• • •
Once a farming settlement along the banks of the Rio Grande, the town of Bernalillo was somewhat protected from the suburban sprawl of Albuquerque by an Indian pueblo that buffered the two cities. But the cushion of open land that cut a swath east from the river to the mountains couldn’t hold back the development that filled the west mesa. A gently rising plateau with eroded cones of extinct volcanoes, sandy arroyos, black lava rock, and bunchgrass, the mesa had been transformed into a series of bedroom communities that filled the skyline.
It vanished from sight when Kerney got off the interstate and dipped into the shallow river valley that sheltered the town. He drove the four-lane main street to city hall, where he stopped and asked for directions.
Ordway lived one block off the main drag in an old two-story adobe farmhouse that had been carved into small apartments. Under the porch were two entry doors, and on either side of the building staircases led to second-story living units. There were lace curtains in the front window of a first-floor apartment, along with a picture of the Virgin Mary that had been taped to a glass pane. The name ABEYTA was stenciled on the mailbox next to the door.
Kerney knocked on the door and a heavyset, elderly Hispanic woman wearing a drab gray dress opened it partway.
“Señora Abeyta,” Kerney said, speaking in Spanish. “I hope I am not disturbing you.” In the background he heard the loud chatter of a television talk show.
“Not at all, but I have no vacancies,” Mrs. Abeyta replied in English. “All my apartments are rented.”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” he explained. “Neil Ordway.”
“Oh yes, he just moved in, but he is not here now.”
“Do you know how I can reach him?”
“He said that he had a job working for a carpet installer.”
“Do you know which one?”
Mrs. Abeyta shook her head. “No, but I think he might be working in Rio Rancho, putting carpets in all those new houses they are building up there.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes, when he rented the apartment.”
“Gracias, señora.”
“You’re welcome, señor.”
Kerney stopped at a cafe on the main street, and used a pay phone and directory to whittle down an interminable number of carpet installers until he located Ordway’s new employer. Mrs. Abeyta had heard Ordway correctly; the company was doing subcontract installations for a builder in the Rio Rancho area. Kerney got the address where Ordway was working.
He left Bernalillo and drove up the mesa. The view east toward the mountains showed a sweep of pale hills that climbed from the bosque. The Rio Grande ran brown and languid around fingerlike sandbars Kerney glimpsed through the breaks in the thick cottonwood stands. But the drive into Rio Rancho took him into a different world altogether. High privacy walls bordered the wide thoroughfare, masking all but the second story of houses squeezed together on tiny lots. At major intersections, strip malls, convenience stores, and gas stations abounded. The stark, beautiful New Mexico landscape had been transformed into a place no different from the oozing Los Angeles megalopolis.
West of the main road, behind an established residential tract, was a checkerboard development of empty lots and high-density housing units under construction. Along the newly paved streets, stick houses and apartment buildings were going up in assembly-line fashion. While cement crews poured footings and pads at freshly prepped building sites, down the line carpenters framed walls and hung roof joists. The pattern repeated itself until Kerney rolled to a stop in front of three model homes in the final stages of completion. Little flagpoles with triangular pennants stood in front of the houses, and large signs planted in the yards blazoned the name of each model. A panel truck with rolls of carpet sticking out of the open rear doors was parked in a driveway.
Kerney called for backup before walking through the garage, past a laundry alcove, and into the kitchen. In the adjacent dining nook two men were unrolling a carpet pad. Both froze when they saw Kerney with his semiautomatic in one hand and his shield in the other.
“Ordway?” Kerney asked softly.
“Back bedroom, on the left,” one of the men replied.
Kerney stepped into the room. “Wait outside,” he ordered in a whisper.
The men scurried past him into the garage.
He found Ordway in the bedroom on his hands and knees with his back to the door, trimming carpet. Ordway heard him coming, rose to a kneeling position, and turned. He had a knife in his hand.
Kerney moved quickly before Ordway could react; he slammed the barrel of his gun against Ordway’s cheek and kicked at Ordway’s knife hand with his good leg. The blade went flying.
Neil came off the floor in a rush, diving for Kerney’s midsection. Kerney sidestepped and used Ordway’s momentum to drive him, face-first, into a wall.
“Hands to the small of your back,” Kerney ordered as he leaned hard against the man to keep him secure, and kicked his feet apart.
Ordway grunted and complied.
After cuffing Ordway, Kerney patted him down and spun him around. “Hello, Neil,” he said affably. Ordway’s nose looked broken.
Ordway seemed dazed. Blood flowed from his nose, dripping on the tan carpet. He swallowed hard and spat at Kerney. “Fuck you, Kerney.”
Kerney wiped the spit off his face. “You’re under arrest for aggravated battery. Beating up Robert was a stupid idea.”
“I’ll be out on bail in twenty-four hours,” Ordway said.
“But unemployed once again, I would imagine,” Kerney replied. “Let me read you your rights.”
A state police officer arrived as Kerney brought Ordway out of the house. He explained the charges to the officer, who agreed to drive Ordway to Torrance County, book him into jail, and deliver Kerney’s criminal complaint to the district attorney.
