Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity

by Michael McGarrity

  "Thank you." Nita dropped her gaze as Kerney's blue eyes studied her. "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that."

  "Like what?"

  "If you have another question, just ask it."

  "You don't seem to like my questions," Kerney replied.

  "I'm not going to apologize for being upset when you came to take me to jail."

  "Why should you? I've watched hard cases break down and cry when the jail door slammed shut behind them. You held up very well."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  "You bet it is."

  "Why do I get the feeling you don't think of me as a criminal?" Nita asked.

  "Extenuating circumstances make some people less guilty than others."

  "Your compassion surprises me."

  Kerney grimaced at the sarcasm.

  "I sound like I'm spoiling for a fight, don't I?" Nita said.

  "You're angry."

  "Mostly with myself. That doesn't mean I have to take it out on you."

  Kerney extended his hand.

  "I hope things work out for you."

  "So do I." Nita slipped her hand into Kerney's and didn't let go. "You're a rare breed, Mr. Kerney. Under different circumstances, I think I would enjoy knowing you."

  "I share the feeling," Kerney replied. "Take care of yourself."

  Nita smiled and let go of Kerney's hand. "I plan to. Addie is about to have her baby. She went into labor an hour ago. I'm on my way to Socorro."

  "Will you tell her the truth about Paul Gillespie?"

  Nita shook her head. "There's no need. She's agreed to put the baby up for adoption."

  She walked down the stairs with her back straight and her head up, and Kerney fought off the unpleasant image of Nita dressed in prison garb, locked in a cell. He wondered if there was anything he could do to help her.

  * * *

  "How did it go?" Andy asked from behind his desk as Kerney entered his office. "Nobody seems to know where De Leon is, but I did learn that he now has a diplomatic passport and he's buying into legitimate businesses along the border."

  Kerney sat, gave Andy the details, and finished up. "I've got an informant in Juarez trying to scour up some more facts."

  "By the name of Juan Diaz," Andy noted. "He called looking for you."

  "Did he leave a message?"

  "It's not one you're going to like to hear. Carlos Ruiz laid some heavy muscle on him after your visit. Ruiz roughed Diaz up and forced him to snitch you off."

  "How the hell did Carlos get on to me?"

  "You were probably tailed as soon as you crossed the border," Andy ventured.

  "I never should have let you go down there."

  "If De Leon knows I'm looking for him, it might force him out into the open."

  "What an optimist you are. De Leon has any number of resources he can use to kill you, without exposing himself."

  "Should I go into hiding?" Kerney asked sharply.

  "Don't get testy on me," Andy answered gruffly. "But until the dust settles I've put Fletcher's house under a close patrol, and Sergeant Martinez will be your partner. Where you go, he goes."

  Kerney opened his mouth to protest and Andy cut him off.

  "No arguments, Kerney."

  Kerney clamped his mouth shut and nodded.

  "Has Gilbert made any progress while I was gone?"

  "He's got his team working hard on the Amanda Talley connection, and he's searching records on the companies that own Rancho Caballo property to see what might be lurking behind the corporate veil."

  "No breakthroughs," Kerney summarized.

  "We're running with one foot nailed to the floor," Andy groused in agreement. He pointed to the open door to the conference room. "But if it will make you feel any better, there are a shitload of inconclusive field reports you need to read through."

  Kerney pulled himself out of his chair with a rueful look on his face.

  "In the morning," Andy ordered, holding up a hand.

  Kerney nodded.

  "Yeah. In my current state, I'd just have to read them all over again anyway."

  "Go home. Better yet, get a home."

  "Fetcher would be heartbroken to know that you don't approve of my living arrangements."

  "Fetcher may not want you staying in his guest quarters for the next couple of years."

  "I doubt the investigation will last that long."

  "I didn't make you my chief deputy to work one case. As soon as we get through this mess, I'm going to fill your plate. There's a hell of a lot of work we need to do in this department."

  "Don't try to shanghai me for the long haul, Andy."

