Serpent Gate

by Michael McGarrity

  • • •

  After burning the van, retrieving Amanda Talley’s body at Emory Pass, and recrossing the border, Carlos dropped Facundo and the body at the rancho in the desert DeLeon used as a landing field for drug shipments arriving from South America. Facundo knew what to do with the body; he’d disposed of several in the past.

  Carlos finished the long drive back to Santa Fe, parked the Range Rover in the garage, and climbed the stairs with tired, heavy feet, hoping DeLeon would be satisfied with his report. One could never be sure how the patrón would react.

  He found DeLeon at his desk in the library.

  Enrique looked at Carlos kindly before smiling and gesturing to an empty chair. “Sit down, Carlos, and relax. You look very tired.”

  Only somewhat relieved by the jefe’s reaction, Carlos sat and waited for DeLeon to question him.

  “Did all go well?” DeLeon asked.

  “Yes, patrón. All matters have been attended to. Nick is dead, the woman’s body has been disposed of, and the van has been destroyed.”

  “I am pleased,” Enrique said.

  “Thank you, patrón.”

  “I have additional work for you after you have rested. You are to assemble a complete dossier on Kevin Kerney. I want to know where he lives, where his office is, and who his friends are. Full particulars are essential. What is the arrangement of his living quarters? His office? Is either place accessible? Does he maintain a routine schedule? Does he travel the same route to and from work? Is he seeing a woman? If so, would he be vulnerable when he is with her?”

  Carlos nodded. “I understand.”

  DeLeon pushed an envelope across the desk. “There is sufficient cash in the envelope to purchase a car which will not attract attention. Buy it from a private party, so that you do not have to register it immediately. Follow Kerney closely and take exacting notes. Remember, he knows you. Do not expose yourself to him.”

  “I will be careful,” Carlos replied, pushing his thumb against his upper plate.

  DeLeon saw hate flash in Carlos’s eyes. “You are to take no action against Kerney.”

  “As you wish, patrón.”

  “Go now and get some sleep.”

  Carlos rose, picked up the envelope, and departed.

  Enrique leaned back and thought about Kerney. His last attempt to have the policeman killed in Juárez failed when Kerney had been rescued by an undercover army investigator posing as a hunchback. That failure meant that Kerney had to be killed in just the right way to make everything balance out. Retaliation against an enemy was a normal part of doing business. But in this case, the reprisal would be all the more satisfying to achieve.

  • • •

  The snowstorm parked over the city stopped before it reached the Galisteo Basin. The escarpment that broke across the valley stood like a vast, ominous battlement looming over the rangeland.

  For several years, while he recovered from the wounds that had forced him to retire from the Santa Fe PD, Kerney had lived and worked on a ranch in the basin with a view of the escarpment and the Ortiz Mountains in the far distance. He had never tired of the sweep of the land against the sky, and the ever-changing colors that painted the scenery new again each passing day.

  Kerney made good time on a clear road. He arrived at the Torrance County courthouse in Estancia and went looking for Wesley Marshall, who wasn’t in his office. He found Marshall, Bradley Pullings, and Gary Dalquist waiting for him in an empty jury room.

  Pullings had brought in a co-counsel with impressive credentials. Dalquist specialized in capital murder cases. He was a short, older man with a deep, rumbling voice and a cherubic face. Criticized as a flamboyant showman, he had a strong track record of acquittals, dismissed cases, and reduced felony plea bargain agreements. Prosecutors hated to go up against him.

  Marshall got up and walked to the door.

  “Aren’t you staying?” Kerney asked.

  “Can’t,” Wesley replied. “I meet with the grand jury in ten minutes. You can handle it without me.”

  Kerney handed him a copy of Robert Cordova’s statement.

  “What’s this?” Marshall asked in a surly tone as he stuffed the papers in a jacket pocket.

  “Something you might want to read.” He nodded in Dalquist’s direction. “Looks like you have some serious opposition, Counselor.”

  Marshall grunted and walked away.

