Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity

by Michael McGarrity

  "He may own a house in Rancho Caballo."

  "I wouldn't know."

  Gilbert put the photograph away. "I understand that some time back you lost a key to the governor's private elevator and had to have it replaced. Did you ever find the key?"

  "No."

  "You didn't loan the key to anyone?"

  "No."

  "Did you ever date Amanda Talley?"

  "Yes, we dated for a while, two years ago, soon after she came to town."

  "But not recently?"

  "I said it was two years ago."

  "I'm a little confused about your answer. Last month you were seen in the governor's suite after hours with Amanda Talley."

  "I may have run into Amanda at my uncle's office one evening, Sergeant, but that's all there was to it."

  "Why would Ms. Talley be in the governor's office after hours?"

  "Do you suspect Amanda, Sergeant?"

  "What was your business there that night?"

  "I believe I left a legal brief for the governor's chief of staff to review."

  "You didn't rendezvous with Amanda at the governor's office that evening?"

  "Are you suggesting a romantic interlude of a sexual nature? Isn't that how you referred to it in my office? I did not. As I told you, our relationship has been over for a long time."

  "Several of Ms. Talley's closest friends suggest otherwise. They report that you and Amanda continue to meet privately upon occasion."

  Springer blinked. "If you've spoken with Amanda, I'm sure you know that's simply not true."

  "We haven't been able to reach her yet. She's out of the country."

  "Isn't it premature to make accusations you can't substantiate?"

  "We found some pubic hairs on the carpet in the governor's office. Right in front of his desk."

  "Did you?"

  Gilbert reached out, plucked a loose hair off the collar of Springer's bathrobe, and inspected it.

  "From two different individuals," he lied.

  Springer paled considerably as he watched Gilbert place the hair between the pages of his notebook and close the cover.

  "You just violated my constitutional rights," Springer said.

  "You have no authority to collect physical evidence without a search warrant."

  "Physical evidence?" Gilbert replied innocently. "You're not a suspect, Mr. Springer. Didn't I make that dear? I don't think you have any reason to be concerned."

  "It's time for you to leave. Sergeant."

  Outside, Gilbert took a deep breath. A piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, although it probably didn't matter much, since he couldn't actually prove Roger Springer had jumped Amanda Talley's bones on the governor's carpet.

  The whole thing had been a bluff, and the ploy could cost him, big time. Gilbert was sure the brass would hear about it in the morning, and the thought that he might get bounced off the investigation and stuck in some cubbyhole, sorting evidence inventories for the rest of his career, didn't sit well.

  Gilbert doubted he would get much sleep when he got home.

  ***

  The doctors had given Robert painkillers. He woke up to Kerney's gentle shaking with a small groan. His beard had been shaved off, and there were bruises on his mouth and chin. His lip was split and two upper front teeth were missing. Without the beard, Robert's face had an unused quality to it, except for his eyes, which looked very old. His left arm was suspended in a cast, and his torso had been wrapped to immobilize a broken rib.

  He looked at Kerney and said nothing. It made Kerney wonder if Robert was hearing voices in his head. Finally, Robert licked his lower lip and coughed.

  "How are you, Robert?" Kerney asked.

  "Un poco de agua, por favor," Robert said.

  With great care, Kerney tilted Robert's head off the pillow and placed the straw protruding from the plastic water jug between Robert's lips. Robert took several small sips and then pulled the straw from his lips.

  "It hurts to use my mouth," he said.

  "You don't have to talk now, if you don't want to."

  "You understand Spanish, Kerney," Robert said.

  "Who did this to you?"

  "El Malo."

  Kerney knew the term. It meant "the evil one," a colloquialism for the devil. "How did he do this to you?"

  Robert blinked and looked confused.

  "My head feels better."

  "I hope it stays that way."

  "El Malo never stays with me. He's just non hatajo de mentiras."

  "He lies to you?"

  Robert smirked.

  "He says I'm not crazy."

  "That must be good to hear."