  "You're in for the duration."

  "We'll just have to see about that," Kerney noted as he left the office.

  ***

  Carlos found De Leon in the living room, sitting in his favorite chair, reading some papers. The patron was dressed to go out. He wore a lightweight camel hair jacket, a silk shirt buttoned easily at the collar, and a pair of charcoal trousers. Carlos hesitated before entering. The preserved head of a fighting bull, famous for its performance in the Plaza de Toros in Mexico City, looked over the room from above the fireplace. It glared at Carlos forebodingly with its glass eyes. He composed himself and walked toward De Leon.

  Enrique waited for Carlos to draw near.

  "A sus ordenes, Don Enrique," Carlos said.

  "Ingles," Enrique snapped.

  "Speak English."

  "I am sorry, patron," Carlos said, lowering his head slightly . "I am at your service."

  "That's much better. Are the men in the guest quarters?"

  "They are. With orders to stay out of sight until instructed otherwise."

  "Very good."

  "Do you have orders for them?" Carlos asked.

  "Not yet. Why do you look so troubled, Carlos?"

  "Because I failed to completely destroy the van, Don Enrique."

  De Leon flashed a reassuring smile.

  "No blame attaches to you. Palazzi's stupidity created the circumstance. You did all that I asked to correct the situation."

  "But now you are exposed to Kerney," Carlos replied.

  "It is Kerney who is at risk. You must complete the dossier on him. I want to know where he is the most vulnerable."

  "Do you wish to kill him yourself?"

  "I may allow you that privilege."

  "I am glad that you still retain confidence in me, patron."

  "As always, Carlos. Go now. You have work to do."

  Carlos departed with the feeling that he might soon be a dead man lifted from his shoulders.

  ***

  Fletcher's reputation as an artist who sold his work at high prices had given him sufficient cachet to arrange a late dinner meeting at the clubhouse with the exclusive broker who worked for Rancho Caballo. The broker had a visitor's pass waiting for him at the security gate. He met her in the lobby. She was a cheery, perfectly dressed young woman with a big hairdo that framed her glossy face and cascaded down to her decolletage. She oozed with the desire to find the perfect Rancho Caballo home to meet his every need.

  Over dinner, the woman patted his hand and talked about the host of contractors who could build a house exactly to his specifications if there was nothing available that he liked.

  The food and service were excellent and the large number of dinner guests surprised Fletcher. He had expected far fewer people. He knew not a soul, nor did he want to. But it was clear that the rich had made Rancho Caballo a haven from the rigors of the outside world.

  The dining room had a California decor, with two walls of windows that looked out over the golf course, where the lights along the golf cart paths cast a glow over the fairways. A fireplace crackled with cedar and pinon logs, and a series of wrought-iron chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling. The paintings on the wall were mundane pastel watercolors that Fletcher's trained eye had immediately dismissed as bogus hackwork.

  "Do you plan to sell your home in town?" H
eather Griffin asked as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. Fletcher could see the wheels turning as she contemplated the possibility of two fat commissions.

  "Oh, I suppose my accountant will insist on it, if I decide to buy in Rancho Caballo," he replied.

  "Rancho Caballo is blessed with many talented people," Heather crooned. She named two prominent entertainers who owned vacation homes.

  "You would fit right in."

  "An elite community in every way, I'm sure," Fletcher said, eyeing a tableful of richly dressed young matrons wearing squash blossom necklaces, concho belts, and turquoise earrings. "The ambiance must draw them here."

  "Exactly," Heather replied gaily.

  "I suppose it would be best to have one broker handle the sale of my house and the purchase of a new one."

  "That's the most efficient way," Heather agreed as she leaned forward to give Fletcher her pitch.

  Half-listening, Fletcher nodded and smiled every so often to keep her talking. His visit to Rancho Caballo, which Kerney would most certainly reproach him for, had yielded nothing. He had hoped to come away with something useful. He eyed the young woman across the table and thought what a nice warm blaze it would make if all Santa Fe realtors were burned at the stake, the fires fueled by the catalogs, brochures, and marketing material they spewed out to attract potential buyers. Next summer's annual city fiesta would be the perfect time to do it.

