Kerney walked to the memorial for slain police officers. The state and national flags bracketing the monument flapped lazily in a slight gust. Paul Gillespie’s name had been chiseled into the marble. He wondered if it truly belonged there.
He walked back to headquarters thinking about the evidence found in the van. The discovery of human hair was particularly intriguing. But until he could identify a blond-haired woman who had access to the govenor’s suite, he wouldn’t be any closer to solving the crime.
• • •
Gilbert Martinez waited in the reception area of the law firm Roger Springer had joined after leaving his post at the governor’s office. The building, two blocks from the plaza, had a brass plaque listing the names of the partners. All were prominent Anglos connected to the state’s political machinery.
Born and raised in Santa Fe, Gilbert had been weaned on family accounts about Dawson Cobb, the founder of the firm; how Cobb had screwed Gilbert’s ancestors out of a Spanish land grant after the Civil War with a court decision by an Anglo jury in Cobb’s favor. Only a few thousand acres remained in the family after Cobb took possession of the huge grant and the water rights that went with it. Even those acres had been sold to pay the legal fees of the family’s Anglo lawyer, who soon became Cobb’s partner.
With no land to hold them, the family scattered. But the story of Dawson Cobb stuck in the minds of the Martinez family like a cactus thorn festering for over 130 years.
Wasn’t it Balzac who said behind every great fortune was a great crime?
Gilbert had done some additional research on Roger Springer. A Big Ten graduate with an Ivy League law degree, Springer had worked for one of the New Mexico senators in Washington before returning home with a new bride. He and his ex-wife, an architect, had no children, and the divorce settlement appeared to be amicable. However, a domestic court clerk told Gilbert that Springer and his wife had squabbled like brats over the division of the joint property, and the judge had privately chewed them out in his chambers.
Twenty minutes past the time of the appointment, Springer made his appearance, striding out of the double doors that led to the inner sanctum. He gave Gilbert the family glad hand, flashed his teeth in a winning candidate’s smile, and added an apologetic shrug.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Sergeant,” Springer said. “I just finished a telephone conference with the governor’s chief counsel. It went on much longer than I thought it would.”
“I hate to bother you, Mr. Springer. I know you’re a busy man.” Gilbert studied Springer’s eighty-dollar haircut and expensive Italian suit. “Do you have time for me now?”
“Of course,” Springer replied, gesturing toward the double doors. “Are you making any headway with the investigation?” He took Gilbert down a wide hallway filled with framed photographs of old Santa Fe at the turn of the century.
“It’s still in the preliminary stage,” Gilbert replied.
“I thought it might be,” Springer said, standing aside his open office door to let Martinez enter. “No leads?”
“We’re working on it,” Gilbert answered.
The office, bigger than Chief Baca’s, was uncluttered and functional, with expensive furniture and nice art on the walls. An older man sat in one of four chairs placed in front of a large window.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Springer said. “I’d like you to meet Sherman Cobb. Mr. Cobb is the senior partner in the firm.”
Cobb smiled a greeting and Gilbert nodded in return.
“I don’t have any questions for Mr. Cobb,” Gilbert said.
Springer laughed. “I didn’t think you would. The firm likes to have another lawyer present whenever the police meet with an attorney. It helps avoid misunderstandings.”
Springer dropped into a chair and gestured for Martinez to do the same.
“I had hoped to speak with you on a confidential basis,” Gilbert said as he sat.
Springer flashed a smile. “Feel free to do so.”
“On matters of a personal nature,” Gilbert added.
Springer raised an eyebrow. “And what might those matters be, Sergeant Martinez?”
Gilbert shifted his weight. “Issues which could create political repercussions for your uncle.”
“You have my full attention,” Springer said.
“Since leaving the governor’s staff, have you ever made a visit to your uncle’s office that was not either of a business or family nature?”
Springer’s expression turned quizzical. “I’m not sure I’m following your question, Sergeant.”
