He walked down the long wide hallway of the old county courthouse, a lovely WPA building two blocks from the plaza. The hand-carved beams, finely crafted corbels, delicate tin light fixtures, and the sweeping staircases had been retained, but the guts of the building had been ripped out and modernized after the district court and sheriff's department had moved to other locations.
As a child, Gilbert had occasionally accompanied his father to the courthouse when it still housed all the county services. Back then, his father knew most of the people who worked there on a first-name basis. Gilbert knew none of the workers he passed in the hallway, and it only deepened his feeling that he was a stranger in his hometown. Maybe it had been a mistake to take the promotion to sergeant and move back to Santa Fe. So far, it had been nothing but a painful, disconnected experience.
He found the assessor's office and asked for the Rancho Caballo subdivision property tax records. The printout he got wasn't helpful at all. No Hispanicsurnamed owners were listed, but a sizable number of the houses were owned by out-of-state corporations and foreign companies.
He compared the records with the names Fletcher Hartley and Frank Bailey had given him. None were listed as Rancho Caballo owners. But one local business, Kokopelli Design Studio, was carried on the books as a corporate owner of two homes. Gilbert noted the address for the studio. It was one block off the plaza.
On his way out of the building, he stopped at the land-use planning office and asked to speak to the director. Gilbert had one question to ask, of purely personal interest.
"How much water does the Rancho Caballo golf course use?" Gilbert asked, after introducing himself to the head of the planning office.
The director, a nearly bald, gray-faced older man, scowled at the question.
"On the average, between three hundred thousand and four hundred thousand gallons a day."
"How did that kind of consumption get approved?"
"Rancho Caballo was initially approved to use only recycled gray water for the golf course," the man answered. "That was part of the original subdivision master plan."
"That's impossible," Gilbert said.
"There isn't enough development in the area to supply that volume of gray water."
"Rancho Caballo bought additional water rights from an adjoining landowner last year. They can legally pump hundreds of acre-feet of groundwater from now until the wells run dry."
"Who sold the rights?"
The man chuckled sourly. "You don't follow local politics much, I take it. Sherman Cobb sold the water rights to the corporation. He owns a couple of sections of land that butt up against the subdivision. It caused quite a stink in the press, and the environmentalists raised hell about the depletion of the underground aquifer. But it got approved anyway."
"I see," Gilbert replied, thinking maybe not much had changed in the 150 years since the end of the Mexican-American War, when the Stars and Stripes were first raised over Santa Fe.
***
At the museum foundation offices, just behind the fine arts museum, Gilbert was directed by a receptionist to the publicist's office on the second floor. He climbed the stairs and found Fletcher Hartley sitting at a cluttered table in a small staff lounge near the stairwell, poring over photographs. "What are you doing here?" Gilbert asked.
Fletcher waved off the implied censure. "I'm doing research. The publicity director is an old friend. She was more than willing to share the guest list for the O'Keeffe benefit, as well as photographs she took at the gala."
"Aren't you supposed to be calling art dealers?"
"I've done that, to no avail. Now I'm gazing at candid snapshots of smug art patrons. Care to join me? From the look of it, there are untold numbers of potential suspects. So far, I have ten shots taken of Amanda Talley with distinctly different groups of people. She appears to be quite the social butterfly."
"Hand me a stack," Gilbert said as he sat down at the table.
They sorted through the pictures and assembled two piles of photos. One accumulation featured Amanda Talley in every shot, while a larger stack included everyone else who had been photographed at the gathering.
With the help of the publicist, they whittled down the number of unidentified people in the photographs to slightly under twenty.
"What's next?" Fletcher asked.
"Do you know who owns a company called Kokopelli Design Studio?" Gilbert asked. He stretched to ease the stiffness in his shoulders, and started stuffing the two sets of pictures into envelopes.
"Bucky Watson owns it. Buckley is his given name. He's unscrupulous. Once he made me an absurd offer to buy my inventory of completed works. I threw him out of my studio."