  "It's a lie." Robert paused for a moment. "Once I dreamed I was Jesus Christ. You know what I did in the dream?"

  "What did you do?"

  "I killed myself." Robert giggled.

  "Isn't that funny?"

  "That was some dream."

  "El Malo makes me dream shit like that. It's bad luck to dream you're Jesus."

  "Who beat you up, Robert?"

  "I was naguitas, Kerney. A real sissy. I didn't even throw one punch. Not one."

  "Maybe you didn't have the chance."

  "You're supposed to fight back. That's the rule."

  "Even tofe bolos like you can get tricked," Kerney ventured. Robert considered Kerney's statement.

  "You got fucked up pretty bad, shot and everything. Isn't that right?"

  "That's right."

  "Were you scared when it happened?"

  "Terrified. Who beat you up, Robert?"

  "That fucker Ordway said you sent him some smokes to give to me."

  "Ordway did this?"

  "Yeah."

  Kerney stayed with Robert until he closed his eyes and fell asleep. On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney made contact with the state cop who lived in Mountainair, and asked about Ordway's whereabouts. The officer reported Ordway had cleaned out his trailer, loaded up a small

  U-Haul, and left town.

  Tired to the bone, Kerney turned down the squawk box volume and popped a Wynton Marsalis tape into the cassette deck. Some deep-down, throaty blues would carry him home. Or not exactly home, as Andy had so correctly pointed out.

  He would love to put his cowboy boots on the coffee table at Harper Springer's ranch and call the place his own, but that was a pipe dream. If he stayed in Santa Fe, reality would be a furnished box apartment with all the charm of a minimum-security federal prison. That just wouldn't do.

  He was approaching the off-ramp to St. Francis Drive when the realization hit him that he wasn't thinking clearly. He switched his attention to the rearview mirror. The headlights of three cars behind him flickered in the mirror. He slowed to let them close, clicked on the turn signal, and continued past the exit. Two of the cars turned off while the third stayed behind him.

  He didn't know if he was being followed or not, but it was time to start playing it safe. He moved into the left lane, swung the car off the pavement onto a dirt crossover that connected the divided highway, and merged with the southbound traffic. The northbound car continued on without slowing.

  From now on, he would take alternate routes to and from work and vary his routine. With an eye on the rearview mirror, he got off the interstate, and took side streets to Fletcher's house.

  At the house, he scanned the grounds for anything out of the ordinary before going inside. Everything looked perfectly peaceful.

  ***

  Kerney turned on the table lamp in Fletcher's bedroom and found him curled up in a ball under an old hand stitched floral-wreath quilt. The bed, a massive nineteenth-century four-poster, was angled to provide a view of a walled garden at the rear of the house. Nichos carved in the adobe walls displayed an assortment of folk art animal figures that included Acoma Pueblo owls. Cochina storyteller bears, and mythical Mexican beasts. On the floor in the four corners of the room stood carefully grouped menageries of hand-carved, painted animals. Pigs, skunks, donkeys, lions
, and chickens of various sizes were arranged facing the bed. "Wake up, Fletcher," Kerney said.

  Fletcher pulled a pillow over his head.

  "It's much too early to wake up," he muttered.

  "It's time for our run."

  Kerney removed the pillow and Fletcher opened his eyes. Dressed to go running, Kerney wore a fanny pack around his waist.

  "Why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?" Fletcher asked as he sat up.

  The pouch, designed with a special sleeve for a quick draw, held Kerney's loaded semiautomatic and a spare dip, but Fletcher didn't need to know that.

  "Dress," Kerney said, ignoring the question and tossing Fletcher's sweats on the foot of the bed.

  "I'll wait for you outside."

  When Fletcher joined him, Kerney took a different route for their morning run, half-expecting Fletcher to complain. But as Kerney led the way out of the neighborhood and up a narrow street that gave them a view of the mountains, Fletcher said nothing.

  The first full light of morning streaked speckled carmine on the flat underbelly of some stratus clouds, brushed the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and nickered against the peak of Sun Mountain. Sunlight tipped the mountaintops as though it were a hazy rivulet of gold spreading across the high summits.

