“I think Griffin rolled over on himself because he’s hiding something or protecting someone.”
“Like who or what?” Foyt asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, get a handle on it, Sergeant,” Foyt said, “because this case might need all the ammunition we can muster.”
“Are you here to make a deal?”
Foyt shook his head. “No, to listen to one. Want to come along?”
“You bet I do,” Ramona replied, pushing open the door. “What’s up with Dean?”
Foyt followed her into the public reception area where three female citizens were waiting to speak to their incarcerated loved ones. “He’s in a holding cell at the courthouse awaiting arraignment.”
“No problem with him, I hope,” Ramona asked.
“Not so far.”
They signed in and got buzzed through to the corridor that led to the interview rooms. Patricia Delgado stood in the hallway by an open door. At five-nine, she towered over both Pino and Foyt.
A former basketball star at one of the smaller state universities, Delgado kept in shape by running marathons, usually finishing in the top five for her age group. Single, still in her thirties, and attractive, she was romantically linked to a state senator rumored to have his eye on the governorship in the next election.
Ramona thought of Delgado as an ice princess, who hid her self-absorbed personality behind a veneer of charm. Today she wore a tailored tan pantsuit that accentuated her long legs. The smile on her face held all the false enthusiasm of a media spokesperson peddling a beauty aid.
“I’d almost given up on you,” Delgado said, nodding at Foyt and giving Ramona a quizzical look. “I didn’t realize you were bringing Sergeant Pino along.”
“Is that a problem?” Foyt asked.
Delgado shrugged and gestured at the table inside the room where Griffin waited. “Not at all. I just hope you don’t have any more little surprises for me.”
“If your client has told you everything,” Foyt said as he sat down, “there won’t be. What’s on your mind, counselor?”
Ramona slid into the seat next to Foyt and studied Griffin. He’d shaved and combed his hair back so that it stood up at his forehead like strands of wispy wire. He no longer looked like a faded country music star. The stress and anxiety of yesterday were gone, replaced by a blasé, untroubled expression.
“If you give him a pass on the drug dealing charges in exchange for his testimony against Mr. Dean,” Delgado said, “he’s agreed to cooperate.”
“Mr. Griffin made that same offer to us yesterday,” Foyt said huffily. “I didn’t take it then. Why should I take it now when I’ve got more than enough evidence collected at the pharmacy to nail Dean on drug trafficking without the help of your client?”
Delgado leaned forward in her chair and smiled winningly. “Because he might be able to help you with the murder charges you’ve filed against Dean.”
“I’m listening,” Foyt said.
“Before we get into that, let me tell you that the lab report on Mr. Griffin’s urinalysis came back positive for both alcohol and barbiturates. In fact, he was barely below the legal limit for intoxication hours after his arrest, and the thin layer chromatography and infrared spectrophotometer analysis shows that Mr. Griffin had ingested a significant amount of Seconal prior to being taken into custody.
“You’ll get the details at the preliminary hearing when I move to have the evidence suppressed, the confession thrown out, and the charges dismissed. I also plan to bring along expert witnesses who will testify that my client was in no condition to intelligently understand his rights or give an informed consent to search his premises.”
Clearly irritated, Foyt rolled his tongue around his lips before speaking. “I’m not going to bargain with you based on a report I haven’t seen.”
Delgado flipped slowly through a leather-bound notecase with her long fingers and perfectly manicured nails. She extracted the report and gave it to Foyt. He read through it quickly and passed it to Ramona.
Delgado hadn’t exaggerated. Ramona pushed the report across the table to Delgado. “Exactly what evidence will you ask to have suppressed?” she asked.
“The pharmaceuticals, of course,” Delgado replied.
Ramona smiled. “But not the ten pounds of marijuana we found in the locked contractor ’s truck box on a garage shelf?”
The expression on Griffin’s face turned from smug to stunned. “What?”
“All neatly wrapped in plastic bundles.”
“That’s not mine,” Griffin said. “I don’t know anything about that shit.”