Gilbert picked through the Amanda Talley photographs until he found one with Watson, Roger Springer, and Frank Bailey standing in front of the clubhouse bar with two unidentified men. He studied the picture.
"Watson's design studio owns two houses in Rancho Caballo," Gilbert said. Both in the million-dollar range."
"My, my, Bucky's doing quite well for himself."
"Can a design studio generate that kind of cash flow?"
"Bucky is really a small conglomerate. He owns the design studio, a gallery on Canyon Road, and an art crating company. And he also dabbles quite a bit in commercial real estate."
"So, he's got big bucks. I get the feeling you don't like him," Gilbert said.
"I do not," Fletcher replied, as he reached for his topcoat. "Besides being greedy, he has no aesthetic sense and a shallow charm that wears thin."
"Why do people like Watson come here?" Gilbert asked.
"I see we share the same resentments about the new pioneers," Fletcher noted. "While Santa Fe still has appeal, it is not the place we once loved."
Outside, in the lateness of the day, Gilbert said goodbye to Fletcher, who waved his umbrella in response, and jaywalked to the plaza.
Gilbert smiled as he watched. He remembered the image of Fletcher sitting in the deep shade under the portal of his house on summer evenings, sipping his single malt scotch, and entertaining the endless stream of friends who dropped by.
Gilbert's family had a standing invitation to Fletcher's informal soirees, and the gatherings sparkled with eccentrics, bohemians, artists, writers, and the intelligentsia. Fletcher's friends were men and women of every imaginable persuasion and inclination who loved the city with a passion that made them a vital part of the community.
For Gilbert, going to Fletcher's house had been like opening a window on the world. He smiled at the memory of Fletcher and his pals leading everybody off on a walk to the plaza for band concerts and other festivities. Those were magical evenings when Gilbert was young.
What did Fletcher call the people who had recently migrated to Santa Fe? New pioneers--that was it. The city was glutted with affluent colonists busy discarding identities, leaving relationships, abandoning careers, forging new lifestyles, pursuing New Age aspirations, and picking through the Santa Fe scene like shoppers at an outlet mall. There were probably more psychic healers, spirit guides, psychotherapists, and self-help gurus per square foot in Santa Fe than anywhere else in the country.
Stolen art and stolen culture, Gilbert thought. He pushed back the sour feeling. It was close to the end of the business day. Maybe Bucky Watson would still be at his design studio on Water Street.
"I felt like I was the target of an investigation," Bucky Watson said. He'd been bitching from the minute he'd arrived in Roger Springer's office to discuss his meeting with Sergeant Marrinez.
"Stop worrying," Springer said. He sat across from Bucky, who drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair and shifted nervously. "I told you on the telephone the state police would be asking
questions," he added.
"About the O'Keefle fund-raiser," Bucky shot back. "Not my property holdings."
"It's no big deal. I talked to Vance Howell at the governor's office. They've got no leads, so the cops are taking a scattergun approach to the case, ho
ping something will turn up."
"I still don't like it." Bucky ran a hand through his hair. "Is Amanda really a suspect?"
"Howell says the working assumption is that her loose talk may have planted the idea for the robbery."
"Can't she straighten this thing out?"
"She's on vacation in Belize."
"Do the cops know about you and Amanda?" Bucky asked.
Roger laughed. "Amanda likes to keep her trysts secret."
"And I like to keep my business affairs private," Bucky snapped.
"Relax. I can ask the governor to flex a little political muscle, if need be. Given the size of your contribution to his reelection campaign, I'm sure he'd oblige."
"That would help," Bucky said.
"I'm always glad to be of service to a friend."
Bucky changed the subject. "I need to move more money into Rancho Caballo. What's the status on
the equestrian center plans?"
Springer got up and went to the desk. "It's ready to go. All I need is a signature and a check." He picked up a document and walked back to Bucky. "Now that we've attracted the wealthy golfers, it's time to bring in the rich horsy set."