  "Why do you look so pleased with yourself?" Kerney asked as they jogged past an open field that gave mema better view of the mountains.

  "No particular reason," Fletcher replied. "Unless you might have some small interest in learning the identity of the mysterious man who was with Bucky Watson at the O'Keeffe benefit."

  Kerney slowed to a trot.

  "What have you been up to, Fletcher?"

  "I happened to run into Bucky and his friend at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. The man's name is Vicente Puentes. He's Hispanic, with classic Castilian features-quite good-looking. A Mexican from his accent, I would say. Gilbert has a picture of him."

  "What were you doing at Rancho Caballo?"

  "Having dinner. The food was excellent."

  "Did you learn anything more about Fuentes?"

  "Only that he's an occasional visitor to Santa Fe. He looks to be quite wealthy."

  "I want you to be careful, Fletcher."

  "Careful about what?"

  "The men we're looking for can be very dangerous."

  "Have you identified the crooks?"

  "We've got a line on them. Don't let any strangers into the house, and if you see anyone suspicious in the neighborhood, I want you to call me right away."

  "Have you been sending patrol officers to check on my house?" Kerney nodded.

  "Andy has. It's just a precaution. Do you have to go anywhere during the next few days?"

  "A trip to the grocery store. I need to fill my larder. That's all."

  "Do that, but otherwise stay home, and keep the doors and windows locked."

  "You're scaring me a bit, Kerney. Whatever is the matter?"

  "Just do as you're told," Kerney said. "And no more playing Hercule Poirot. This isn't one of those cozy mystery novels you love to read."

  The hurt look on Fletcher's face made Kerney stop. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

  Fletcher smiled wanly. "I'll do as you've asked. But I must say you have a rather fierce way

  of showing your concern."

  ***

  Watson's art crating business was housed in a two-story Victorian, on a side street in the Guadalupe District of Santa Fe. A redbrick structure with a wide front porch and a gabled roof, it had a loading dock at the back of the building that led to an alley. Two other Victorians were on either side, one used as a dance studio, and the other rented by a high-end furniture maker. Across the street stood an upscale nightclub and restaurant. It was one of the few buildings on the street Bucky's company. Matador Properties, didn't own. The Guadalupe District, within walking distance of the plaza, had once been a blend of homes and family owned businesses. As the tourist industry expanded, and all the buildings on the plaza were fully leased to serve the growing market, the new galleries, boutiques, and specialty shops began spreading into the Guadalupe area. Using De Leon money, Bucky had started buying before other investors jumped on the bandwagon.

  He stood on the loading dock and watched the trucks start off on the long haul to Chicago. His breath cut a ribbon through the frigid air of early morning. It had taken all night to put the shipment together. Moving nearly a half ton of cocaine and an equal amount of smack was no easy proposition. It had to be hidden in specially constructed crates and loaded precisely in the trucks to avoid raising suspicion.

  Bucky turned off the overhead lights and walked to the back of the crating room to the large tool closet. The drivers had been the last employees to leave, and the building was empty. He flipped on the closet light and swung open a floor-to-ceiling shelf that led to a secret basement. Six wetbacks supplied by De Leon had built the hidden passageway and fashioned a cellar under the crawl space. All the excavation work had been done at night; dirt had been hauled up in buckets by hand, loaded into trucks, and carted away before daybreak.

  Bucky walked down the stairs and checked his inventory. He'd deliberately held back some product so he could fill two upcoming shipments, one for Colorado and one for Kansas. He saw no reason not to make the deliveries just because De Leon wanted to bolster the Chicago market. The drugs would be gone within a couple of days, and because the well would be dry for a while, Bucky planned to bump up the price of a kilo and skim the difference, with no one the wiser.

  He turned off the light, locked up, went to his office, and logged on at the computer. Except for Kansas and Colorado, it was time to let the network know that the pipeline would be shut down until further notice.

