Reassure him that his conversation with you is strictly off the record, at this point. Let's see where it takes us."
"This could get me reamed. Chief."
"That's not going to happen," Kerney replied.
"If you catch any flak from Springer, bail out and dump it back in my lap. I'll take me heat. If he's sharp, he'll put up a smoke screen to protect his uncle, but you still might learn something."
Martinez studied Kerney, who looked him dead in the eye without flinching or fidgeting. Cops were no better than anybody else when it came to telegraphing lies, and Kerney was playing it straight with him.
That was good enough for Gilbert. "You've got a deal. Chief."
"One more thing. Sergeant," Kerney said. "I don't think the governor personally selected all the artwork for his office. From what I saw at his ranch, his taste doesn't include Georgia O'Keeffe. Her works were the most valuable of the lot. Worth almost half of the total haul. Send somebody to the fine arts museum in the morning. I want to know who put the collection together and when it was installed. Talk to that person."
"What are we looking for here. Chief?"
"Clues, Sergeant. I've been told that occasionally curators decide to appropriate art for themselves. If that's the case, wouldn't it be smart to move the works you wanted to steal to a less secure setting
before you swiped them?"
"I'll get on it."
***
Carlos sat in the Range Rover across the street and watched a tow truck back up to the van parked at the side of the Wal-Mart in Silver City. Two city police units were stationed in the parking lot to keep curious people away, and a cop in civilian clothes stood next to the van directing the tow truck. His unmarked police car idled nearby. "We got here too late," Facundo said indifferently. Carlos shot him a dirty look, but in the darkness Facundo missed it.
"Do you want to leave?" Facundo asked.
"Not yet," Carlos answered. De Leon had told him to retrieve the van, which now appeared impossible. What would De Leon want him to do? "We'll wait," Carlos added.
The van couldn't be traced back to De Leon of that Carlos was certain. But the patron was a man of exacting standards, who viewed an inability to carry out orders as negligence, regardless of the circumstances.
Carlos stopped grappling with the problem. It was too confusing. His best bet was to call De Leon and ask for instructions. But he would wait until he knew exactly where the police were taking the vehicle before disturbing the patron.
The tow truck pulled away with the van and Carlos nudged Facundo. "Stay at a safe distance behind the police car," he ordered.
Facundo waited until the tow truck was a block away before he pulled onto the street. The flashing blue lights on the truck made it easy to follow. At the police station the truck turned and disappeared behind the back of the building. Facundo continued on to the next intersection before doubling back and coasting to a stop at the curb.
"Wait here," Carlos said as he got out of the vehicle. He walked behind an adjacent building and stood in the shadows. The tow truck operator was winching down the van at the back of a parking area inside a vehicle impound lot. No one else was in sight. Three empty police cars, including the one that had followed the truck to the station, were parked near the rear entrance.
Carlos took the cellular phone from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and dialed De Leon private Santa Pc number. As soon as De Leon came on the line, he explained the situation.
"You did well to call me," De Leon said when Carlos finished.
"Is there any way you can safely get to the vehicle without being seen?"
"Yes, patron. It is not under guard. But I believe the police will search it soon."
"Can you drive it away?"
"No, patron. It is parked in an impound lot behind a locked gate."
"Burn the van," De Leon instructed.
"Do not allow yourself to get caught. Do not allow the police to see the Range Rover."
"Yes, patron."
Carlos rang off and studied the layout. He would climb the impound fence at the rear of the lot, and use darkness for concealment. He went back to the Range Rover, took the road atlas away from Pacundo, and tore out a handful of pages.
"Drive away when I leave," Carlos ordered. "Do not come back here. I will meet you at the all-night convenience store on the main street in one hour. We passed it on our way here."
"I know where it is," Facundo answered, as he slipped the vehicle into gear and pulled away.
Carlos waited until Pacundo was out of sight before returning to the back of the building next to the station. The tow truck was gone and no one was in sight. Staying in the shadows as much as possible, he made his way quickly to the rear of the impound lot, climbed the fence, and moved in a crouch to the van.
