Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity

by Michael McGarrity

  "But if he's called as a witness in court, we can kiss the case against

  Watson good-bye."

  "Do you have a better way to squeeze Bucky?"

  "What about the money laundering angle?"

  "Joe Valdez is working on it, but it could take time."

  "What if all you find in the basement is some drug residue?"

  "My friend Mabel the pig assures me there's more than residue inside.

  "I'll set up a meeting with Watson, tell him I need to ask him about Amanda Talley, and time it to coincide with the building inspection at the shop. If all goes well, I'll arrest him as soon as the drugs are uncovered."

  "You have a lot of faith in Mabel."

  "She's got a great nose."

  Joe Valdez, looking decidedly rumpled and glassy eyed from his all-night stint at work, appeared in the doorway.

  "Got a minute?" he asked.

  "Sure, Joe," Andy said.

  "What have you got?"

  "I've located the insurance agent who handles Bucky Watson's commercial accounts. He's faxing me a list of all the Matador holdings insured by his company."

  "Good work," Kerney said.

  Joe nodded his thanks. "This agent also insures Bucky's Rancho Caballo homes. Just as a matter of interest, I asked him if he insured any other Rancho Caballo homeowners. He carries one other policy in the subdivision, for a client Bucky referred to him. It's a Mexican corporation called Tortuga International."

  "Tortuga?" Kerney said. The word meant "turtle" in Spanish, and De Leon Juarez casino was called the Little Turtle.

  "That's right," Joe replied.

  "Anyway, I asked a buddy who works at the corporation commission to go in early and do a search on Tortuga. It's a real estate holding company with an office in the southern part of the state. The CEO's name is Vicente Fuentes, aka Enrique De Leon."

  "Do you have an address for the property?" Kerney asked.

  "I wrote everything down," Valdez said, handing Kerney a piece of paper.

  "That's damn good work, Joe," Kerney said.

  "I just asked the right question, Chief. By the way, Watson controls two corporations: Matador and Magia. I'd like to follow up to see if there's any connection to Tortuga. It may take me a while."

  "Hit it as hard as you can," Andy said, "and keep Chief Kerney informed."

  "Okay," Joe said as he cracked a tired smile and left the room.

  Andy got out of his chair, walked to the front of the desk, and perched against it.

  "I'm assuming you have everyone briefed and ready to go."

  "They're on station," Kerney answered, unwinding from his chair. His knee felt stiff and cranky. He stretched it out to ease the muscles.

  "Well, then, have at it," Andy said as he plucked the piece of paper with De Leon Rancho Caballo address from Kerney's hand. "I'll put a surveillance team on De Leon house."

  "Remember, De Leon got diplomatic immunity."

  "Yeah, but Vicente Fuentes doesn't. I'll think of a way to get us inside."

  "That would be nice."

  "Cut the sarcasm, Kerney."

  ***

  Senior Patrol Officer Clyde Pratt knew exactly who was inside the art crating shop. Using the onboard computer in his unit, he'd run a record check on the vehicles as soon as each of the two men drove up, parked, and went into the house. It was amazing what could be learned from a license plate number these days. The registered owners were Skip Cornell and Kiko Segura, and his screen even displayed driver's license photos, which allowed Pratt to confirm their identities. There were no wants, warrants, or rap sheets on either man, but that didn't mean shit. A seventeen-year veteran of the force, Pratt had come to appreciate the new technology. It sometimes made it possible to know in advance whom you would be dealing with. Clyde thought that was fucking marvelous. The more you knew, the less the danger, if you stayed prepared for the

  unexpected.

  He released the thumb snap to his holster as he followed Morris Wadley up the stairs of the loading dock. Prom inside, Pratt could hear the harsh whine of a table saw. Wadley went in first, carrying a clipboard. As soon as Skip and Kiko saw Pratt, they shut down the saw. Interior walls in the back of the house had been removed to create an open workspace. Floor-to-ceiling racks along one wall held lumber, and there were various drills and machine tools on stands near the saw. A small office and an adjacent walk-in storage locker ran along another wall.

