Slow Kill

by Michael McGarrity

Parker leaned against the patio wall. “It’s a park owned by the city but rarely used. Originally, it was a residence and a plant nursery started by an Italian named Francesco Franceschi, who came here in the 1890s. He was responsible for importing almost a thousand foreign species and varieties of horticultural plants to the area. They still grace many of the older homes and mansions. He almost singlehandedly beautified the city. These were treeless, brush-covered hills back then.”

  “Why is it so run-down?”

  Parker laughed. “The city would love to restore the house and grounds as a venue for concerts and community events. But the neighbors won’t hear of it. They don’t want the peace and quiet of the area disturbed.”

  A bell sounded from inside the house. “That’s Alice,” Parker said. “I’ll go prepare her for your visit.”

  Kerney stood on the patio and looked up. A covered second-story balcony dominated the back of the house, and, he guessed, gave onto the master bedroom. He wondered if an adjacent room served as George Spalding’s shrine. Although Mrs. Spalding’s obsession with her son probably had nothing to do with her ex-husband’s death, it was intriguing.

  A ground-floor breezeway connected to what Kerney assumed were Parker’s living quarters. Parked in front was a sporty silver SUV that had probably never been off the pavement.

  Penelope Parker stepped out on the patio and beckoned to him. He followed her through a spacious living room filled with ornate Spanish Colonial period furniture and tapestry rugs, and up a staircase to the master bedroom, where he was introduced to Alice Spalding.

  A tiny woman dressed in powder-blue slacks and a creamy white blouse, Spalding smiled up at him from a beige leather easy chair near the windows. Her feet barely touched the floor.

  She smiled vaguely at him. “What do you have for me today, Captain Chase?”

  Parker touched Spalding on the shoulder. “This is Officer Kerney from Paso Robles, Alice, not Captain Chase.”

  “Oh,” Spalding said, looking worriedly from Parker to Kerney. “What happened to Captain Chase?”

  “Nothing,” Parker replied. “The officer has something to tell you.”

  Spalding’s expression brightened with anticipation. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that Clifford Spalding is dead,” Kerney said.

  Confusion and anger washed over Alice’s face. “George isn’t dead.”

  “I’m talking about your ex-husband, Clifford,” Kerney said.

  “Well, he isn’t dead either,” Alice said emphatically. “Have you found George?”

  “Not yet,” Kerney said, thinking he’d wasted his time coming to see her.

  “I didn’t think so,” Alice said huffily as she rose. “Come with me, I have something to show you.”

  She took him into an adjacent room. It was indeed a shrine, filled with framed photographs of George Spalding as a child, boy, teenager, and finally a young man in his Army uniform. On a heavy oak table were stacks of out-of-state newspaper clippings, some of them slightly yellow with age, others worn from constant handling.

  She removed two recent news stories posted on a bulletin board behind a desk and handed them to Kerney. One, from an El Paso newspaper, had a picture of a middle-aged man accepting a civic award. The other article, with a photograph of a different man pushing a shopping cart filled with aluminum cans, was a story about homelessness.

  “That’s George,” Alice Spalding said. “Now, all you have to do is go get him and bring him home to me. I never should have let him go. I need to tell him how sorry I am.”

  Kerney stifled the impulse to ask which man was George, since neither one at all resembled the young soldier in Mrs. Spalding’s photograph. He glanced at Parker, who shook her head sadly.

  “I’ll get right on it,” he said.

  Among the photographs on the wall was a picture of Alice, Clifford, and a very young George Spalding in front of a pueblo revival-style motel that had been popular in the Southwest before the advent of the Interstate highway system. Kerney asked about it.

  “It was our first motel in Albuquerque,” Alice said. “On Central Avenue. We owned it for years.”

  “You lived in Albuquerque?” Kerney asked.

  “I think so,” Alice replied as she glanced questioningly at Parker.

  “Yes, you did,” Parker said.