He reached under the fender near the fuel tank, found the flexible hose to the tank, and slashed it with a knife, opening a wide, deep cut. He stuffed some twisted pages from the atlas down into the tank until they were saturated with gas. He pulled them out and repeated the process until he had enough to make a fuse that ran from the tank to the ground.
Maybe he had three or four seconds to get away once he lit the paper. He judged the distance to the back fence. He could just reach it before the van blew up. Somebody might catch a glimpse of him, but he would be too far away to be identified.
He lit the fuse and started running at full tilt. The van exploded into flames and heat seared the back of his neck. He was safely over the fence and in deep shadows when the first cop burst out of the back door of the police station, carrying a fire extinguisher. Carlos turned down an empty side street and trotted away.
***
Kerney was two blocks away from Fletcher's house and some much needed sack tame when he got the news that the van used in the shooting of Officer Rogoff had been found in Silver City. He hit the siren and ran Code Three back to headquarters. Within minutes of his arrival the Silver City PD dispatcher called to report that the van had been torched and heavily damaged by persons unknown. Kerney reviewed the background information on Nick Palazzi. While serving time in a California prison, Palazzi had joined the American Nazi Party. Any known party members in the Silver City area needed to be identified and interviewed immediately. His arrest for a contract killing had been tied to a territorial dispute among drug traffickers in Southern California.
Intelligence information needed to be updated on trafficking in southwestern New Mexico. Street dealers had to be rounded up and grilled. Palazzi was known to favor prostitutes as girlfriends. Local hookers should be contacted and interviewed.
He put together a few more facts on Palazzi, assembled the response team, sketched out the information, and fielded some questions before sending them on their way. A plane waited at the airport to fly the team on the forty-minute hop to Silver City.
He sank into a chair, thinking it was more than likely that--assuming Palazzi torched the van--he would be across the Mexican border before the plane touched down at the airport. But unless crime scene techs could develop some solid evidence from the van, searching for Palazzi was the only card he had to play.
He fleetingly thought about a good night's sleep, pushed himself upright, and went to make a pot of coffee. His patched-together gut wouldn't like it, but the caffeine would keep him awake.
As he watched the coffee brew, Kerney brooded over the fact that tying Officer Rogoff's murder in with the art theft could have been a mistake on his part. If the two crimes weren't connected, it would mean starting over from square one. He carried a coffee cup back to the conference room and stared at the telephone. He doubted the team would have anything to report for at least several hours.
He sat and read through the agents' field interview reports, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing jumped out at him. He put the reports aside, picked up a clean sheet of paper, drew a line down the middle, and started separating out the facts of the two cases. If he had to give up the theory of conne
cting Palazzi to the theft, he needed to be ready to move as quickly as possible.
Kerney by caught a quick nap on Andy's couch and at dawn went outside to dear his head. The reports from Silver City had been encouraging. The interior of the van had been badly burned, but fingerprints had been lifted from the vehicle and some human hairs had been found on a piece of unburned carpet.
***
On the lawn next to die law enforcement academy, a class of new recruits were preparing for an early morning run. A light dusting of snow covered me ground and the temperature hovered near freezing. High in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, snow clouds masked me peaks, but the foothills were glistening pale pink in die early morning light. Kerney walked to the memorial for slain police officers. The state and national flags bracketing the monument flapped lazily in a slight gust. Paul Gillespie's name had been chiseled into the marble.
He wondered if it truly belonged there. He walked back to headquarters thinking about the evidence found in the van. The discovery of human hair was particularly intriguing. But until he could identify a blond-haired woman who had access to the governor's suite, he wouldn't be any closer to solving the crime.