  Pratt noticed a lot of hand tools on tables and workbenches. Each could be used as a weapon.

  "What's up. Officer?" Skip asked as he pulled off his ear protectors.

  Clyde smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing to worry about."

  He closed in slowly, visually scanning the men for hidden weapons. Both wore blue jeans and T-shirts with no obvious bulges. Exactly as he'd been told to do, Wadley stepped off to one side and waited. Pratt stopped walking when he reached the angle he wanted between the two men. He glanced at the hammer on a table within Kiko's reach and stayed well out of striking range.

  "We just need a few minutes of your time," Clyde said.

  "What for?" Skip demanded.

  Kiko looked ready to bolt for the front door. Pratt put his hand on his holster and Kiko froze. It was time to move Kiko and Skip outside.

  "Let's go outside," Pratt suggested.

  "I'm allergic to sawdust."

  "What in the fuck is this all about?" Skip asked.

  "Building inspection," Pratt answered. "Do you have a problem with that, Skippy?"

  Pratt's use of his diminutive nickname, which he hated, made Skip's face turn red.

  "You know me?"

  "I sure do. I know your friend Kiko, too. Now, let's go outside."

  Clyde smiled broadly at Kiko. "Don't even think of reaching for that hammer."

  Outside, Pratt stood them with their backs against the loading dock.

  Skip wanted to smoke a cigarette and Clyde suggested he could do without. Kiko kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Every time he moved, Clyde clamped a hand on his pistol grip and Kiko froze.

  Finally, Wadley appeared on the dock with a flushed, excited look on his face and looked down at Pratt.

  "This place is a building code disaster," he said. "The first floor has been ruined."

  "That's a shame," Pratt replied, staying focused on the two men in front of him.

  "There's something I think you should see, Officer," he said. "I'm no expert, but it looks like drugs to me. A lot of drugs in a hidden basement."

  "Don't touch anything." Clyde took his handheld radio out of the belt case and called for assistance.

  "Turn around, boys," he ordered, after he ended the transmission. He cuffed and frisked them while he read them their rights, and sat them both on the ground.

  "Are there really drugs inside, Skippy?" Clyde asked as he stepped back.

  "I don't know nothing about that shit," Skip replied, his face turning red.

  "How about you, Kiko? Do you know anything about drugs?"

  "I just build shipping crates. That's all."

  "Well, you're both going to have to answer a lot of questions."

  "I want a lawyer," Skip said.

  "Me too," echoed Kiko.

  "Fair enough," Clyde said. "But first you get a ride in a shiny new police car."

  Pratt turned the men over to an arriving patrol officer and waited for the agents to appear. As the arresting officer, Clyde needed to confirm the presence of narcotics in the building. He went in with the agents, and Wadley led them to the storage locker and a built-in shelf that swung open to reveal steps to the secret basement.

  Bundles of crack cocaine and heroin were stacked on pallets. It was a hell of a lot of dope, enough to fill the trunk of a full-size car. The agents did a quick test of the drugs and pegged the street value at a million plus.

  "What charges do you want on Kiko and Skip?" Pratt asked.

  "Start with trafficking," an agent said, "and then be c
reative."

  ***

  Like most of the shops along Canyon Road, Bucky Watson's gallery had once been a private residence. The interior of the building had neoclassical features accentuated by antique furniture and expensive art in ornate frames. Watson's office continued the theme. Behind the Shaker table that served as a desk, logs burned in a fireplace bordered by a gilt-edge Georgian surround. An old Mexican grain chest sat on sturdy legs under a window that looked out on the narrow street. On a high shelf over the window was an impressive array of Apache Indian baskets. Paintings by early twentieth-century Santa Fe artists and a bookshelf of art reference publications completed the decor.

  Kerney sat across the table from Bucky. Watson's eyebrows had started twitching the moment he arrived. He smirked at Kerney's questions, toyed with a ring, and answered impatiently.

  "Is all this rehashing necessary?" Watson said.

  "Sometimes it can jog a recollection or two," Kerney replied genially.