"How much?" Bucky asked, taking the papers.
"Nine million, to cover design, planning, and land acquisition. Can you swing it? The corporation is cash poor until we finish selling the remaining lots. We went overbudget on the clubhouse and golf
course."
Bucky scanned the papers for the bottom line. "Cobb stands to make a hell of a profit on the land sale to the corporation," he remarked.
"Stop complaining, Bucky. You get what you need out of the arrangement."
Bucky scrawled his signature and handed the papers back to Springer. "When do you want the check?"
"Anytime this week will do."
***
Neil Ordway fumed as he slugged back the double shot of whiskey. He wanted to grind the shot glass into the face of the owner of the Cottonwood Bar, who stood behind the counter smirking. His scuffle with Kerney had been reported to the town council, and instead of accepting his resignation, the council had fired him instead. His chances of getting another law enforcement job were now less than zero. It had taken all of thirty minutes for the news to spread throughout the village.
After turning in his equipment, the keys to the office and patrol car, and his badge and commission card, Ordway had walked from the town hall to the bar brooding over ways he could get back at Kerney.
He glared at the proprietor, a chunky man who always dressed Western and prided himself on looking like Kenny Rogers, the country singer. Ordway was sure the man dyed his carefully trimmed white beard and razor-cut long hair to intensify the similarity.
He pointed at his empty glass. The owner filled it quickly and moved away. It was dinnertime and Ordway was the lone customer in the bar. The Cottonwood, a sleazy joint that smelled of sweat, stale liquor, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, catered to hard-core boozers. The crappy, dingy atmosphere suited Ordway's shitty mood perfectly.
He downed his drink, ordered one more for the road, drank it quickly, bought a fifth to carry home, and stepped out into a cold night wind. There was no one in sight, and the main drag was virtually empty except for a few cars parked across the street in front of the Laundromat.
Ordway buttoned up against the cold and started walking. A car passed by and he stiffened with embarrassment as the glare of the headlights caught him.
Even though his rented house trailer behind the Shaffer Hotel was just a few minutes' walk away, Ordway felt humiliated at the thought of being seen hoofing it home. He hurried across the main drag before another car cruised by, and ducked down a side street.
At the corner where Pop Shaffer's old, long-deserted motor lodge cabins stood, Ordway stopped and looked down the sidewalk toward the hotel. He smiled wickedly at the sight of Robert Cordova parading up and down in front of the weird concrete fence next to the hotel.
Half drunk, Ordway remembered getting a message earlier in the day that the county jail had released Cordova from protective custody. He stuffed the paper bag with the whiskey bottle inside his jacket, walked to Cordova, reached out, and yanked Robert's hands away from his ears.
"Hey, Robert," he said pleasantly.
Robert opened his eyes.
"Fuck you," he snarled, trying to pull away.
"Be nice. I got something for you."
"You ain't got nothing I want," Robert said, still struggling to free himself from Ordway's grip.
"It's from Kerney. He sent you a present, a carton of smokes. Asked me to make sure you got them."
Cordova relaxed and Ordway released his hold.
"Where are they?" Robert asked.
"In my police car around the corner. Come on. Let's go get them." He patted Cordova on the shoulder and walked him away from the hotel lights.
When they reached the darkness of the motor lodge, Ordway pushed Cordova into the small courtyard that separated the stone cabins and slammed his fist into Robert's mouth. He heard Cordova's rotten teeth crack. He hit him again and felt some teeth break free.
Robert sank to his knees, blood bubbling out of his lips.
"How do you like your present, you crazy little motherfucker?" Ordway asked as he brought his knee up to Cordova's chin. Robert collapsed on his side and Ordway started kicking him with his
steel-toed boots.
***
Carlos Ruiz found planes nerve shattering. During the flight, he stayed glued to his seat while the three men with him oiled weapons, loaded ammunition clips, and chatted with one another. He tensed up when De Leon pilot announced through the open cockpit door that they would touch down at the Santa Fe Airport ten minutes behind Kerney. Takeoffs and landings bothered Carlos most of all. After Carlos had followed Kerney to the airport the night before, De Leon had ordered him to continue the surveillance, no matter where the gringo went.
