“Anything else?” Kerney asked, thoroughly discouraged by Fletcher’s report.
“The market in stolen fine art is global. What was taken from a church in Spain might wind up in a Brussels gallery five years later. Georgia O’Keeffe’s work is admired worldwide, and much in demand. Certain collectors are not terribly concerned about the legality of the purchases they make.”
“Did you get any names of potential local buyers?”
“Not yet,” Fletcher answered, slowing to a walk. His face was rosy from the exertion of the run. They were within sight of the dirt lane at the end of the street that led to the house. “However, people who buy high-quality stolen art are typically rich, influential, and usually avoid prosecution.”
“We need something to break soon,” Kerney said.
“According to the newspaper, this mischief has put some egg on the governor’s face. Is it trickling down to you?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll pass it on soon enough,” Kerney predicted.
• • •
Captain Vance Howell slouched down in the chair across from Kerney, reached for a coffee cup on the conference table, picked it up, and took a sip. The call to meet with Kerney early in the morning forced Howell to dress hurriedly and miss his second cup of coffee. In civilian clothes while on administrative leave, he wore a pullover crew neck sweater that made him look big and beefy, a pair of blue jeans, and work boots. His long legs were stretched out under the table.
Howell studied Kerney as he took another sip. Kerney’s congenial expression gave nothing away. Howell smiled back at the new deputy chief, took one last sip, and put his cup down.
“Has Internal Affairs finished their investigation on my team?” he asked. For ten fucking hours yesterday, he had been put through the wringer by two hotshot, button-down IA agents, and he didn’t relish undergoing a repeat performance with Kerney.
“Not yet,” Kerney answered.
“Is there a problem?”
“None that I know of. I’m more interested in some crime scene evidence I’d like to ask you about.”
“Ask away,” Howell said.
“The technicians discovered female pubic hairs in the governor’s suite. Would you consider that unusual?”
“I don’t think so. A lot of staff members use the governor’s bathroom when he’s out of the office. The door stays unlocked most of the time. It could be the first lady, for all I know.”
“The first lady isn’t a blonde,” Kerney replied.
“That’s right, she isn’t,” Howell said. “But blond pubic hairs found in the bathroom don’t seem like substantial crime scene evidence to me.”
“Evidence is evidence,” Kerney said, wondering why Howell seemed to think that pubic hairs were only found in bathrooms. “Governor Springer was out of the office for a week until yesterday.”
“That’s correct.”
“How frequently are his offices cleaned when he’s away?”
“When he leaves town, the janitors will shampoo the rugs, wash the walls, and clean the place top to bottom. After that, it’s just a quick wipe down until he gets back.”
“Was that done last week?”
“Yeah, the day after the governor left. Why all the cleaning questions, Chief?”
“The pubic hairs we found were from the carpet in front of Governor Springer’s desk.”
Howell tried to stifle his reaction, but grinned anyway. “I’ll be damned. Somebody’s been getting their rocks off in the old man’s office.”
“Possibly,” Kerney said. “Work up a list of names for me, Captain. I want to know the identity of every blond female who might have had access to the governor’s office last week. That includes staff members, any visitors, girlfriends, wives, or friends. Everybody.”
“I’ll do what I can, but it won’t be inclusive,” Howell said. “I have no idea who comes and goes when he’s not there.”
“Ask people,” Kerney said flatly, thinking Howell needed to stop worrying about covering his ass and get with the program.
Howell nodded and got up from his chair. “Am I back in harness, Chief?”
“This is a special assignment, nothing more. I’ll let you know when you’re cleared to return to regular duty.”
The conference room telephone rang as Howell made his exit. Kerney picked up the receiver to find Judge Ross-Gorden’s clerk on the line. Nita Lassiter’s arraignment had been set for one o’clock. He hung up and went into Andy’s office.
“What’s happening?” Andy asked hopefully.
“Nothing. I’m grasping at straws, or pubic hairs, to be more exact.”