Kerney watched the patrol car drive away. Busting Ordway felt good, but it didn’t relieve the anger that gnawed at him about Gilbert Martinez’s murder. He wondered if he would get a chance to even things up with Enrique DeLeon and Carlos Ruiz.
12
Antonio Vallaverde turned off the main highway south of Juárez onto a blacktop road that cut through the saddle of two hills along the Rio Grande. He stopped at the security gate and announced himself. A high-ranking official in the Mexican Ministry of Justice, Vallaverde coordinated all cooperative borderland investigations with North American law enforcement agencies, including the New Mexico State Police.
Two miles in from the highway, a sprawling hacienda sat at the base of a hill with a lovely view of the bosque and the low-lying west Texas mountains across the river. The old rancho had been restored to its original splendor. The main hacienda, a private chapel, rock stables, a stone granary, and several other outbuildings had been rebuilt from the ground up. Old stone fences divided the grazing and farm land that bordered the bosque, and some of the melting adobe walls of the original peasant quarters still remained visible in the distance.
During the Mexican Revolution, the site had served as a government jail and execution grounds before being sacked and burned by Pancho Villa’s troops.
A houseboy in white linen stood outside the arched hacienda doorway. Antonio parked in the circular cobblestone driveway and followed the servant into the courtyard, with its charming brick lattice balustrade and central fountain. They passed through the vast living room and into the billiard parlor. DeLeon had a guest: A young woman bent over the billiard table with a cue stick in her hands. She had strawberry blond hair that fell against creamy white shoulders, long legs, and a small waist. The woman made her shot as Enrique looked on.
Antonio had spent a number of pleasant evenings in the parlor with Enrique and various industrialists, senior military officers, and prominent politicians who were DeLeon’s friends. It was a long room with a high ceiling and an arrangement of comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace at one end, where a well-stocked liquor ca
binet stood close at hand. Above the fireplace hung an antique cavalry officer’s sword in a scabbard.
In the center of the room, chairs for spectators and players lined the walls facing the billiard table. A door along the back wall provided passage to Enrique’s richly appointed library, where key arrangements in the last national election had been brokered.
Antonio coughed and DeLeon looked in his direction.
“Go now,” DeLeon said to the woman, taking the cue stick from her hand.
The woman left without saying a word, passing by Antonio with a look and a smile. She had a soft, sensual step, a long elegant neck, and lustrous green eyes. Antonio could smell her scent in the air.
“I hope I find you well, Enrique,” Vallaverde said.
“Indeed, I am,” Enrique replied. Antonio was one of the few paid informants he truly liked. “You have something to tell me, Antonio?”
“Not good news, I’m afraid. The New Mexico State Police have seized a large quantity of drugs in Santa Fe and arrested a man named Watson, who has confessed to being one of your distributors.”
“Where is Watson now?” Enrique asked.
“In jail.”
“How much merchandise was confiscated?”
“The street value is reported to be over a million dollars.”
DeLeon knew immediately that Bucky had held back some product from the Chicago shipment. He would deal with him harshly. “Such things happen occasionally,” he said. “It is the cost of doing business.”
“There is more, Enrique. Records of Tortuga International were seized in Las Cruces by the New Mexico State Police this morning. A United States judge has been asked to freeze all your North American corporate assets.”
“What else do you know?”
“Stolen art worth many millions has been recovered from your Santa Fe house. The authorities believe you are behind the theft. They are seeking your whereabouts in Mexico. Of course, I have suggested that they look for you in all the wrong places.”
“You give the Americans such wise counsel,” DeLeon said with a smile.
“I can do no less in light of your past generosities,” Antonio replied. “May I offer some advice, Enrique?”
“By all means.”
“A request has been made to the State Department to declare you persona non grata, which would bar you from any future visits to the United States. It will be favorably acted upon. Additionally, the Americans are prepared to ask our government to strip you of your diplomatic status and extradite you for prosecution. I have been told on highest authority that we will be sensitive to their demands. It is a difficult time for trying to sweep such issues with the Americans under the rug.”
“These political manipulations can be dealt with.”
“In time,” Antonio said. “But if the Americans fail to get what they want, they may come after you on their own. The new drug laws passed by their Congress give their federal agents that prerogative.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Perhaps a trip abroad is in order, until matters settle. I would not wait long to decide, Enrique. The American ambassador plans to discuss your diplomatic status at the highest level of our government before day’s end.”
“Thank you, Antonio. You have been most kind to bring these matters to my attention. Do one small favor for me. Find out the identities of the persons overseeing the state police investigation. Perhaps they would not be unresponsive to an offer to become rich men, if an arrangement can be made.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Antonio said.
Vallaverde departed and DeLeon went to the library. Antonio’s report was troubling. The loss of the Tortuga assets would sting, but hardly ruin him. He doubted the complexities of the company could be easily unraveled by the police in a short period of time. If he moved quickly, millions of dollars could be saved.
He rang for Carlos, who answered promptly.
“I want arrangements made to have Bucky Watson killed immediately,” Enrique said. “He is in the Santa Fe County jail. I do not want him to live to see another day. Report to me when your plans are complete.”