“Regardless of who it belongs to,” Delgado said, putting a hand on Griffin’s shoulder to shut him up, “it’s still part of an illegal search.”
“That’s yet to be determined,” Foyt said, switching his gaze from Delgado to Griffin. “Whose grass is it?”
“Not mine,” Griffin repeated hotly.
“Let me do the talking, Mitch,” Delgado said.
Griffin shook his head and the swept-back hairs on his forehead flopped and waved. “That’s not my toolbox. It was left there by one of my subcontractors last week.”
“Does this person have a name?” Ramona asked.
Delgado held up a hand. “Stop right there. This goes no further unless we have a deal.”
Ramona watched Foyt think it through. If he went for Delgado’s deal, he’d earn bragging rights for nailing three bad guys in one fell swoop and have one less case to prosecute. Faced with the possibility that the judge would rule in favor of Delgado’s motions, Ramona didn’t think Foyt would turn her down.
“Griffin gives us the marijuana dealer,” Foyt said, “tells us what he knows about the Spalding homicide, and pleads out to intent to distribute.”
“Unacceptable,” Delgado replied. “This is his first offense.”
“No, it’s just the first time he’s been caught,” Ramona said.
Delgado sighed as she reached for her notecase. “I’m sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement. We’ll see you in court.”
“But,” Foyt said, “if Mr. Griffin would show some good faith and tell us what he knows about the Spalding murder case, I’ll consider dropping the current charges.”
“Agreed.” Delgado nodded at Griffin.
He looked directly at Pino. “Like I told you, I never slept with Claudia Spalding, but I know this guy who said he did. He works as a wrangler at a horse rescue ranch down by Stanley, in the southern part of the county, or at least he used to. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Go on,” Ramona said.
“Anyway, Claudia was like a big supporter of the program, gave it money and volunteered to tour the schoolkids around who’d come out to the ranch on field trips. This guy tells me that he got pussy action from her, but cut it off when she asked him to help her arrange a little accident for her husband.”
“What kind of accident?” Ramona asked.
“She wanted to bring Spalding down to the ranch, have the guy take them both out on a horseback ride, and then fake a bad fall. You know, the horse spooks, throws Spalding, and he dies in front of two witnesses.”
“When was this?”
“While I was building her house, before she met Kim.”
“Give me a name,” Ramona said.
“Coe Evans,” Griffin said. “I haven’t seen him in two, three years.”
Ramona got a physical description of Coe Evans and the location of the ranch before Delgado stopped the questioning, gave Foyt a toothy smile, and asked him to affirm the agreement.
Foyt met her smile with a cool look. “Only if your client is willing to give us the names of everyone he’s sold to, every dealer and supplier he knows, precise information about this subcontractor he says stored the marijuana in his garage, and agrees to testify against Dean on both the murder and drug charges, if needed.”
Griffin nodded. “That’s cool with me. When can I get out?”
“As soon as you deliver,” Ramona said, getting to her feet. “I’ll have detectives here within the hour. How long it takes is completely up to you.”
Foyt used his cell phone to clear his calendar for the remainder of the day so he could supervise the interrogation, and joined Ramona at the door.
“I’m hungry,” Griffin said, grinning and patting his stomach.
“We’ll have your lunch brought in,” Ramona said. She walked with Foyt to the lobby and used her cell phone to arrange for a narcotics officer and detective to meet her at the jail pronto.
“You’re not disappointed with the plea bargain, are you?” Foyt asked.
“A little bit,” Ramona said, slipping the phone on her belt. “But I understand your reasoning.”
What she didn’t mention was her plan to have Griffin arrested for harboring a fugitive as soon as the interrogation was over and the current charges were dropped. She had the unshakable feeling that Griffin was still hiding something.
Marched into the courtroom by a uniformed officer, Kim Dean looked around for Stubbs, the moon-faced young lawyer, and didn’t see him. Except for a judge, bailiff, court stenographer, a guy in a suit talking to the judge, and the cop who’d escorted him, the room was empty.
