recreational drug users. Mostly cocaine, hashish, and marijuana."
"Is Springer a user?"
"Not as far as I know."
"When is the last time Roger Springer was seen at the Roundhouse with a woman?" Kerney asked.
"I don't know."
"You've read the lab report on findings from the crime scene?"
"I have," Gilbert answered.
"Maybe we should find out if Springer's been dating any blondes." Martinez nodded.
"Meet with Springer personally. Sergeant. Tell him we have reason to believe that he's been using the governor's office for late-night romantic rendezvous.
Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity Page 10