“Several times you’ve been seen at the Roundhouse late at night accompanied by different women.”
Springer laughed. “Oh, that. Yes, I’ve taken some dates on impromptu tours of the governor’s offices.”
“Did you take anyone there last week?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me the names of the women you took there in the past?”
“How can that information have any value to your investigation?”
Gilbert chose his words carefully: “It’s possible that a man and a woman had a romantic interlude in Governor Springer’s office last week while he was out of the state.”
“A romantic interlude?” Springer repeated.
“Of a sexual nature. It would help if you could remember the names of the women who went with you on the tours, Mr. Springer.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not,” Gilbert replied. “We need to talk to everybody who has had access to the governor’s office, no matter what the circumstances.”
Springer clasped his hands and tapped his index fingers together several times. “Of course you do,” he finally said. He got up, walked to his desk, opened a leather-bound appointment book, flipped through the pages, wrote a note, and brought it to Gilbert.
Gilbert read the names. “Do either of these ladies have blond hair?”
“No.”
“Are you presently dating any blondes?”
“No, I’m not dating any blondes.”
Gilbert slipped Springer’s note into a pocket and looked over at Sherman Cobb, who had been as quiet as a church mouse. “Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Cobb?”
Cobb smiled cordially. “I know you’ll do your very best to bring the investigation to a successful conclusion,” he said.
Gilbert decided he couldn’t tell Cobb to stuff the patronizing attitude, and stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
“Not at all,” Springer replied with a smile that seemed a little wary.
Outside Springer’s office, Gilbert buttoned up. The snowstorm had moved off the mountains and into the city. The air was still, and a thick curtain of wet, fat snowflakes drifted slowly down from a low blanket of clouds. There wasn’t much traffic and few people were out. The city had a quiet, sleepy feel to it.
Gilbert walked to the corner, crossed the street against the light, and headed for the plaza. In the lobby of the La Fonda Hotel he used a pay phone and tried without success to reach Springer’s lady friends. He left messages on their answering machines and went back outside. He crossed through the plaza to the fine arts museum and stood for a moment by the old Spitz Clock on the corner.
All the old stores where the locals once shopped were gone, replaced by tourist shops and galleries. The lovely plaza and the beautiful old buildings surrounding it no longer served as the heart of the city for the citizens. Instead, it had become nothing more than a charming, high-priced outdoor mall for the thousands of visitors pouring into the city to shop, vacation, and sightsee.
Gilbert let his resentment over the change surface. But his irritation was really with Cobb and Springer, and their air of superiority and condescension.
He shrugged it off and went into the museum. It was time to find out who put the art collection together for the governor’s suite.
• • •
Kerney had kicked off his blanket. Stretched out on his back on the tw
in bed in the guest house, his feet dangled over the edge. He wore only boxer shorts, and while the scar from the gunshot wound and the surgery on his stomach looked ghastly, Kerney’s body was lean and muscular.
Reluctantly, Fletcher shook Kerney awake. His eyes opened instantly.
“You again?”
“With my deepest regrets,” Fletcher answered with a smile. “A very cranky prosecutor named Wesley Marshall gave me an urgent message for you.”
Kerney sat up. Fletcher wore a paint-splattered apron over blue jeans and a shirt. He had obviously been at work in the studio.
“What was it?” Kerney asked.
Fletcher consulted the piece of paper in his hand. “Mr. Marshall said that you are to be deposed by defense counsel at three this afternoon, and to meet him at his office.”
“What time is it now?”
“Noon.”
Kerney got to his feet. Three hours sleep was better than none, but he still felt stiff and groggy.
“Aren’t you overdoing it a bit?” Fletcher asked. “You look haggard and wrung out.”
“It was a long night.”
“So I gather. I tried to wait up for you. I have information that might be of value to our investigation.”
Kerney walked toward the bathroom. “First things first, Fletcher. Do you have any food in your refrigerator?”