  ***

  Gilbert Martinez got to work early and found a memorandum tacked to the office door. The memo, signed by the vehicle maintenance supervisor, directed Gilbert to produce his unit for servicing immediately. It cited departmental policy, and noted that failure to comply could result in disciplinary action. It was the second memo Gilbert had received in a week, and while he didn't expect to be reprimanded, the car badly needed a tune-up. He unlocked the office, dumped his briefcase on the desk, and walked down the hall to a back suite that looked out on the maintenance building.

  The overhead doors were open and the lights were on. Maybe if he got the unit in immediately, he could have it back in a couple of hours. He drove to the shop, parked by an open bay, found the vehicle supervisor in his office, dropped the car keys on the desk, and asked when he could pick up the unit.

  "End of the day," the man said gruffly. "I'm gonna have to fit you in where I can."

  "I need another car," Gilbert said.

  "Don't have one," the man replied.

  "You'll have to borrow from somebody who isn't using their vehicle, or catch rides with one of the uniforms."

  "That won't work," Gilbert said.

  The man shrugged. "You caused the problem, Sergeant, not me. I had you scheduled for

  maintenance last week. Next time, get your car in when you're supposed to and I'll have a leaner for you."

  Back in his office, Gilbert discovered two manila envelopes on the seat of his desk chair containing information on Rancho Caballo sent over by the Environment Department and the Santa Fe county clerk. He thumbed through the paperwork. One set was compliance documents for the effluent discharge and gray water system at the clubhouse. He set it aside.

  The Santa Fe county clerk's packet contained release of mortgage documents, warranty deeds, and copies of the mortgages held on Rancho Caballo. Gilbert read the material carefully. Twelve liens against Rancho Caballo had been released by a company called Matador Properties, based in Santa Fe. The total amount paid off to Matador exceeded a hundred million dollars. Matador held another hundred million in paper against the corporation.

  Gilbert checked the due dates on the release documents. Each were ten-year notes that had been paid off way ahead of schedule.


  Gilbert wasn't a financial expert, but paying off so much debt so quickly seemed unusual to him, especially for a real estate project with land and houses still unsold. He went through the forms again, this time scanning the signature blocks. Sherman Cobb, Roger Springer, and Bucky Watson had signed off on each of them, Cobb for Rancho Caballo, Springer as corporate counsel, and Watson for Matador Properties.

  It's such a small world, Gilbert thought, as he heard footsteps in the hallway. He looked up, expecting to see Chief Kerney appear in the doorway, ready to ream him out for his late-night visit to Roger Springer. He relaxed when the footsteps receded.

  Gilbert leafed through the papers again. Matador Properties was taking a hard hit on interest earnings because of the accelerated payback on the notes. And while everything appeared legal, he wondered why Watson would keep financing a project that yielded such low returns. He needed some expert advice.

  The official workday had begun, which meant that Joe Valdez should be in his office. Valdez, a senior investigator and a certified public accountant, specialized in white-collar and corporate crime. Gilbert picked up the paperwork and went looking for Valdez. He found him anchored behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his wide nose, punching the keys of a desk calculator.

  Valdez had a full chin and big ears with thick lobes. He wore his hair short with no part. He looked more like a prizefighter than a cop or a CPA.

  "Hey, Sergeant," Joe said as Gilbert walked in.

  "What's up?"

  "Doing the monthly family budget?" Gilbert asked.

  "There is no family budget," Joe grumbled, pushing the calculator aside.

  "A budget assumes that I can actually plan for expenditures. That's impossible to do with two teenage daughters in high school."

  "Marry them off," Gilbert suggested, sliding into a chair.

  "Too young," Valdez replied with a shake of his head. "Plus, they both want to go to college before they get married. As it is, I'm running a tax service out of the house in my spare time, trying to put some money aside for tuition. It costs a bundle to send kids to college. Now that the wife is working, we just might be able to swing it."

  "The rewards of police work come from the satisfaction of the job, not money."

  "Don't give me that crap."