  After a quick introduction, Kerney gave another copy of Robert’s statement to Dalquist before the actual Q and A began. Dalquist read it, glanced at Kerney with a gleam in his eye, and passed the document to Pullings.

  “Shall we get started?” Dalquist asked, his finger poised over the tape recorder.

  “By all means,” Kerney replied.

  Dalquist was thorough in his questioning. He concentrated on the arrest procedure, Nita’s mental state at the time both confessions were made, and the fact that Nita’s first confession preceded Kerney’s Miranda warning. He was looking for screwups he could use to have the confession thrown out.

  Kerney’s answers didn’t please Dalquist.

  Dalquist moved on to Nita and asked whether or not Kerney thought she knew what she was doing the night she shot Gillespie; Kerney declined the bait.

  Finally, Dalquist turned to Robert’s statement and grilled Kerney about Cordova. Kerney obliged with the facts he had at hand.

  “Do you think Mr. Cordova would make a competent witness?” Dalquist asked as he hit the stop button to the tape recorder.

  “I’m not a psychiatrist,” Kerney said. “But along that same line, has the psychological evaluation on Ms. Lassiter been completed?”

  “The report will be in the judge’s hands in the morning,” Dalquist said. “I expect Ms. Lassiter to be released on bail by noon.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Do you plan to force Robert Cordova to corroborate Ms. Lassiter’s statement that he saw her leaving the murder scene?” Dalquist asked.

  “I don’t think I can force Robert to do anything,” Kerney replied.

  • • •

  Wesley Marshall waylaid Kerney on his way out of the building.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you planned to interview Robert Cordova? The case fell under my jurisdiction when I signed off on the paperwork. You don’t take this kind of action without my approval.”

  “Robert found me. I didn’t go looking for him. Do you want all the facts, Counselor, or just those that will help you win the case?”

  “I want them all, of course,” Marshall said. “But you may have given Dalquist an early Christmas present.”

  “Wouldn’t it be helpful to have Robert put Lassiter at the scene of the crime?”

  “I’m not calling him as a witness. He’s a mental case, for chrissake. Totally unreliable.”

  “Then impeach him on the witness stand, if Dalquist decides to use him for the defense.”

  “Don’t do this again, Kerney. This is the second time you’ve messed with me.”

  “I think you’re fairly new at the game, Mr. Marshall, so let me remind you of the drill. My responsibility to you consists of gathering all the facts, and that doesn’t end until a decision is reached in a court of law.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “This isn’t about taking sides.”

  • • •

  Andy Baca was waiting for Kerney when he got back to the office. The clerical staff and most of the civilian workers were gone for the day and the building was quiet.

  “You look wrecked,” Andy said.

  “I am.” Kerney flopped on the couch and stretched his right leg. The throbbing in his reconstructed knee felt like sharp hammer blows.

  “Bring me up to speed,” Andy said as he sat with Kerney.

  “What don’t you know?”

  “How did your meeting with the governor go?”

  “I survived it,” Kerney answered. “Springer is determined to keep any hint of staff sexual miscon
duct buried under the rug. Correction—buried under the carpet.”

  “He called and gave me the same marching orders.”

  “Did he sweeten the pot with money to pay for all the overtime we’re burning?”

  “He did. And he ordered me to reinstate Howell and the security detail to duty immediately.”

  Kerney grunted. “Then the only thing I can add is a warning: Vance Howell is in the governor’s hip pocket. Only tell him things you want Springer to know.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “You bet,” Kerney said.

  “How did the Lassiter deposition go?”

  “Aside from pissing off the ADA, it went well. I turned over a witness statement that the defense counsel loved and the ADA hated. He might call you up and bitch about me. Did Martinez stop by to brief you?”

  “Yes. He dropped off some hair samples from Amanda Talley’s apartment. The lab report came in an hour ago. They’re a perfect match with the hairs found in the governor’s office and the van. You should be pleased. It ties the two crimes together.”