Dean had spent a miserable, sleepless night and an anxious morning at the jail. He’d almost abandoned any hope that Stubbs had gotten through to Claudia. But maybe he had, and Claudia was in the process of lining things up and getting him a good criminal attorney.
The cop put Dean in a seat and hovered behind him. What if the guy in the suit was his new attorney? Kim watched the man eagerly, waiting for him to turn from the judge and make a sign of recognition in his direction. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and left the courtroom just as Stubbs rushed in.
“Did you call my friend?” Dean whispered.
Stubbs scrunched into the seat next to Dean, and looked at the cop, who moved out of earshot.
“I did.”
“And?”
“She thanked me for the call,” Stubbs replied.
“That’s it?” Dean hissed. “What did you say to her?”
“I told her where you were and what the pending charges are.”
Kim took a deep breath. “Have you been contacted by another attorney?”
“Listen,” Stubbs said in a terse whisper, the color rising on his cheeks. “You made it clear yesterday that I am not the lawyer you want. That’s fine with me. Let’s just get you through the arraignment. You’ll be formally charged, given copies of the criminal complaints, and informed of your constitutional rights. I’ll enter no plea on your behalf and you won’t have to say anything. In fact, I don’t want you to. The DA will ask for bail to be denied, and I’ll argue against it. Don’t get your hopes up. The charges are serious.”
Feeling sorry for himself, Dean sighed with resignation.
“Have the police tried to talk to you since yesterday?” Stubbs asked.
Kim shook his head.
“Good. Keep it that way. If you want, I’ll call around to several good criminal trial attorneys. You’re going to need one.”
Kim had waited long enough for Claudia to come through for him. “Why don’t you do that?” he said brusquely
The judge shuffled papers and called Dean’s case.
“Gladly,” Stubbs said, getting to his feet.
The drive from Santa Fe to Taos was always a hassle, especially along the section of the two-lane twisting highway that paralleled the Rio Grande, where Kerney got stuck between two slow-moving motor homes.
In town, summer tourist traffic clogged the narrow main street, and it was stop-and-go all the way until Kerney reached the turnoff to the police station a few blocks north of the old plaza.
Inside, he met with Victor Pontsler, the police chief, who’d held the top cop position on three separate occasions over the span of his thirty-five-year career with the department. Twice in the past, Pontsler had been given the boot after a change in city administration, reverting back to his permanent rank of captain. Now he was back in the chief’s chair again, this time to clean up the mess left behind by a heavy-handed predecessor who had driven officer morale into the ground and alienated the city fathers.
No more than five or six years older than Kerney, Pontsler kept himself in good shape. He weighed in at about a hundred and sixty pounds on a five-ten frame. He had a full head of hair and a crooked nose with a thin pink surgical scar that ran down to his nostrils. It had been badly broken years ago when Vic had responded to a fight in progress that turned into a bar brawl between cops and drunks.
Pontsler sat behind his cluttered desk and twirled a rubber band around his fingers. “I spent time after you called thinking about who you should talk to,” he said. “Michael Winger would be your best bet. Back in the old hippie days he called himself Montana. He grew up in Manhattan and dropped out of college to come west and be part of the love generation. Moved here from San Francisco in the early seventies. He knew just about everybody who lived in the local communes.”
“What else can you tell me about him?” Kerney asked.
“He’s part of the establishment now, a successful businessman. Chamber of Commerce member, museum foundation patron, and all that. Owns the Blue Mountain Restaurant on the Paseo and the Blue Moon Gallery just off the plaza.”
“He likes the color blue, I take it,” Kerney said.
“You’ve got that right. He lives in a primo old hacienda on a ten-acre parcel off Kit Carson Road. He likes to play the cowboy role. Wears his hair pulled back in a ponytail and dresses in jeans and boots. He’s divorced and has a Scandinavian girlfriend who teaches writing workshops and makes documentary films about oppressed women.”
“Is he into anything shady?” Kerney asked.