Fortunately, it didn't take long to round up De Leon pilot and tail Kerney to El Paso. Once Carlos was back on the ground, shadowing the gringo had been easy. Kerney had no idea he had been followed.
Carlos had stayed in contact with the patron by telephone, advising him of Kerney's movements. As soon as Kerney crossed into Juarez, De Leon ordered Carlos to find out what the gringo was up to. That too proved to be a simple task. First, Kerney spoke with Rose Moya, and then immediately moved on to meet with Francisco Posada's former houseboy, Juan Diaz. After Kerney left, Carlos put another man on Kerney while he paid a visit to Juan.
Experience had taught Carlos that men feared the loss of physical capacity. If you threatened to cripple a man, blind him, or cut off his cock, most became cooperative within a very short time. Juan proved to be no exception.
Carlos didn't need to rough up Juan to learn that Kerney was investigating the Santa Fe art theft. But when Juan hesitated to say more, Carlos loosened his tongue by smashing the bones in his right hand. It alarmed Carlos to discover that Kerney suspected De Leon. He reported Juan's disclosures to the patron. Don Enrique seemed unsurprised, which probably meant Carlos had simply confirmed information already at De Leon disposal. The jefe ordered continued surveillance.
Kerney spent the rest of the day meeting with norteamericano law enforcement officials in El Paso. As luck would have it, Kerney spoke with a DEA agent on De Leon payroll. Carlos talked to the agent after Kerney and learned that fingerprint evidence from the burned van had led the gringo to suspect De Leon organization.
That was all the agent knew. Carlos passed on the news to De Leon who once again seemed unperturbed. Carlos ran over the torching of the van in his mind. He thought he had destroyed the vehicle sufficiently to erase all the evidence. Would De Leon hold him responsible for the oversight? He would find out soon enough, and although the thought of facing De Leon anger chilled him, he knew better than to try to run or hide.
Carlos switched his attention to the three men in the plane. He wondered what plans the patron had for th
em. Hopefully, they were coming to Santa Fe only to kill Kerney. But De Leon could also use them to mete out punishment. Carlos needed to remain mindful of that possibility.
The wheels thudded over the runway, and for the first time during the flight Carlos looked out the window. The bright lights of the small control tower were a welcome sight. He let go of the armrests and grunted in relief only when the plane touched down and the pilot applied the brakes.
***
Anita Lassiter stood at the railing on the second floor of the state police headquarters and watched Kerney walk slowly up the stairs. With his head lowered, he didn't see her. She had noticed Kerney's limp previously, but now it seemed much more pronounced; he was almost dragging his right leg up each step. He saw her, masked a small smile, and picked up his pace. "I see you made bail," Kerney said as he reached the top of the landing.
"Yesterday," Nita replied. Dressed in blue jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and work boots, Nita held a brown leather bomber jacket in her hand. Her arm was no longer in a sling.
"What can I do for you, Ms. Lassiter?" Kerney asked, concentrating on her worried expression. Even in casual attire Nita looked feminine and elegant.
"I'm here about Robert," Nita replied.
"He's been severely beaten. He wants you to visit him at the hospital."
"What happened?"
"He won't talk about it. He has a fractured arm, a broken rib, and he lost some front teeth."
"Who found him?"
"A deputy sheriff."
"Where?"
"Near the Shaffer Hotel in Mountainair. He was lying in the courtyard of the old motor lodge."
"What hospital is he in?"
"The university hospital in Albuquerque."
"How did you find out about it?"
"Robert carries my business card in his wallet. The hospital called to see if I was his next of kin."
"No wonder Robert thinks of you as his sister."
"He really has no one else," Nita answered with a slight shrug and small smile.
"Will you go and see him?"
"Of course I will. As soon as I finish up here."
Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity Page 14