  After dinner, Fletcher made his excuses and said good night. He arrived in the lobby just as Bucky Watson entered with a male companion--one of the unidentified guests in the O'Keefie benefit photographs.

  He approached Watson with a smile, hand outstretched. "My dear Bucky, how are you? It's been so very long since I've seen you."

  "I'm fine, Fletcher," Bucky answered, shaking Hartley's hand, a little perplexed by the cordiality. He knew the old queer didn't like him.

  "Who is your friend?" Fletcher asked, turning to look squarely at the man for the first time. He was definitely Hispanic, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, with a fair complexion, blue eyes, and curly light brown hair.

  "Vicente Fuentes, meet Fletcher Hartley," Bucky replied.

  "Fletcher is one of our living treasures."

  "Ah," De Leon said. "I have heard of this custom. Your city honors elders who have contributed their talents to the community. It is an admirable idea."

  "I've enjoyed the distinction," Fletcher said. "Have you been with us long in Santa Fe, Senor Fuentes?"

  "I am only an occasional visitor," De Leon answered.

  "I believe you've met a friend of mine, Frank Bailey. At the O'Keeffe benefit last month."

  "I don't recall the name," De Leon said. "I've met so many people since I arrived, it is hard to keep everyone sorted in my mind."

  "Of course. Perhaps I am mistaken," Fletcher said.

  "Perhaps," De Leon replied. He touched Watson's back in a signal to move on.

  "Good night, Mr. Hartley."

  "Good night, Senor Fuentes."

  Fetcher drove home in great anticipation of his next conversation with Kerney. He would reveal a tidbit that, he hoped, would be new and helpful information.

  ***

  At a corner table in the clubhouse bar, Bucky Watson waited for De Leon to speak. De Leon expected to be treated with deference, and while Bucky privately resented the attitude, he knew better than to confront it. He took a sip of his drink and remained silent. Aside from the hostess behind the bar and an older couple about to leave, the room was empty. De Leon watched the man hold the woman's coat as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. When they walked out the door, he glanced over at Bucky. Bucky looked like an athlete, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and a trim waist, but his petulant face spoiled the image.

  After the hostess left to deliver drinks in the dining room, De Leon finally spoke.

  "How much inventory do you have on hand?"

  Bucky did a quick calculation in his head. "A six-week supply of cocaine," he answered. "Maybe a little less than that in heroin. Smack has been moving well lately."

  "Send everything to Chicago immediately." "That's a lot of product to put on the road at one time."

  De Leon answered with an icy look. "I'll have it shipped out by morning," Bucky said, recovering quickly. It would mean calling in the crew to build special containers at the crating shop, packing the drugs in with some cheap art, forging lading bills, and putting two large trucks on the road. It was an all-night job.

  "When will I be resupplied?" Bucky asked.

  "You won't be, for a time."

  "I've got people who expect product waiting out there."

  "They can wait," De Leon said, thinking how tiresome Bucky could be.

  "They may start moving to other suppliers."

  "Or they'll cut back on bulk sales and raise their prices. When can more of my funds be moved into Rancho Caballo?"

  "We can wash an additional nine million right away," Bucky answered.

  "Do Springer and Cobb continue to believe it is your money they are using?"

  Bucky snickered. "Yeah. They don't seem to care where it comes from, as long as they get their slice."

  "Excellent. There is a shopping mall south of the city that is about to come on the market. When it does, offer the asking price and secure the largest mortgage possible. I'll transfer funds to cover the down payment and closing costs."

  Bucky masked his surprise. If De Leon was right about the mall, no one else in the city knew anything about it.

  "I'll take care of it."

  "Have the police returned to question you further about the art theft?"

  "No," Bucky replied. "Roger Springer will ask the governor to intervene if the cops get too nosey."