  Alice smiled in relief.

  On the desk was a framed photograph of George in his Class A Army uniform, probably taken after his graduation from basic training. Next to it was a picture of a pleasant-looking teenage girl.

  “Who’s the young woman?” he asked.

  Alice Spalding glared at him. “You know very well that’s Debbie Calderwood.”

  “Yes, of course it is,” Kerney said.

  “Find her and you’ll find George,” Alice said.

  “She’s also missing?”

  “You know she is,” Alice replied hotly.

  “Debbie left Albuquerque soon after George died,” Parker explained. “Alice believes she was pregnant with George’s baby at the time.”

  “I want to see my grandbaby,” Alice said. She made a cuddling motion with her arms.

  Kerney had heard and seen enough. He excused himself and let Parker escort him downstairs.

  “See what I mean?” Parker said as she led him toward the front door.

  “Who is Captain Chase?” Kerney asked.

  “He’s the commander of the Santa Barbara Police Department Criminal Investigation Unit. Alice usually has me call him once a week to report another lead about George. He’s handled the case—if you want to call it that—for years.”

  “Can he tell me anything about Mr. Spalding?”

  “I’m sure he can,” Parker answered. “As well as probably more than you’ll ever want to know about Alice’s search for George.”

  “How did Spalding handle Alice’s obsession?”

  “Indulgently, for years, until it got the best of him.”

  “What about Debbie? Is she really missing?”

  Parker had her hand on the front doorknob. “She probably just moved away. The police aren’t looking for her. They never have. Years ago, before my time, Alice talked Clifford into hiring a private detective to look for Debbie, but it didn’t get anywhere.”

  “Does the private detective live here in Santa Barbara?”

  “Yes, but he’s retired now, and I don’t know his name. Alice will eventually ask me about Clifford. What can I tell her?”

  “What I said earlier, that he probably died from natural causes in his sleep.”

  “What a peaceful way to go.”

  “You’ll be able to get a report from the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department within a few days.”

  “Could you bring it to me?” Parker asked, smiling winningly.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Parker gave him directions to the second Mrs. Spalding’s Montecito estate, and Kerney decided to find a room for the night. After his visit with Alice Spalding, he wondered if staying over in California to chase down information would turn out to be nothing but a waste of time.

  He pulled into a motel parking lot on State Street, a few blocks beyond an area of hotels, high-end department stores, movie houses, restaurants, and retail shops that formed the tourist center of the city. His cell phone rang as he killed the engine.

  “Hey there, Kerney,” Andy Baca said.

  “How were the polar bears at the zoo?” he asked.

  “Playful,” Andy said. “The grandkids loved them. We’re on our way home to Santa Fe, and they’re asleep in the back of the car.”

  “Wasn’t I supposed to call you later tonight?” Kerney asked.

  “Yeah, but I’ve got news,” Andy said. “I told my district commander to do whatever it took to find Mrs. Spalding pronto. So he contacted the state game and fish officer for the Pecos District and asked him to go looking for her and her trail-riding buddies up in the mountains.

  “The game and fish offi
cer found her all right, along with only one, I repeat, one, trail-riding pal: a white, forty-year-old male named Kim Dean. It was just the two of them. Mrs. Spalding gave the officer a line of bull about the rest of the group having gone on ahead to Elk Mountain. But from what the officer saw, he didn’t buy it.”

  “What did he see that led him to that conclusion?”

  “A cozy tent for two and no sign of any other riders entering the trailhead during the last three days.”

  “Interesting,” Kerney said. “Where’s Mrs. Spalding now?”

  “Still in the mountains,” Andy replied. “The officer just called in his report. He said she had a good three-hour ride before she would get back to where their horse trailer is parked.”

  “Did he say how Spalding reacted to the news of her husband’s death?” Kerney asked.

  “Yeah, tears, shock, and surprise.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Larry Otero has Ramona Pino checking out this Dean guy.”