  "Go ahead and finish asking your questions."

  "You said Amanda attended the benefit alone. Did you see her arrive unescorted?"

  "No. That's just the impression I had. She didn't act like she was with anybody."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because she was milling around, mixing, chatting people up."

  "Did any of the men at the benefit seem interested in Amanda?"

  "Every straight man who meets Amanda is interested in her."

  "What about Vicente Puentes? Was he interested?"

  Bucky flinched slightly. "I don't know if he was or not."

  "Is Fuentes straight or gay?"

  "I don't know."

  "Can you put me in touch with Fuentes? I'd like to talk to him."

  "I don't know how to do that. I've only met the man a couple of times." Bucky ran his finger under the collar of his teal blue linen shirt.

  "Doesn't he own a home in Rancho Caballo?"

  "He's a member at the club, so I suppose he does."

  "I had the impression you knew him fairly well."

  "You're mistaken."

  "I understand Fuentes is wealthy. How did he make his money?"

  "I have no idea." The phone rang and Bucky grabbed the receiver. He listened momentarily and handed the instrument to Kerney.

  "It's for you."

  Kerney took the call, and listened as the agent reported that over a million dollars in black tar heroin and crack cocaine had been found in the secret basement.

  Suppressing a smile, he expressed his thanks and handed the receiver to Bucky.

  "Are we finished?" Bucky asked as he dropped the phone in the cradle and stood up.

  "I'm afraid you have a problem, Mr. Watson."

  "What kind of problem?"

  "With the city. It appears a citation has been issued."

  "What for?"

  "Building code violations."

  "Which building?"

  "The Victorian house where you have your art crating shop. Supposedly, you gutted the inside without a permit."

  "Those jerks at the city are always trying to screw with me. I'll have my lawyer handle it."

  "There's one more problem, Mr. Watson," Kerney said, reaching for his handcuffs.

  "A large quantity of heroin and cocaine was found in the basement of the building."

  "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

  "Call it the luck of the draw," Kerney said as he stepped to Bucky, spun him around, and cuffed him.

  ***

  Bucky's refusal to talk without his lawyer present came as no surprise to Kerney. After the lawyer arrived at headquarters, Kerney assigned four agents working in pairs to interrogate Watson. The teams switched every hour to keep the pressure on, while search warrants were executed. Officers were at the art crating shop, the gallery, the design studio, and Bucky's residence, looking for anything that could be added to the list of charges against Watson. Kerney hoped to overwhelm Bucky with hard evidence and force him to cooperate. Watson's two employees, Skip Cornell and Kiko Segura, were undergoing separate interrogations and being pressured to cut a deal and testify against Bucky. The chances looked good; fingerprints from both men had been lifted from the drug parcels, and the sheer volume of the stash guaranteed a felony-one fall, unless they rolled over on Watson.

  Joe Valdez, armed with a special search warrant, had seized Watson's electronic mail and computer files. He had several technical specialists running programs to break Bucky's privacy codes and locate any off-site network terminals. Valdez was digging into Watson's hard copies, looking for the money trail and the drug distribution network.

  If all went well, Kerney planned to be Bucky's final interrogator of the day. He wanted to have the pleasure of cracking Bucky open. Noontime passed before he could get away from the office. A contractor's truck was parked in Fletcher's driveway. He found the man inspecting the damaged front door, while the patrol officer assigned to watch over Fletcher's house looked on. Kerney introduced himself and showed the contractor around.

  When the inspection concluded, the man consulted his clipboard notes, did some quick calculations, and stuck a pencil behind an ear. He had dark curly hair, a skinny neck, and a large Adam's apple.

  "It must have been one hell of a gunfight," the man said. "The newspaper said four people were killed. I thought shit like that only happened in the movies."

  Kerney had no desire to chitchat about the shootout.

  "I want everything put back in its original condition."

  The contractor caught the tone in Kerney's voice and changed the subject.

  "Will insurance pay for it?"

  "Probably."

  "Is it a full-replacement policy?"

  "I don't know."