“Sí, patrón.”
DeLeon disconnected and dialed a different number.
Several hours passed before he put the telephone in the cradle. The time had been well spent; Tortuga’s remaining cash assets had been transferred out of the United States through a series of complex banking transactions.
The phone rang almost immediately. He punched the speaker button. “What is it?”
“It is Antonio, Enrique. The man responsible for the police investigation in Santa Fe is Kevin Kerney, the deputy state police chief. Several related arrests have been made by his investigators; a nephew of the governor and a prominent attorney have been charged with money laundering.”
“Continue.”
“One of his detectives was killed in a shoot-out at a Santa Fe residence. I do not think Kerney can be bought.”
“Do you have a dossier on Kerney and his investigations?”
“A slim one, yes.”
“Please send it by courier to the hacienda.”
“I will do so immediately,” Antonio replied.
“Thank you, Antonio.”
• • •
“But, patrón, he could not have survived so many bullets.”
DeLeon patted the file folder on the top of his desk. “You killed a state police sergeant named Martinez.”
“But it was Kerney’s car.” Carlos caught himself. There was no point making excuses. He lowered his head submissively. “I am sorry, Don Enrique. What are your orders?”
“Delfino and Felix will meet you at the airport in an hour. You will assist them in locating Kerney. Both he and Watson must be killed. What progress have you made on Watson?”
“He is in a seclusion cell at the jail. A court hearing has been scheduled for late this afternoon.”
“Will he be heavily guarded during the court hearing?”
“Only one officer has been assigned to transport him.”
“Excellent.”
“What other orders do you have for me, patrón?”
DeLeon held out the file. “None. Felix and Delfino will instruct you in all matters. Do not keep them waiting.”
Carlos took the file, risked a glance at the icy stare in DeLeon’s eyes, lowered his gaze, and quickly left the room, wondering if there was any way the patrón would let him live.
• • •
Officer Yvonne Rasmussen gave Kerney a pleased smile when he came into her hospital room.
“I’m sorry it took so long for me to come and see you,” Kerney said as he shook the young woman’s hand. “I hear you’re healing up nicely.”
“I get to go home tomorrow,” Rasmussen replied. “The doctor said I start light duty in a week.”
“That’s good news. You kept an old friend of mine from getting killed. I want to thank you for that.”
Rasmussen’s gray eyes clouded over. “I didn’t do enough, Chief. If I had responded sooner, Sergeant Martinez might still be alive.”
“Don’t beat up on yourself. You did all that you could.”
“That’s not the way I feel,” Rasmussen said.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
Rasmussen hesitated and shook her head slowly. “Not yet.”
“I need to ask you a few questions. When you were patrolling Fletcher’s house, before the gunfight, did you notice anything unusual?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you run license plate checks on the vehicles parked in the immediate area?”
“Yes. All but one of the cars were registered to neighborhood residents. The one that wasn’t belonged to an elderly Hispanic-surnamed male with a south-side address. I ran him through NCIC and there were no wants or warrants. It didn’t seem suspicious.”
“Where did you see the car?”
“On the street behind the lane to Fletcher’s house.”
“When?�
�
“Around dusk.”
“Was anyone in it or nearby?”
“No.”
“Did you see the vehicle again?”
“No. When I got the 911 call, I came in from a different direction.”
“Did you log the information on the car?”
“Dispatch has the record. Do you think the car was used by the killers?”
“It’s possible. I’ll check it out. Take care of yourself.”
“Chief Kerney.”
Kerney stopped at the door. “What is it?”
Rasmussen flashed him a small smile. “Thanks for not treating me like a kid sister. Everybody else has. I really appreciate it.”
“You don’t strike me as an officer who needs to be coddled,” Kerney replied.
“I’m not.”
• • •
With particulars in hand on the car Rasmussen had spotted near Fletcher’s house, Kerney drove down Airport Road. Ruben Contreras, age sixty-eight, owned an older-model full-size Buick, and lived in a trailer park behind a strip mall and a car wash. Most of the trailers were shabby looking. Gravel lanes bisected the rows of trailers, and in the center of the park stood a cement-block building that housed a coin-operated laundry. A loose dog sniffed around an overflowing trash can at the front of the laundry.
Kerney found Contreras’s trailer. Contreras answered the knock at the door and squinted at Kerney through thick glasses. A tube ran from his nose to a portable oxygen tank on wheels. The smell of beans cooking filled the air.
“Mr. Contreras?” Kerney asked with his badge case open.
“Yes?” Contreras wheezed as he spoke.
“Do you own a Buick?” Kerney described the car.
“I sold it. The doctors say I can’t drive anymore. My granddaughter gives me rides. I don’t like not having my car.”
Kerney held up Carlos Ruiz’s mug shot. “Did this man buy it from you?”
Contreras nodded. “He paid me cash. He said he would change the registration.” A worried look spread across the old man’s face. “If he had an accident, it’s not my fault. I canceled my insurance.”
“There’s been no accident, Mr. Contreras,” Kerney said. “I just needed to identify the buyer.”
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