Serpent Gate

by Michael McGarrity

  He had waited until she was out of the recovery room, in her hospital bed, and fully conscious before reading Nita her rights and tape-recording her confession. She retold her story in greater detail and with such candor that Kerney found it hard to suspend judgment about the possibility of Gillespie’s guilt. He had left the hospital feeling slightly sickened by the ugliness of the man’s actions, and not at all happy about busting Nita Lassiter.

  He got out of the traffic flow and drove into the south capitol neighborhood, an older residential area within walking distance of the downtown plaza and the seat of state government. At the end of a paved street, a private dirt lane led to two houses. He turned into the driveway of an adobe house almost completely hidden by a small rise at the front of the lot.

  He parked at the side of the house by the door to the attached guest quarters, dragged himself inside, stripped off his boots, and fell across the bed, still smelling like horseshit.

  • • •

  In Kerney’s dream, a soft voice told him to wake up. It sounded remarkably like Fletcher Hartley, his host and old friend, who had offered Kerney the use of the guest quarters.

  The soft voice changed as Fletcher Hartley raised his easy baritone several notches in volume. “Kevin, you must wake up.”

  Kerney opened an eye to find Fletcher standing over him. The door from the guest addition to the main house stood open. Fletcher wore a black silk kimono with brilliant orange, blue, and yellow hand-stitched flowers and butterflies. The kimono hung open to reveal a pair of boxer shorts and Fletcher’s spindly but well-muscled legs.

  Using the services of the best plastic surgeon in the state, Fletcher had removed a good twenty years from his seventy-five-year-old face. He was eccentric, vain, and one of the most interesting people Kerney knew.

  Kerney sat up, stared groggily at Fletcher, and looked at his wristwatch. He’d been asleep for an hour.

  “What is it?” he asked grumpily.

  “There’s a very impressive-looking policeman sitting in my living room demanding to see you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Andy Baca. You don’t smell very nice, Kevin. What in the world have you been doing?”

  “Delivering a foal,” Kerney grumbled as he reached for his boots. “It was a difficult birth. Both mother and child are doing fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Policemen do such interesting work.” Fletcher put his hand on Kerney’s shoulder to stop him. “Shower and change first. I will not have you trailing that barnyard smell into the house.”

  “Don’t be so picky, Fletcher. You made your reputation as an artist painting barnyard animals.”

  “How they look on canvas and how they smell are entirely different matters. Go shower. I’ll keep the good Chief Baca entertained. Do you think he likes gay old men?”

  “Andy’s straight.”

  “Pity,” Fletcher said.

  “Give him your best pitch, anyway,” Kerney replied as he walked to the small bathroom. “Maybe you’ll change his point of view on the subject.”

  “I may just do that,” Fletcher said, closing the door on his way out.

  • • •

  Kerney entered the living room to find Andy Baca sitting in a Mexican colonial chair while Fletcher stood in front of the corner kiva fireplace explaining the history of the twelve framed nineteenth-century Japanese fans that climbed the wall above the banco. On the other side of the fireplace was Fletcher’s large portrait of a Holstein dairy cow bordered by hand-stenciled hearts.

  Andy looked a bit nonplussed and uneasy, which made Kerney feel a little better about being yanked out of a dead sleep.

  “What’s up?” he asked Andy when Fletcher finished his discourse on the history and rarity of the fans.

  Andy stood. “I’ll tell you outside.”

  Kerney sank onto the Mexican colonial couch opposite Andy’s chair. “Whatever it is, tell me here so I can go back to bed when you’re finished.”

  “You don’t have time to sleep, Kerney. The art collection at the governor’s office was ripped off early this morning. I need you at work, now.”

  Kerney sat up on the couch. “The entire collection?”

  “Everything.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Not yet,” Andy answered. “I figure it to be an inside job.”

  “What makes you say that?” Fletcher asked.

  Andy eyed Fletcher uncomfortably. “By the way it was done, Mr. Hartley.”