***
Gilbert Martinez waited in the reception area of die law firm Roger Springer had joined after leaving his post at the governor's office. The building, two blocks from the plaza, had a brass plaque listing the names of the partners. All were prominent Anglos connected to the state's political machinery. Born and raised in Santa Fe, Gilbert had been weaned on family accounts about Dawson Cobb, the founder of the firm; how Cobb had screwed Gilbert's ancestors out of a Spanish land grant after the Civil War with a court decision by an Anglo jury in Cobb's favor.
Only a few thousand acres remained in the family after Cobb took possession of the huge grant and the water rights that went with it. Even those acres had been sold to pay the legal fees of the family's Anglo lawyer, who soon became Cobb's partner. With no land to hold them, the family scattered. But the story of Dawson Cobb stuck in the minds of the Marrinez family like a cactus thorn festering for over 130 years. Wasn't it Balzac who said behind every great fortune was a great crime?
Gilbert had done some additional research on Roger Springer. A Big Ten graduate with an Ivy League law degree, Springer had worked for one of the New Mexico senators in Washington before returning home with a new bride. He and his ex-wife, an architect, had no children, and the divorce settlement appeared to be amicable. However, a domestic court clerk told Gilbert that Springer and his wife had squabbled like brats over the division of the joint property, and the judge had privately chewed them out in his chambers.
Twenty minutes past the time of the appointment, Springer made his appearance, striding out of the double doors that led to the inner sanctum. He gave Gilbert the family glad hand, flashed his teeth in a winning candidate's smile, and added an apologetic shrug.
"Sorry to keep you waiting so long. Sergeant," Springer said. "I just finished a telephone conference with the governor's chief counsel. It went on much longer than I thought it would."
"I hate to bother you, Mr. Springer. I know you're a busy man." Gilbert studied Springer's eighty-dollar haircut and expensive Italian suit. "Do you have time for me now?"
"Of course," Springer replied, gesturing toward the double doors.
"Are you making any headway with the investigation?" He took Gilbert down a wide hallway filled with framed photographs of old Santa Fe at the turn of the century.
"It's still in the preliminary stage," Gilbert replied.
"I thought it might be," Springer said, standing aside his open office door to let Martinez enter.
"No leads?"
"We're working on it," Gilbert answered.
The office, bigger than Chief Baca's, was uncluttered and functional, with expensive furniture and nice art on the walls. An older man sat in one of four chairs placed in front of a large window.
"Make yourself comfortable," Springer said.
"I'd like you to meet Sherman Cobb. Mr. Cobb is the senior partner in the firm." Cobb smiled a greeting and Gilbert nodded in return.
"I don't have any questions for Mr. Cobb," Gilbert said. Springer laughed.
"I didn't think you would. The firm likes to have another lawyer present whenever the police meet with an attorney. It helps avoid misunderstandings."
Springer dropped into a chair and gestured for Martinez to do the same.
"I had hoped to speak with you on a confidential basis," Gilbert said as he sat.
Springer flashed a smile. "Feel free to do so."
"On matters of a personal nature," Gilbert added.
Springer raised an eyebrow. "And what might those matters be. Sergeant Martinez?"
Gilbert shifted his weight. "Issues which could create political repercussions for your uncle."
"You have my full attention," Springer said.
"Since leaving the governor's staff, have you ever made a visit to your uncle's office that was not either of a business or family nature?"
Springer's expression turned quizzical.
"I'm not sure I'm following your question, Sergeant."
"Several times you've been seen at the Roundhouse late at night accompanied by different women."
Springer laughed. "Oh, that. Yes, I've taken some dates on impromptu tours of the governor's offices."
"Did you take anyone there last week?"
"No."
"Can you tell me me names of the women you took there in the past?"
"How can that information have any value to your investigation?"
Gilbert chose his words carefully: "It's possible that a man and a woman had a romantic interlude in Governor Springer's office last week while he was out of the state."
"A romantic interlude?" Springer repeated.
"Of a sexual nature. It would help if you could remember the names of the women who went with you on the tours, Mr. Springer."
"You're joking."
"No, I'm not," Gilbert replied.
"We need to talk to everybody who has had access to the governor's office, no matter what the circumstances."