  “Good. Has the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department been informed?”

  “They will be as soon as we hang up and I give my people the go-ahead to make the call.”

  “I’m staying over an extra day,” Kerney said.

  “Why? If something is fishy, the focus of attention should be on this guy Dean, not you.”

  “You’re probably right,” Kerney said. “But just to satisfy my curiosity, I’ll give it another day. I don’t want this situation biting at my heels back in Santa Fe.”

  “Okay. Try to stay out of any more trouble while you’re there,” Andy added with a chuckle.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kerney said.

  “See you when you get home.”

  Kerney disconnected, walked into the motel office, and paid for a room. As he left with the key, he had half a thought to call Sara and tell her what was going on, and decided against it. Better to wait until things got sorted out.

  He dumped his overnight bag on the double bed, and looked around the plain room. Cheap salmon-colored drapes adorned with seashells and sea urchins covered the window, and a faded print of a sailboat in a plastic frame was screwed into the wall over the bed. On a small desk was a pile of brochures for the major local tourist attractions.

  He hadn’t eaten all day, which was more than enough of an excuse to leave the dreary room, get a meal, and come back only when it was time to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Kerney ate a light meal on the patio of a State Street restaurant where a blues band entertained appreciative patrons, and then went looking for the Spalding estate in Montecito. All the houses in the neighborhood hid deep within their grounds behind privacy walls, mature trees, and hedges. Only here and there could Kerney glimpse the partial outline of a roof or facade through the treetops or a gateway.

  He found the estate on the road to a private college in the hills, protected by a ten-foot-high stone wall with three gated entrances, one for the owners and their guests, one for staff, and another for service and deliveries.

  He stood in front of the ornate wrought iron gate at the delivery entrance and pushed the intercom button. Beyond the gate, all he could see was a tree-lined driveway that wound through a forestlike setting. After waiting a few minutes with no reply, he pushed the button again. Finally a young man in a golf cart drove down to meet him. He wore damp swimming trunks and a cotton T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms. Wet black hair drooped over his forehead.

  Kerney showed the man his shield and asked if he might speak to someone about Mr. Spalding’s recent travel itinerary.

  “Why do you want to know about it?” the man asked.

  “Has Mr. Spalding been in Santa Fe during the last few days visiting his wife?” Kerney asked.

  The man shook his head. “I can’t answer that. Everyone who works here has to abide by a confidentiality agreement not to discuss anything about Mr. and Mrs. Spalding.”

  The man stepped closer to the closed gate and eyed Kerney’s rental car. “That’s not a cop car. Let me see that badge you showed me again.”

  Kerney held his badge case up so the man could look closely at his official ID.

  “You’re from New Mexico,” the man said, studying the ID carefully, “and a police chief to boot. What are you doing here asking these questions?”

  “Do you know a man named Kim Dean?” Kerney asked. “Perhaps he’s a friend of the family from Santa Fe who has visited here.”

  “Never heard of him. What’s this about?”

  “Mr. Spalding is dead,” Kerney said.

  The man blinked and looked shocked. “What happened?”

  “We’re not sure what caused his death,” Kerney said. “Has he been to Santa Fe recently?”

  “No, not in the last two months.”

  “You know that for certain?”

  “Yeah, he left his prescription medication behind, or lost it, or something. Sheila, his personal assistant, had to get a pharmacy in Santa Fe to fill it.”

  “He had a medical problem?” Kerney asked.

  “Graves’ disease,” the man said. “It’s a thyroid condition.”

  “Other than that, was his health generally good?” Kerney asked.

  “Well, he’s been complaining about blurred vision and not sleeping well recently. Does Mrs. Spalding know about this?”

  “She does,” Kerney said. “I expect she’ll get here as soon as she can.”

  The man suddenly shut down. “Where did he die?” he asked suspiciously.

  “In Paso Robles, at a quarter-horse ranch.”