  "The front door alone is going to cost plenty to reproduce. It was hand-carved from old oak. I'll have to subcontract it out."

  "That's fine," Kerney said.

  "When can you start?"

  "In the morning."

  "How long will it take?"

  "A week, but I can't guarantee you'll have the new front door by then. What's the deductible on the insurance policy?"

  "I don't know."

  "Isn't this your house?"

  "No, I'm acting on the owner's behalf," Kerney said as he wrote out a check that dug a hole in his savings and gave it to the man. "This should get you started. If it doesn't, let me know."

  The man looked at the amount, smiled, and nodded.

  "I've got some scrap plywood in my truck. I'll board everything up and be back tomorrow with my crew."

  "I'll let the owner know you'll be here," Kerney said.

  He shook the man's hand and left. He hoped that arranging to have the house restored would ease some of Fletcher's pain. The way Kerney saw it, he'd been the houseguest from hell.

  ***

  Gary Dalquist's law office was in an old brick cottage across the street from the county judicial building. The front room served as a reception and waiting area. It had a tongue-and-groove oak floor, and a hand-stenciled fruit-and-floral motif that ran at the top of the walls next to the high plaster ceiling. Dalquist was leaning over a desk at the back of the room, talking to a secretary, when Kerney walked in. He looked up and stepped across the room.

  "I thought I might be hearing from you," he said. "Nita told me you took a statement from Addie."

  Kerney held out the transcript. "I did. Here's your copy"

  "It's not often an arresting officer in a murder case is so helpful to the defense."

  "You're not the only lawyer who's made that observation recently," Kerney said. "But Wesley Marshall didn't put it quite so nicely."

  Dalquist chuckled. "I'm sure he didn't. I have a message for you. Robert is being discharged from the hospital today. He'll be staying with Nita for a while. She wanted to make sure that you knew where he would be."

  "Is he well enough to be discharged?"

  Dalquist shrugged. "He's a welfare case. Hospitals push indigent peo
ple out the door as quickly as possible."

  "I hope Ms. Lassiter knows what she's doing. Robert isn't easy to manage."

  "I said about the same thing to her, but she wouldn't be swayed. It may work out; Robert is back on his medications and seems fairly stable."

  "He's acting okay?"

  "He seems to be, according to Nita."

  "When will you go to trial?" Kerney asked.

  "Not soon, that's for sure," Dalquist replied.

  "But when we do, I plan to mount a defense that won't leave a dry eye in the courtroom." Dalquist tapped the papers in his hand.

  "Thanks for dropping Addie's statement by."

  "You're welcome."

  Outside, Kerney watched two deputies march shackled prisoners out the back door of the courthouse and into a waiting sheriff's van. The new officer uniforms, off-blue and gray in color, had been selected by the county sheriff in an attempt to professionalize the appearance of his deputies. To Kerney's eye, it made the cops look like valet parking attendants with sidearms.

  He called Andy from his unit and said he was on his way back to the office.

  "I'll meet you in the parking lot," Andy replied.

  "What's up?"

  "We're going to take a tour of De Leon Rancho Caballo house."

  "Okay, I'll bite: How did you arrange it?"

  "By using the prestige of my high office."

  "Will De Leon be there to give us a tour?"

  "Unfortunately, no. He left last night."

  "How do you know that?"

  "He informed Rancho Caballo security that he was leaving."

  Andy had the key to De Leon house and the access code to the security gate that barred the road.

  "Amazing," Kerney said in mock wonderment as Andy punched in the numbers on the keypad and the gate swung open.

  "How did you get the code?"

  "Rancho Caballo keeps all the access codes on file, so they can shut off systems when there's a false alarm and the owners are away."

  "Park off the road so we can approach the house on foot," Kerney suggested.

  "I don't need a lesson in tactics," Andy said as he coasted to a stop. They scrambled up the hill, Kerney taking the front while Andy looped around the back. He finished his sweep just as Andy joined him on me veranda.

  "Looks quiet," Kerney said.

  "Same in the back," Andy said, positioning himself at the side of the front door with his .357 in his hand.