“Would a nice omelette do?”
“Perfect. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The kitchen, a wide room at the front of the house, had an arched entryway leading to the dining room, and a cobalt blue Mexican tile splash guard on the wall behind the sink, stove, and countertops. There were no cupboards in the kitchen. A series of open shelves held glasses, plates, canisters, and jars. Pots and pans hung from suspended racks, and a huge pantry enclosed by hand-carved doors filled most of the far wall. In the middle of the kitchen sat an antique Spanish Colonial table with thick hand-turned legs, big enough for a family to eat at one end after the meal had been prepared at the other.
In front of a woven place mat was a small Waterford vase containing a single, showy bronze chrysanthemum. Fletcher’s best silverware and a fresh linen napkin completed the arrangement.
Kerney sat as Fletcher eased the omelette onto a plate and brought it to him.
“All this for me?” Kerney asked. “It’s far too elegant.”
“Meals should be civilized events,” Fletcher replied. “And it’s just my small way of saying thank you for all the fun I had yesterday. I honestly think I would have made a superb detective.”
“What brings you to this modest opinion?” Kerney asked, as he took a bite of the omelette. It was perfectly done.
“Because I believe—modestly, as you put it—that I have uncovered new information which may further our investigation.”
“You have my full attention.”
Fletcher beamed a smile at Kerney. “Good. My informant, Frank Bailey, owns a gallery on Canyon Road. He recently attended a social function where he overheard a woman named Amanda Talley complain about the lack of protection for the art collection in the governor’s office. Bailey said that Talley went on at some length about how easy it would be to steal it.”
“That’s excellent work, Fletcher. Just who is Amanda Talley?”
“Ms. Talley works at the fine arts museum. She supervised the selection of the art for the governor’s offices.”
Kerney swallowed another bite. “Maybe you should have been a detective. Did you get a description of the woman? Is she a blonde?”
Fletcher nodded. “Indeed, she is. Frank Bailey seems to know a good deal about her personal life.”
“I’ll have somebody talk to him.”
The doorbell rang and Kerney took the opportunity to finish his meal while Fletcher went to answer it. Fletcher returned towing Sergeant Gilbert Martinez by the hand.
“Do you know this dear boy?” he asked Kerney. He guided Gilbert to a chair. “He’s come looking for you.”
“Yes, I do.”
Martinez flushed slightly and sat.
“Well, I’ve known him all his life,” Fletcher announced. “He grew up across the lane in that lovely two-story home. It broke my heart when his parents sold it and moved away. Such a delightful family.”
Fletcher dipped into the chair next to Gilbert and patted his hand. “It’s so good to see you. How do you know this Irish cop, Gilbert?” He waved Gilbert off before he could answer. “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. You must be the police chaplain. Although the fact that you’re wearing a suit and tie raises some doubts in my mind.”
“Chaplain?” Kerney asked.
Fletcher nodded. “Yes. The last time I saw Gilbert he was going off to a seminary in the Midwest to study for the priesthood. That was twenty years ago.”
Gilbert smiled. “Well, I am a father. I have two daughters.”
“Were you defrocked?” Fletcher asked. “Excommunicated? Tell me everything.”
“Nothing that dramatic, Fletcher. I changed career paths. I’m a state police sergeant in criminal investigations.”
“Unbelievable.” Fletcher turned his gaze to Kerney. “He was the perfect altar boy. Angelic.”
“Stop exaggerating,” Gilbert said. “The old neighborhood doesn’t look like it has changed too much.”
“I try to keep the riffraff out.”
“Who lives in my parents’ old house?”
“It has changed hands five or six times since you moved away. The current owners are a New York couple. They use it as a vacation home. He’s a book publisher and she’s a literary agent. I’ve been thinking of approaching them with a proposal to write my memoirs.”
“Maybe I should try to buy it back the next time it comes on the market.”
“Would that you could.”