Springer clasped his hands and tapped his index fingers together several times.
"Of course you do," he finally said. He got up, walked to his desk, opened a leather bound appointment book, flipped through the pages, wrote a note, and brought it to Gilbert.
Gilbert read the names.
"Do either of these ladies have blond hair?"
"No."
Are you presently dating any blondes?"
"No, I'm not dating any blondes."
Gilbert slipped Springer's note into a pocket and looked over at Sherman Cobb, who had been as quiet as a church mouse.
"Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Cobb?"
Cobb smiled cordially. "I know you'll do your very best to bring the investigation to a
successful conclusion," he said.
Gilbert decided he couldn't tell Cobb to stuff the patronizing attitude, and stood up. "Thank you for your time."
"Not at all," Springer replied with a smile that seemed a little wary.
Outside Springer's office, Gilbert buttoned up. The snowstorm had moved off the mountains and into the city. The air was still, and a thick curtain of wet, fat snowflakes drifted slowly down from a low blanket of clouds. There wasn't much traffic and few people were out. The city had a quiet, sleepy feel to it.
Gilbert walked to the corner, crossed the street against the light, and headed for the plaza. In the lobby of the La Fonda Hotel he used a pay phone and tried without success to reach Springer's lady friends. He left messages on their answering machines and went back outside. He crossed through the plaza to the fine arts museum and stood for a moment by the old Spitz Clock on the corner.
All the old stores where the locals once shopped were gone, replaced by tourist shops and galleries. The lovely plaza and the beautiful old buildings surrounding it no longer served as the heart of the city for the
citizens.
Instead, it had become nothing more than a charming, high-priced outdoor mall for the thousands of visitors pouring into the city to shop, vacation, and sightsee. Gilbert let his resentment over the change surface. But his irritation was really with Cobb and Springer, and their air of superiority and condescension.
He shrugged it off and went into the museum. It was time to find out who put the art collection together for the governor's suite.
***
Kerney had kicked off his blanket. Stretched out on his back on the twin bed in the guest house, his feet dangled over the edge. He wore only boxer shorts, and while the scar from the gunshot wound and the surgery on his stomach looked ghastly, Kerney's body was lean and muscular. Reluctantly, Fletcher shook Kerney awake. His eyes opened instantly.
"You again?"
"With my deepest regrets," Fletcher answered with a smile.
"A very cranky prosecutor named Wesley Marshall gave me an urgent message for you."
Kerney sat up. Fletcher wore a paint-splattered apron over blue jeans and a shirt. He had obviously been at work in the studio.
"What was it?" Kerney asked.
Fletcher consulted the piece of paper in his hand.
"Mr. Marshall said that you are to be deposed by defense counsel at three this afternoon, and to meet him at his office."
"What time is it now?"
"Noon."
Kerney got to his feet. Three hours sleep was better than none, but he still felt stiff and groggy.
"Aren't you overdoing it a bit?" Fletcher asked. "You look haggard and wrung out."
"It was a long night."
"So I gather. I tried to wait up for you. I have information that might be of value to our investigation."
Kerney walked toward the bathroom.
"First things first, Fletcher. Do you have any food in your refrigerator?"
"Would a nice omelette do?"
"Perfect. I'll be there in five minutes."
***
The kitchen, a wide room at the front of the house, had an arched entryway leading to the dining room, and a cobalt blue Mexican tile splash guard on the wall behind the sink, stove, and countertops. There were no cupboards in the kitchen. A series of open shelves held glasses, plates, canisters, and jars. Pots and pans hung from suspended racks, and a huge pantry enclosed by hand-carved doors filled most of the far wall. In the middle of the kitchen sat an antique Spanish Colonial table with thick hand-turned legs, big enough for a family to eat at one end after the meal had been prepared at the other. In front of a woven place mat was a small Waterford vase containing a single, showy bronze chrysanthemum. Fletcher's best silverware and a fresh linen napkin completed the arrangement.
Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity Page 11