  “I see,” Fletcher said. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to divulge confidential information, Chief Baca, but as I recall, Governor Springer had a very valuable collection of art in his offices.”

  “You’re familiar with the collection?” Andy asked.

  “Partially,” Fletcher replied. “Do you have a complete list of what was taken?”

  Andy glanced at Kerney, who nodded in Fletcher’s direction. He got up and gave the list to Fletcher, who read it quickly and handed it back.

  “The Dixon and the Sharp paintings, I arranged to have purchased by the museum when I was director. The O’Keeffe paintings were donated to the museum by Georgia herself. Everything that was taken must be recovered. They are treasures much too valuable to lose.”

  “You were director of the fine arts museum?” Andy asked.

  “For many years.”

  “Fletcher may be able to help,” Kerney suggested.

  “I insist upon it,” Fletcher said. “First, I must contact the International Foundation for Art Research in New York and the Art Loss Register in Great Britain. I’ll need photographs along with a copy of the list. I can send the information to them by computer.”

  “How does that help?” Andy asked.

  “It alerts the international art establishment worldwide. If any queries are made to a reputable dealer offering to sell one of the pieces, it will be reported immediately.”

  “That could make a difference,” Andy said.

  “But there’s no time to waste on our investigation,” Fletcher added. “After the first forty-eight hours, ninety percent of stolen art is never recovered.”

  “That’s not what I want to hear,” Andy said.

  “Nevertheless, it’s true. Do you have an officer who specializes in art thefts? Preferably someone who knows the local dealer network and has a background in art?”

  “Kerney is about as close as I can come to an expert,” Andy answered.

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

  “That will have to do,” Fletcher said. “Kevin has a good general knowledge of art.” He turned to Kerney. “And I know the dealers. I will contact them on your behalf. It will save a good deal of time.”

  Before Kerney could reply, Andy got to his feet. “I’ll draw up a consultant contract. We’ll pay you for your services.”

  Fletcher waved off the offer. “I don’t need the money, Chief Baca. Let’s just say I’ll assist the department in making some inquiries.”

  “This is real life, Mr. Hartley, not a cozy British mystery.”

  “I view this crime with great seriousness, Chief Baca, and have no intention of treating it lightly.”

  “What do you need to get started, Fletcher?” Kerney asked.

  “As I said, a copy of the list and photographs as soon as possible. I’ll contact the research foundation and the Brits as soon as I have it. I’ll start talking to local gallery owners to see if any have been approached to buy art from suspicious characters, or have been asked for off-the-cuff appraisals on works by the artists in question.”

  “I’ll get a packet to you right away,” Kerney said as he stood up.

  “Send it over with one of those handsome gay officers,” Fletcher said.

  “I don’t think we have any,” Andy replied.

  “Oh, you are very much mistaken, Chief Baca.”

  • • •

  Kerney got in Andy’s unmarked police cruiser and closed the door.

  “Do I really have gay co
ps working for me?” Andy asked.

  “Why shouldn’t you?” Kerney replied. “Besides, this is Santa Fe, the city different.”

  Andy shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t even want to think about it. How did you meet Fletcher?”

  “Outrageous, isn’t he? But he’s sharp, talented, and a sweet guy. When I was with the Santa Fe PD, Fletcher had a California boyfriend—one of those dumb, good-looking muscle boys. Fletcher wouldn’t increase his spending allowance, so he ripped off Fletcher’s Japanese fan collection. It’s worth a small fortune.

  “I caught up with the perp when he tried to sell the fans to an Albuquerque antique dealer. The dealer sent him away, tipped me, and I picked up the suspect when he went back to close the deal. It was an easy bust. Fletcher has always been grateful.”

  “How grateful?” Andy asked with a grin.

  Kerney grinned back. “Don’t try to be funny, Andy. You know my taste in women.”

  Andy groaned in response. “Yeah, the type that always seems to leave you.”