  “It also means that Amanda Talley is probably dead,” Kerney noted. “So who in the hell is using her name and vacationing in Belize?”

  “Beats me. Let’s get a search warrant and have Martinez take a closer look at Talley’s apartment.”

  The supervisor of the fingerprint unit, a bookish-looking man carrying some papers in his hand, stepped tentatively into the office with a pleased expression on his face.

  “Chief Baca. Chief Kerney. Got a minute?”

  “What is it, Stan?” Andy asked.

  “We got a hit back on a clean thumbprint from the van. The ID didn’t come through normal channels. Army Intelligence made the guy. His name is Carlos Ruiz. He works for a Mexican national named Enrique DeLeon, who operates out of Juárez. Interpol says DeLeon is a major international smuggler; drugs, art, rare artifacts, anything with a big-ticket value. I’ve got Ruiz’s mug shot and rap sheet.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Andy said.

  Kerney had gone up against DeLeon and Ruiz once before, and Andy knew the case well. He had put a badge in Kerney’s pocket when he was the Doña Ana County sheriff, on what appeared to be nothing more than a missing person case involving Kerney’s godson. By the time the dust settled, Kerney had uncovered murders, a major smuggling scheme, and a rogue military intelligence agent in league with DeLeon.

  “Bring it here,” Kerney said. He took the photograph from the supervisor’s hand and studied it. Carlos Ruiz’s ugly, pockmarked face stared back at him. “Can you run the investigation without me for a day?” he asked.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Andy asked.

  “Juárez. The art theft is just DeLeon’s kind of caper. Ruiz’s involvement cinches it. I need to find out where DeLeon is and where the goodies are stashed. I’ll need some money.”

  Andy bit his lip and thought about it. Kerney had tracked DeLeon down before using a paid Juárez informant, and he knew the lay of the land better than anyone else.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “We got some confiscated drug funds you can use. I’ll have you flown to El Paso on our plane. But get some sleep before you cross the border, and for chrissake be careful. DeLeon will take you out if he has the chance. You hit him hard in the pocketbook on the White Sands case, and I don’t think he’s inclined to be forgiving.”

  “I’m leaving now,” Kerney said. “Call the pilot.”

  7

  After spending a night at an El Paso motel, Kerney got up early and took a taxi across the border to Juárez. He had the driver pull to a stop at Plaza Cervantine, a bohemian enclave for writers, artists, and community activists. Well away from the Juárez tourist strip, the plaza consisted of a mixture of apartment houses, cafes, artist studios, neighborhood businesses, and offices.

  Kerney paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. A street vendor was opening his food cart for business. The rich smell of tortillas, beans, and dark Mexican coffee filled the air. The business signs, posters, and murals that peppered the walls of the buildings were a riot of hot colors: bright yellow, brash pink, and screaming orange.

  The only other person on the plaza aside from the vendor was a man walking a dog. Wearing a wool scarf thrown casually around his neck, a beret set at a cocky angle, and a V-neck sweater, the man hurried his pet into one of the doors of a walk-up apartment building.

  Kerney followed a passageway through an office building to a courtyard cafe where several people sat smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the chilly early morning air. From the serving counter under the landing to the second story he could hear the clatter of dishes and the chatter of kitchen workers as they prepared for the breakfast rush. Upstairs, he found the office to the small weekly newspaper locked. He returned to the courtyard cafe, ordered coffee, and asked the server when Rose Moya usually arrived for work. He was told that she kept to no fixed schedule.

  Rose had been a source of information for Kerney during the White Sands case, and put him on the trail to Enrique DeLeon. An investigative reporter, she had written a series of articles for her left-wing newspaper that exposed government collusion with the Juárez underworld.

  While Kerney waited, the patio cafe filled with neighborhood locals, who flashed him inquisitive looks as they sipped coffee and talked. The man with the beret came into the courtyard without his dog, and joined a group of friends at a nearby table. A lively discussion sprang up on the political importance of street theater.