“As far as I know, Winger is a solid, upstanding citizen.”
“No trouble during his early days in town?”
“I know he smoked pot, but he never was busted.”
“How did he get started in business?” Kerney asked.
Pontsler rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “He likes to say he started out buying southwestern art for himself before the market for it took off. But it was really family money that bankrolled him. His father was a big-time New York City architect.”
Before leaving, Kerney got a rundown on a few more people Pontsler thought might be helpful. He locked his sidearm in the glove box of his unit, stuck his shield in his back pocket, and walked to Winger ’s restaurant.
Although it was touted as a mecca of Native American culture and had a long history as a famous art colony, Taos had never appealed much to Kerney. Parts of it were charming and the surrounding landscape was majestic. But the city was also a magnet for modern-day rogues and ruffians, frauds and fugitives, many of whom could be belligerent and nasty. Pontsler’s sterling character reference aside, Kerney wondered if Winger fit into any of those categories.
The Blue Mountain Restaurant occupied an old adobe house with a lovely tree-shaded outdoor dining patio and two small separate dining rooms with low ceilings, light blue walls with framed photographs of early Taos scenes, and Mexican tile tables. The hostess, a tall, rather aloof woman with a clipped English accent, told Kerney that Winger was never at the restaurant until late in the afternoon and could most probably be found at his gallery. He half-expected her to say “ta-ta” or “cheerio” when he thanked her and left.
He walked down the Paseo toward the plaza. Slow-moving road traffic with its incessant noise lurched in both directions as groups of shoppers wandered in and out of the retail stores lining the street. Many establishments had sale signs in the windows; others displayed rugs, apparel, and hand-crafted furniture in the front yards of old houses that had been converted to shops. Here and there a bored store clerk stood in a doorway watching the foot traffic pass by.
The hot, dry day had brought the tourists out in shorts, pullover short-sleeved shirts, and athletic walking shoes. Some were building up t
o painful sunburns, while others shaded their faces with newly purchased cheap straw cowboy hats or billed caps that proclaimed their visit to Taos.
The Blue Moon Gallery was an austere, modern space a few steps from the plaza. Overhead track lights and exposed heating and cooling ductwork hung from the ceiling, and the walls were filled with the works of the Taos Society of Artists, established in the early part of the twentieth century by a group of bohemian artists drawn to the area’s culture and landscape.
Kerney trailed behind two couples cruising the gallery and immediately recognized the distinctive styles of Joseph Henry Sharp, Eanger Irving Couse, and Ernest Blumenschein, three of the founding members of the society. Only the placards next to the smaller paintings displayed a price. There was nothing on sale below twenty thousand dollars until you got to the lesser-known artists who’d joined the society later on, and even those works were pricy.
In the center space, randomly placed pale blue stands of various heights and widths held sculptures by Frederic Remington and Charles Russell.
Kerney admired everything before moving on to a small display of Maynard Dixon pencil drawings that were hung on a corridor that led to a suite of offices. A comely woman with curly hair and a bright smile approached him holding a gallery brochure and asked if he needed any assistance.
Kerney shook his head, showed the woman his shield, asked for Winger, and when she showed concern, quickly reassured her there was no reason for alarm.
She led him down the corridor and knocked on an open office door. Michael Winger sat at a large cherrywood desk in front of a flat screen LCD computer monitor. Behind him was a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit crammed with art reference books.
Winger looked up from the monitor and studied Kerney with interest as the woman explained the reason for the interruption. Then he stood, shook Kerney’s hand, and gestured at an empty chair.
“You’re the Santa Fe police chief,” Winger said with a smile as Kerney eased into the chair.
“How do you know that?” Kerney asked as the woman left the office. Winger’s gray, neatly tied-back hair draped several inches below the back of his neck. He had on an expensive blue designer work shirt that matched the color of his eyes, which held a look of amusement. On his left wrist he wore a vintage watch with a leather strap. His face was narrow, long, and deeply tanned.
Slow Kill Page 15