“Is this a Clarence Thomas joke?” Andy asked.
Kerney explained his comment.
“This could create a bad news day for the governor if word of it leaked out,” Andy said.
“It won’t. But I’ll bet even money Springer will hear about the pubic hairs from Captain Howell.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I put a tail on Howell yesterday evening after IA finished interviewing him. He went straight to the governor’s ranch. I believe the captain may have divided loyalties.”
Andy pressed his lips together tightly before responding. “Let’s see what plays out before we jump to conclusions. But if Howell does tell the governor, Springer won’t like it. He’s a conservative Republican who beats the family values drum every chance he gets. He may want me to put the brakes on the inquiry.”
“What do you want me to do?” Kerney asked.
“Keep at it. I’ll take the heat, if it comes.”
• • •
DeLeon was not an early riser, nor did he have a sunny disposition upon awakening. At ten o’clock in the morning, Carlos waited in the library for DeLeon to appear. The room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the centerpiece was a reproduction of the last Mexican viceroy’s desk positioned to take full advantage of the view of the mountains. There were whitecaps of snow on the peaks, which Carlos found uninviting; he didn’t like snow.
He sat in a reading chair next to a wall of first editions and rare books, with the morning newspaper in his lap. In spite of the fact that his upper false teeth fit perfectly, Carlos adjusted the plate with his thumb. It was an old habit hard to break. His new plate had been provided by the U.S. Army after he’d been beaten by Kerney in the El Paso railyards, dragged along the tracks tied to the bumper of the gringo’s truck, and stripped naked, bound, and left in the dirt to be arrested by military police.
It had happened eighteen months ago, but Carlos would never forget it.
Kerney had come thundering back into his mind as soon as he saw the newspaper article announcing the gringo’s appointment as deputy chief of the state police. Carlos wanted the patrón to wake up, read the paper, and order him to kill the motherfucker.
DeLeon came into the room just as the telephone rang. Carlos started to rise but the jefe waved him back down, picked up the receiver, and sat in the high-backed antique Spanish Colonial chair behind the desk.
“What is it?” DeLeon asked in Spanish, not waiting for the caller to identify himself. Anyone with access to the phone number was an employee.
Carlos watched DeLeon’s eyes harden as he listened to the caller. When he finally spoke his voice was cordial but his jaw tightened.
“You did what was necessary considering the circumstances,” DeLeon said, switching to English.
DeLeon listened some more. “Is the body well hidden?” he asked.
Carlos immediately became more attentive.
“No, stay where you are,” DeLeon ordered. “I’ll get back to you.”
He replaced the receiver and glared at Carlos.
“Patrón?” Carlos asked.
“It seems that Nick Palazzi decided it was necessary to kill a state policeman on his way to Mexico. He was reluctant to tell me about it until today. He also felt it necessary to bury Amanda Talley’s body and steal a car before he crossed the border.”
“What do
you wish done?” Carlos said, remembering to respond in English.
“Visit with Nick, Carlos. Have him tell you exactly how to locate Amanda’s remains, and when he’s told you everything, kill him. Make all traces of Amanda vanish, and get the vehicle safely across the border. Take the Range Rover. You may need it in the mountains.”
“Emilio and Facundo?” Carlos inquired as he stood.
“They are blameless in the matter.” Enrique waited for Carlos to depart. Instead the man stood rooted to the floor. “Are my instructions unclear?”
“No, patrón.” Carlos stepped to the desk and placed the newspaper on it. “There is news which might interest you.”
“What is it?”
“An article on the inside page announcing an appointment to the state police.”
“Why would that hold any interest for me?” DeLeon inquired, opening the paper to find the article.
Carlos held back a smile. When DeLeon finished reading, his eyes flashed at Carlos.
“Go now,” DeLeon said. “We will deal with Señor Kerney when you return.”
DeLeon reread the article after Carlos departed. Kevin Kerney, the man who had thwarted the sale of the military artifacts smuggled from White Sands Missile Range, was in Santa Fe.