“You don’t think a sergeant’s salary could swing it?”
“Perhaps you might want to wait until you get another promotion or two,” Fletcher said.
Gilbert’s laugh was bitter. “That, along with another full-time job, would probably get me a mortgage on the garage my father built.” He turned to Kerney. “I’d like to bring you up to speed, Chief.”
“What have you got, Sergeant?”
“My conversation with Roger Springer went basically nowhere, although I did get the names of two women he took on unofficial, late-night tours of the Roundhouse. He swears he wasn’t there last week after hours, and the two women aren’t blondes.”
“What else?”
“A curator at the fine arts museum by the name of Amanda Talley—she’s a blonde, by the way—picked out the art for the governor’s office.”
“I’ve already told Kevin about her,” Fletcher announced.
Gilbert gave Kerney a perplexed look.
“Fletcher made a round of the galleries yesterday at my request,” Kerney explained, “and Amanda Talley’s name came up. It seems she did some public complaining about lax security for the art in the governor’s office, and talked about how easy it would be to rip it off. What did you learn from her?”
“Nothing,” Gilbert answered. “Talley started a vacation late last week. She’s in Belize. She left a hotel number where she could be reached, and I called. She’s on a three-day boat expedition, touring some wildlife sanctuaries off the coast. The boat’s not due back until the day after tomorrow.
“One more thing, Chief,” Gilbert added. “The three O’Keeffe paintings were due to be sent to the O’Keeffe Museum this week.”
“Find out where Talley lives,” Kerney ordered.
“She has an apartment on Yucca Road. I have the address. It’s one of those big rental units.”
“Have the apartment manager let you in. If you’re questioned, treat it like a missing person case. See what you can turn up.”
“Without a search warrant, whatever we find will be fruit from the poisoned tree. The courts won’t admit it into evidence.”
“Do a plain-view search only. Bring back a sample of any ha
irs you can find.”
Gilbert nodded as Kerney stood. Fletcher held up a hand to keep Kerney from departing.
“Frank Bailey said that Amanda Talley was with Roger Springer and some other people the night she made her little speech,” he said.
“That’s very interesting,” Kerney replied. “Did you get the names of the other people?”
“There was a local couple who dabble in collecting art, Bucky Watson, and a Spanish or Mexican gentleman. Frank wasn’t sure which nationality he was.”
“I need their names, Fletcher,” Kerney said.
Fletcher made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I have them written down somewhere.”
Kerney nodded. “Give them to the sergeant.” He switched his attention to Martinez. “I want deep background checks done on everybody who may have overheard what Talley said.”
“You’ve got it, Chief.”
“Allegedly, she was tipsy at the time,” Fletcher added.
“Fletcher, tell Sergeant Martinez everything you learned from Frank Bailey.”
“Of course.”
“Meet with Bailey personally, Sergeant. Find out what else he knows and go over everything in detail with him.”
“It’s already on my list, Chief.”
“Hook up with Chief Baca and fill him in.”
“Will do.”
“What’s my next assignment?” Fletcher asked.
“Have you finished talking to gallery owners?” Kerney replied.
“The local ones are covered, but I need to start calling Albuquerque dealers.”
“Do that, but pass any leads on to Sergeant Martinez. He’ll assign men to do the follow-up interviews, if anything looks promising.”
Fletcher’s unhappiness showed on his face. “So, am I to be consigned to the back room with a telephone?”
Kerney stepped around the table and squeezed his old friend’s shoulder. “Don’t fuss, Fletcher. You’re still my expert consultant on this case. I’d be lost without your help.”
Kerney nodded at Gilbert and left the kitchen. Gilbert waited until Kerney’s footsteps faded away before he asked the irresistible question that had formed in his mind.
“Tell me, Fletcher,” he said in a low voice, “is Chief Kerney gay?”
Fletcher laughed deeply. “Not in this lifetime, I’m sorry to say,” he answered.
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