  "Since you had nothing to do with the theft, you should have no worries."

  "I'd love to know who pulled it off. It was a slick piece of work."

  "So it seems," Enrique said. "What have you learned about it?"

  "The police are operating on the assumption that Amanda Talley was somehow involved in the heist. I introduced you to her at the O'Keeffe benefit. The cops think she may have been murdered."

  "How interesting. Is this information reliable?"

  "It comes right from the governor's chief of security, a state police captain."

  "Police make such excellent informants. The gentleman you introduced me to in the lobby. Tell me about him."

  "Fletcher? He's local color. He's a very successful artist, collected on a national level."

  "Does he own property in Rancho Caballo?"

  "Not as far as I know. He lives near the Roundhouse, in one of the older neighborhoods. He was probably someone's dinner guest."

  "I did not like the degree of interest he showed in me. Who are his friends?"

  Bucky chuckled. "Every queen, queer, transvestite, and transsexual in Santa Fe. The latest Fletcher story I heard is that he has a gay cop living with him."

  "Really?"

  "I don't know who it is. But knowing Fletcher, he's probably young and good-looking."

  "He sounds harmless," De Leon noted, glancing at his wristwatch.

  Bucky took the cue, stood up, and smiled at his boss. "I'll stay in touch," he said.

  "Make sure that you do."

  Bucky left the bar feeling mined. Working for De Leon had made him a rich man, but he didn't have to like the son of a bitch's condescending attitude.

  ***

  After learning a bit more about Amanda Talley, Gilbert Martinez believed his hunch about Roger Springer and his afterhours trysts with women at the governor's office deserved to be tested. Although it was fairly late, lights burned inside Roger Springer's house. Gilbert was pleased; he had timed the visit to catch Springer away from the office and off guard, if possible.

  He stopped his unit next to a BMW in the driveway, and exterior floodlights controlled by motion sensors immediately switched on. Average in size by neighborhood standards, the house was situated off Gonzale
s Road in the foothills, with Santa Fe aglow below it, spreading haphazardly across the valley floor.

  A round structure low to the ground, the home seemed anchored to the hillside. The curved walls had large windows and doors separated by buttresses, and all the rooms appeared to open onto a semicircular patio. Gilbert found his way to double glass doors that allowed him to see into a sunken living room. A fireplace glowed in the center of the room, and a wine bottle and two glasses were on a coffee table in front of a couch.

  No one was in sight, so he knocked and waited, his attention drawn back to the cityscape below. He could remember a time when except for the highway strip into town, Santa Fe stopped at the private college on St. Michaels Drive. Now the profusion of city lights ran for miles past the college and washed out the night sky.

  He looked through the double glass doors just as Roger Springer yanked one open. Wearing a terry-doth robe and a waspish expression. Springer ran a hand through his rumpled hair and gave Gilbert an irritated look.

  "What is it. Sergeant?"

  "I have a few questions, Mr. Springer. May I come in?"

  "At this hour?"

  "Only for a minute."

  Springer nodded brusquely and stood aside. Gilbert stepped into a wide arched foyer that opened onto the living room. Recessed lights along the back wall of the living room accentuated an arrangement of paintings and lithographs above a stereo sound system on a low, built-in bookcase.

  "What questions do you have?" Springer asked as he closed the door.

  He made no gesture for Gilbert to move into the living room.

  "I understand you're a friend of Amanda Talley."

  "I know Amanda."

  "You were with her at the O'Keeffe benefit, I believe."

  "I was hardly with her, Sergeant."

  "But you saw her there," Gilbert countered.

  "We had a drink together with several other people."

  "Was Bucky Watson one of them?"

  "I believe so."

  "There was another man with the group. He may have been Hispanic or Mexican. Do you remember meeting him?"

  "I can't say that I do."

  Gilbert held out a photograph. "Please look at the man at the extreme left of the picture with his head partially turned away, and tell me if you know him."

  Roger leaned forward and looked.

  "I don't know him."