  Kerney thought about Karen Cox, the ADA he had worked with in Catron County. “That’s not true. They just don’t seem to be interested in long-term relationships.”

  “Whatever. By the way, you did a damn fine job on the Gillespie case.”

  “Thanks. But it doesn’t feel real good.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Kerney put the cassette tape of Nita Lassiter’s confession on the dashboard. “Listen to the tape. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it,” Andy said, reaching into his shirt pocket. “Your efforts deserve special recognition.” He laid the deputy chief shield in Kerney’s hand. “Put this beauty in your badge case.”

  Kerney stared dumbly at the shield for a minute. “What the hell is this for?”

  “You’ve been promoted, Chief,” Andy said, breaking into a grin. “I want my best man reporting directly to me on this case, with full authority to act without the bureaucracy getting in the way.”

  “I don’t need to be a deputy chief to do this job.”

  “Maybe not, but I need a second-in-command I can trust to run this investigation. Most of my senior commanders were vying for my job, and they’re still pissed off that they didn’t get it. I can’t risk the possibility of sabotage.”

  “Why turn over the reins to me?” Kerney said. “Handle the case yourself. I’ll work with you on it.”

  “I don’t have the time. I’ve got a whole department to run and two months before the next legislative session to convince the joint budget committee to give me the money I need to upgrade equipment. I want a computerized fingerprint system, a new dispatch system, onboard laptops for every patrol car, and better firepower for the field officers.”

  “Making me chief deputy isn’t going to win you any popularity contests,” Kerney said.

  “Your appointment has the governor’s blessing, and that’s all I care about. Harper Springer knew your parents when they served together on the New Mexico Cattle Growers Association, and he knows you by reputation. Besides, he likes the idea of having a shit-kicking cowboy working for him. Said it was the one minority group he hadn’t hired enough of in his administration.”

  “So who do I work for? You or the governor?” Kerney prodded.

  “For me.” Andy cranked the engine and slid into a Harper Springer twang. “But, hell, son, we all work for the people of this great state. So let’s recover the goodies and catch the bad guys before the governor’s opposition starts slinging mud at him.”

  • • •

  Since Andy’s information on the robbery was preliminary and sketchy, Kerney was up to speed in the three minutes it took to reach the Roundhouse.

  “What kind of vehicle would it take to move the artwork out of the city?” Kerney asked as he opened the passenger door of the cruiser.

  Andy handed him the list of the stolen items. “Nothing big; a panel truck, van, or small rental trailer would do it.”

  “Any idea when the break-in occurred?” Kerney asked as he scanned the inventory.

  “Not more than three or four hours ago. What do you have in mind?”

  “If the stuff’s not airborne it’s either stashed somewhere or on the road. How about telling the district commanders to have their patrol officers do some selective traffic stops? Give them a profile of what kind of vehicle to look for. We might get lucky.”

  “I should have thought of that,” Andy said, reaching for the radio handset as he drove away.

  Kerney was braced for an ID by a uniformed female officer on duty in the reception area of the governor’s suite. Her black uniform with gray piping had no chevrons on the sleeves and the collar insignias were silver, which identified her as a junior patrol officer.

  He showed her his badge while he read the brass name-plate over her right shirt pocket. Patrol Officer Yvonne Rasmussen stiffened and pulled in her chin. No more than five-four, about twenty-five years old, with short brown hair and light gray eyes, everything about Rasmussen’s bearing told Kerney that the young woman was ex-military.

  “Chief,” the officer said.

  In spite of himself, Kerney liked the way his new title sounded. “How soon can you get someone to relieve you?”

  “Ten minutes, sir.”

  Sending Yvonne Rasmussen to Fletcher’s door would probably bring a chuckle from the old man the next time Kerney saw him. He handed the officer the list of stolen merchandise, and asked her to make a copy as soon as she was relieved, get photographs from the museum of all the items, and take everything to Fletcher’s house. He gave her the address.