  His expression cleared. “That’s where he was going this weekend. What have you got to do with it?”

  “I was at the ranch when it happened,” Kerney said, thinking it might be best to stretch the truth a bit. “Since Mrs. Spalding lives in my jurisdiction, I’m assisting with the inquiries. Is Sheila here? I’d like to talk to her.”

  The man shook his head. “She’s off for the weekend, down in L.A.”

  “An officer may want to speak with her,” Kerney said.

  “I’ll call her on her cell and let her know what’s happened.”

  “Was Mr. Spalding in residence before he left for Paso Robles?”

  “No, he hasn’t been at home for two weeks. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Since we’re not sure of the cause of death, it’s important to know where he’s been,” Kerney replied, making it up as he went along. “He may have been exposed to a virus, or had food poisoning, or become infected on his travels, especially if he was out of the country. But the proper tests can’t be conducted unless we know his itinerary.”

  The man nodded as though Kerney’s answer made good sense. “He was visiting several of his hotel properties. One in Mexico, and several in British Columbia. Sheila would have his exact itinerary.”

  “Good,” Kerney said. “But the name Kim Dean doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “No. The only person from Santa Fe who has been here as a guest is a neighbor of Mrs. Spalding’s, a woman named Nina Deacon. She’s visited five or six times.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Kerney said.

  “That’s it?” the man asked.

  “For now,” Kerney answered. “If there are more questions, you’ll probably be hearing from a Sergeant Lowrey.”

  On the short drive back to Santa Barbara, Kerney called Santa Fe and left a message for Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino to contact him as soon as possible. On State Street, near the pier, he stopped at a bicycle rental store and asked a clerk how to get to police headquarters.

  Following the clerk’s directions, he continued along State Street, turned on Figueroa, and found the police headquarters building sandwiched between the old county courthouse and two small, somewhat run-down 1920s cottages, apparently rental units, in need of fresh coats of paint. They were the first houses he’d seen in Santa Barbara that didn’t look picture-perfect. In an odd way, Kerney was pleased to see them after driving through so
much opulence. Maybe some real, ordinary working people lived in the city after all.

  He drove by the two-story headquarters building. A series of steps with landings leading up to the front entrance were bordered by carefully tended, terraced planting beds. On the second landing a large tree towered above a flagpole where an American flag fluttered in a slight breeze. The building was white with a slightly slanted red tile roof, and two rows of rectangular windows ran across the front, their symmetry broken only by an arched, recessed entry.

  Kerney figured the public access door would be locked on the weekends, so he parked and walked to the back of the building where he found the staff entrance. He pressed the bell and held his shield up in front of the video camera mounted above the door.

  A uniformed officer wearing sergeant stripes on his sleeves opened up and inspected his credentials. “You’re a long way from home, Chief,” the sergeant said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Captain Chase,” Kerney said.

  “He doesn’t work on weekends unless he’s called out.”

  “Can he be contacted?” Kerney asked.

  “Is this important?” the sergeant asked.

  “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” Kerney replied.

  “Let me see if he’s home.” The sergeant stepped aside to let Kerney enter and led him down a corridor past a line of closed doors, around a corner, and into an empty bullpen office filled with standard issue gray desks, file cabinets, and privacy partitions that defined work cubicles for investigators.

  The sergeant got on the horn to Chase, explained that he had a police chief from Santa Fe who needed to see him, and turned the phone over to Kerney.

  Kerney gave Chase a rundown of the events that had brought him down to Santa Barbara.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Chase growled. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few. Wait for me in my office.”

  Chase’s office was also standard issue: a desk, several chairs, a file cabinet, a desktop computer, and the usual personal and cop memorabilia displayed on the bookshelf and the walls. Kerney spent his time waiting reading a back issue of the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin that featured a cover article on criminal confessions. Through the window he could see the sky darkening into dusk. He was almost through the article when a burly man with a day-old beard and a broad face stepped into the open doorway.