Enrique pushed the paper aside and looked at the sweeping view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Northern New Mexico was one of the few places in the United States where he felt completely at home. With a rich Hispanic heritage, flourishing Spanish arts, and a culture tied closely to his own, the area deeply appealed to him.
He switched his thoughts back to Kerney and smiled as he contemplated the police officer’s death.
• • •
“This is a preliminary hearing to determine if there is probable cause to believe that the crime of murder may have been committed by Anita Lassiter,” Judge Ross-Gorden announced.
She had delayed the hearing ten minutes waiting for Kerney to arrive. He was still a no-show. She looked out over the top of her reading glasses at the nearly empty courtroom. In her late fifties, Ross-Gorden had a high forehead, narrow cheeks, and a slightly pointed chin. She wore her gray hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. The occupants in the courtroom included the defendant, her attorney, the ADA, Wesley Marshall, a court stenographer, and the deputy sheriff guarding Lassiter.
Anita Lassiter was an attractive, well-dressed woman with an intelligent face who looked frightened. Judge Ross-Gorden wondered if the defense counsel had taken the time to prepare her for the hearing.
“Does your client understand the purpose of these proceedings?” Ross-Gorden asked Lassiter’s attorney, a pudgy man the judge knew only in passing. He was not a criminal trial attorney, and Ross-Gorden wanted to make sure Lassiter had been adequately advised by counsel.
Bradley Pullings stood next to Nita Lassiter at the defendant’s table. “She does, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” Ross-Gorden said, deciding to be a bit more explicit for Lassiter’s sake. “I have reviewed the arresting officer’s written report, and the transcript of Ms. Lassiter’s tape-recorded confession. I find that there is sufficient evidence to proceed to trial on the charges of first-degree murder. How does your client plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Pullings said.
“Do you plan to engage a co-counsel with criminal defense experience?” Ross-Gorden asked Pullings.
Bradley blushed. “Yes, Judge.”
“That would be wise.” Ross-Gorden inclined her head at ADA Marshall, who took the cue and stood.
“We ask the court that Ms. Lassiter be held without bail, Your Honor. She has confessed to the premeditated murder of a police officer, which is a crime punishable by death if the defendant is found guilty. We believe, based on the serious consequences to the crime, she might be a flight risk.”
“Mr. Pullings?” Judge Ross-Gorden asked.
“Ms. Lassiter is a doctor of veterinary medicine, a professional woman of excellent reputation, a businesswoman, and a property owner,” Pullings replied. “Moreover, this is the first time Dr. Lassiter has ever appeared before a court of law as a defendant in either a criminal or civil matter. She is not a flight risk, nor is she a danger to society. I ask the court to release Dr. Lassiter on her own recognizance.”
The door at the rear of the courtroom opened and Kerney slipped inside.
Ross-Gorden nodded slightly in his direction and spoke directly to Pullings. “You are new to my court, Mr. Pullings. I have made it a practice since assuming the bench to allow investigating and arresting officers to make a statement at preliminary hearings, if they so choose.”
“May I ask for what purpose, Your Honor?”
“Frequently their impression of the defendant is helpful to me.”
“I have no objection, Your Honor.”
“It is not a decision you can object to, Mr. Pullings,” Ross-Gorden replied gently.
Pullings blushed again. “Sorry, Your Honor.”
Ross-Gorden turned her attention to the back of the room. “Mr. Kerney, you are the investigating officer in this case. Do you have something to say for the record?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Come forward.”
Nita Lassiter swung her head around as Kerney moved to the railing. She bit her lip and dropped her gaze when he looked at her.
“What is it you would like to say to the court?” Ross-Gorden asked.
“I don’t think Ms. Lassiter will flee your jurisdiction, Your Honor,” he said. “I believe she is a woman with a strong sense of right and wrong who feels a great deal of guilt about what she did. If I may, Your Honor, I suggest that reasonable bail be set.”