  Rose Moya arrived and Kerney intercepted her at the foot of the stairs. She wore pleated brown cord slacks and a ribbed off-white wool sweater, and carried a canvas laptop computer case. An attractive woman with high cheekbones and full lips, Rose looked at Kerney with serious dark eyes.

  “Señor Kerney,” she said. “Surely you must know that Enrique DeLeon will try to kill you if he learns you are in Juárez.”

  “I will not be in Juárez long,” Kerney said. “Please join me for a coffee.”

  Rose brushed her dark hair back from her forehead, searched Kerney’s face, gave a quick glance at his table, and waited for more of an explanation. Behind Kerney the customers’ chatter faded away.

  “Is there a problem if you’re seen talking to me?” Kerney asked.

  Rose laughed sharply. “I do not have a death wish, Señor Kerney.”

  “Does my presence place you in danger?”

  “Apparently Francisco Posada made it known that you reached him through me. I was questioned extensively after your visit by a high-ranking police official with ties to the Mafiosios. The meeting was cordial, but the threat was clear. It would be unwise for me to continue to cooperate with any norteamericano police officers or drug agents.”

  “Have the Mafiosios silenced your reporting?”

  Rose forced a small smile. “Not completely, but I walk a fine line. They like to read about themselves. They expect to have their political assassinations reported—it reinforces the terror and fear they spread. And they enjoy articles about their wealth and influence as long as any account of government corruption is not too specific.”

  “Have you been instructed to report any contact by norteamericano agents or police?”

  “Of course,” Rose replied, looking over Kerney’s shoulder at the cafe patrons. “And if I don’t, someone else will.”

  “Give me a few minutes to tell you why I’m here. If you cannot help me, I’ll understand. Disclose everything to the Mafiosios’ police official when you make your report. Hold nothing back.”

  “What do you want, Señor Kerney?”

  “Enrique DeLeon. And this time I plan to get him.”

  Rose’s eyes widened with curiosity. “You make an appealing offer. Buy me a coffee, and I will listen to your story.”

  At the table, Rose drank coffee while Kerney filled her in on the art theft and the facts pointing to DeLeon’s complicity.

  “DeLeon enjoys stealing from norteamericanos,” Rose said, touching th
e small mole under her right eye. “He delights in it, and has been very successful over the years. Not once has he been charged with any crime on either side of the border.”

  “I understand that.”

  “If you truly wish to put DeLeon out of business, you face much more difficult obstacles than before. He is virtually untouchable.”

  “Has he hired more bodyguards and goons?” Kerney asked.

  Rose laughed. “Nothing quite so commonplace. In our last national election, several Juárez politicians won prominent government positions. They benefited from major Mafiosios’ campaign financing. DeLeon donated several million dollars and was rewarded with a minor cultural affairs appointment and a diplomatic passport.”

  “That’s unbelievable.”

  “I thought you were better acquainted with our country, Señor Kerney. You can buy anything in Mexico. We have a fugitive ex-president living in Dublin who has millions of stolen dollars in a Swiss account. He cannot be touched; we have no extradition treaty with Ireland. At one time, he was compared to your Jack Kennedy. He turned out to be nothing but a common thief.”

  “So what is DeLeon doing with his new diplomatic status?”

  “Business as usual, only more so. I understand he is now investing in foreign real estate and buying into many maquiladora enterprises, businesses jointly owned by American and Mexican corporations.”

  “Is he going legitimate?”

  “That, and diversifying.”

  “Do you have any specifics on his holdings?”

  Rose shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Does he still use Juárez as his base of operations?”

  “When he’s here,” Rose replied.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Traveling, I’ve heard, but I have no idea where. Allegedly he has houses in the United States, the Caribbean, Central America, and Spain. But he could be at his hacienda outside of Juárez, or at one of his ranches. He won’t be easy to find. You aren’t planning to go to the Little Turtle, are you?”

  “No,” Kerney answered. “Is Francisco Posada still alive?” Posada was the information broker who had set up Kerney’s first and only face-to-face meeting with DeLeon.