  “I’ll take care of it, sir,” Rasmussen said as she folded the list and slipped it in her pocket.

  “Can you have my vehicle picked up and brought to me?” he asked as an afterthought, fishing for his car keys. “It’s at the same address.”

  “Can do, sir.”

  “Great,” Kerney said, handing over the keys. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Who is in command of the crime scene investigation?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant Marcella Pacheco, sir.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Meeting with the governor’s chief of staff.”

  “Have her report to me in Captain Howell’s office when she’s finished.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kerney gave Officer Rasmussen a smile and limped away, thinking his blown-out knee needed rest.

  Vance Howell’s office was a small room right off the reception area. Yellow crime scene tape blocked passage down the corridor that led to the governor’s suite. Kerney could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner and the voices of the crime scene technicians as they worked the area. He toured the crime scene before heading to Howell’s office, where he found Lieutenant Pacheco waiting for him.

  • • •

  A blowout on the interstate just north of the Truth or Consequences exit slowed down DeLeon’s men. With the Border Patrol checkpoint station only a mile up the road, it was a bad place to get a flat tire. Customs agents, state cops, and Border Patrol officers were thick as flies along this stretch of highway, and Nick Palazzi flinched every time a patrol unit cruised by.

  He watched Emilio and Facundo change the tire while he stood guard at the back of the van, next to the green-and-white highway sign that announced the Truth or Consequences exit. Nick had spent many nights in local motels waiting for the Border Patrol checkpoint to shut down so he could move DeLeon’s drugs safely up the pipeline, and he knew the town had been named for an old television show from the Fifties. To Palazzi’s way of thinking, it was a stupid name for a town.

  Emilio had been the driver, Facundo the muscle, and Nick the triggerman on the Santa Fe job. DeLeon’s information and planning had been good, so nobody had gotten hurt except for the dead woman in the back of the vehicle.

  Nick was nervous about the body, and he had his hand wrapped about the grip of the handgun inside his
windbreaker pocket just in case a curious cop decided to stop and check them out.

  He knew better than to try to hurry along the two men. An American, Nick had spent four years rotting in a Mexican prison and the past two years working for DeLeon. Both experiences had only hardened his prejudice against Mexicans, especially the mixed bloods, who were about one baby step out of the fucking Stone Age.

  He stamped his feet against the cold. An Arctic low pressure system had entered the state, and the morning was dismal under a dreary sky. Creosote bushes sprinkled over the desert sand hills fluttered in a stiff breeze that swirled and lifted small dust plumes into the sky. Just as Emilio tightened the last lug nut on the spare, a state police cruiser rolled into view at the top of the hill.

  Nick told Facundo and Emilio to stay put as he watched the black-and-white patrol car coast to a stop ten feet behind the van. He waved with his free hand and smiled at the officer, who waved back, keyed the handset to his radio, and started talking. Nick figured the cop was calling in the license number, which was cool since the van wasn’t stolen and had valid Texas plates.

  Nick started to move toward the cop car, but the officer motioned him to stop. He shrugged and complied, watching as the pig waited for a response to his radio inquiry on the van. Finally, the cop opened the driver’s door and stood behind it for cover. Not a friendly sign, Nick thought as his finger found the trigger of the weapon concealed in his windbreaker.

  “Just a flat, Officer,” Nick called out in a friendly voice. “We’ve got it fixed and we’re ready to roll.”

  Officer Jerry Rogoff kept all three men in view. There were no wants or warrants on the vehicle. “Heading home?” Rogoff asked.

  “Trying to,” Nick replied with a smile.

  Nothing looked out of the ordinary to Rogoff, but the special bulletin on the Santa Fe art theft made a closer inspection necessary. He nodded, stepped around the open cruiser door, and walked toward the three men. The Anglo man stood near the rear door to the van, while the two Hispanics waited quietly at the rear left fender, a tire and jack at their feet.