“That recommendation will not make you very popular with your fellow officers,” Ross-Gorden noted as she watched Wesley Marshall glare at Kerney. “Or with the prosecutor, for that matter,” she added.
“I realize that, Judge.”
Before Marshall had a chance to react, Ross-Gorden swung her attention back to Pullings. “Your client’s attempted suicide troubles me, Counselor. Therefore, I order that she be held in custody pending the results of a psychiatric evaluation. Should the evaluation show that Ms. Lassiter is not a danger to herself, bail is set in the amount of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, cash or property. This hearing is closed.”
Kerney turned to leave.
“Mr. Kerney,” Judge Ross-Gorden called out.
“Ma’am?”
Willene Ross-Gorden smiled. “The morning newspaper noted your promotion. Congratulations, Chief.”
“Thank you, Judge.” He watched Nita, Pullings, and the deputy sheriff move to a side door. Before Lassiter stepped through the doorway, she stopped and looked back at him. Kerney couldn’t read her expression.
• • •
The district courtroom ate up the center core of the courthouse. From the main lobby, two hallways ran along both sides of the courtroom, leading to various county offices. In the lobby, a large plate-glass window separated two entrances at the front of the building. Through the window, Kerney could see Wesley Marshall surrounded by a group of reporters and camera crews, eager for the prosecutor’s latest pronouncement. Three television station vans equipped with satellite antennas were parked in the lot, sending live feeds back to the studios in Albuquerque.
Without being noticed, Kerney walked to his car parked on the side of the building. Robert Cordova leaned against the driver’s door, wearing clean jeans, running shoes without laces, and a worn but serviceable navy pea coat.
Kerney was surprised to see him. Marcia Yearwood had supposedly arranged for Robert to stay at a halfway house in Albuquerque. Before he could ask Robert what he was doing back in Torrance County, Cordova stood on his tiptoes and punched Kerney in the jaw.
Kerney picked Robert up by both arms and held him against the side of the car. Robert’s feet flailed at Kerney’s shins.
“What are you doing here, Robert?” Cordova’s punch had a sting to
it, and Kerney held him tight to avoid another blow. “Why aren’t you at the halfway house?”
“I ran away. I came back to kick the shit out of you.”
“Why?”
“Because the television said you shot Nita,” Robert answered, trying to butt his head against Kerney’s face.
Kerney kept him pinned against the car at arm’s length. “Calm down.”
“Fuck you, calm down. Put me down, dammit.”
“Will you behave if I do?”
“Did you shoot Nita?”
“I had to,” Kerney explained. “She was trying to kill herself.”
“Nita would never do that.”
“I swear it,” Kerney said solemnly. “She’s going to need your help, Robert.”
Cordova squinted at Kerney with one eye and stopped thrashing his feet. “What do you mean?”
“You know why she killed Paul Gillespie. You need to tell me what happened.”
“I saw the asshole rape her, man.”
“Will you tell me exactly what you saw?”
“What good would that do?”
“You’re a witness, Robert. What you say can help Nita.”
“You’re just trying to fuck her over some more.”
“No, I’m not. But you’ll fuck her over if you don’t help,” Kerney shot back.
“Nobody’s gonna believe a crazy fucking mental patient.”
“I thought you were a stand-up guy, Robert. Somebody who would take the heat for his friends. Maybe I was wrong.” Kerney dropped Robert on his feet and pushed him away from the car.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Wait a minute,” Robert said anxiously.
“Will you help Nita? Yes or no?”
Robert struggled with the decision, shifting his weight back and forth on each foot. “I’ll tell you,” he finally said. “But just you.”
“Get in the car and we’ll tape-record it,” Kerney replied, opening the car door.
Robert balked. “I want to see Nita first.”
“You can’t see her now. She’s going back to jail.”
Robert stuck his chin out defiantly. “That’s where I want to go.”
“It’s a deal,” Kerney said. “I’ll put you in protective custody as soon as you tell me what you saw Gillespie do to Nita. Just don’t try to hit me again. Okay?”
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