Serpent Gate kk-3

by Michael Mcgarity

  "I'd love to know who pulled it off. It was a slick piece of work."

  "So it seems," Enrique said.

  "What have you learned about it?"

  "The police are operating on the assumption that Amanda Talley was somehow involved in the heist. I introduced you to her at the O'Keeffe benefit. The cops think she may have been murdered."

  "How interesting. Is this information reliable?"

  "It comes right from the governor's chief of security, a state police captain."

  "Police make such excellent informants. The gentleman you introduced me to in the lobby. Tell me about him."

  "Pletcher? He's local color. He's a very successful artist, collected on a national level."

  "Does he own property in Rancho Caballo?"

  "Not as far as I know. He lives near the Roundhouse, in one of the older neighborhoods. He was probably someone's dinner guest."

  "I did not like the degree of interest he showed in me. Who are his friends?"

  Bucky chuckled.

  "Every queen, queer, transvestite, and transsexual in Santa Pc. The latest Fletcher story I heard is that he has a gay cop living with him."

  "Really?"

  "I don't know who it is. But knowing Fletcher, he's probably young and good-looking."

  "He sounds harmless," De Leon noted, glancing at his wristwatch.

  Bucky took the cue, stood up, and smiled at his boss.

  "I'll stay in touch," he said.

  "Make sure that you do."

  Bucky left the bar feeling mined. Working for De Leon had made him a rich man, but he didn't have to like the son of a bitch's condescending attitude. aftbr learning a bit more about Amanda Talley, Gilbert Martinez believed his hunch about Roger Springer and his after-hours trysts with women at the governor's office deserved to be tested. Although it was fairly late, lights burned inside Roger Springer's house.

  Gilbert was pleased; he had timed the visit to catch Springer away from the office and off guard, if possible.

  He stopped his unit next to a BMW in the driveway, and exterior floodlights controlled by motion sensors immediately switched on.

  Average in size by neighborhood standards, the house was situated off Gonzales Road in the foothills, with Santa Fe aglow below it, spreading haphazardly across the valley floor.

  A round structure low to the ground, the home seemed anchored to the hillside. The curved walls had large windows and doors separated by buttresses, and all the rooms appeared to open onto a semicircular patio. Gilbert found his way to double glass doors that allowed him to see into a sunken living room. A fireplace glowed in the center of the room, and a wine bottle and two glasses were on a coffee table in front of a couch.

  No one was in sight, so he knocked and waited, his attention drawn back to the dtyscape below. He could remember a time when except for the highway strip into town, Santa Pc stopped at the private college on St.

  Michaels Drive. Now the profusion of city lights ran for miles past the college and washed out the night sky.

  He looked through the double glass doors just as Roger Springer yanked one open. Wearing a terry-doth robe and a waspish expression. Springer ran a hand through his rumpled hair and gave Gilbert an irritated look.

  "What is it. Sergeant?"

  "I have a few questions, Mr. Springer. May I come in?"

  "At this hour?"

  "Only for a minute."

  Springer nodded brusquely and stood aside. Gilbert stepped into a wide arched foyer that opened onto the living room. Recessed lights along the back wall of the living room accentuated an arrangement of paintings and lithographs above a stereo sound system on a low, built-in bookcase.

  "What questions do you have?" Springer asked as he closed the door.

  He made no gesture for Gilbert to move into the living room.

  "I understand you're a friend of Amanda Talley."

  "I know Amanda."

  "You were with her at the O'Keeffe benefit, I believe."

  "I was hardly with her, Sergeant."

  "But you saw her there," Gilbert countered.

  "We had a drink together with several other people."

  "Was Bucky Watson one of them?"

  "I believe so."

  "There was another man with the group. He may have been Hispanic or Mexican. Do you remember meeting him?"

  "I can't say that I do."

  Gilbert held out a photograph.

  "Please look at the man at the extreme left of the picture with his head partially turned away, and tell me if you know him."

  Roger leaned forward and looked.

  "I don't know him."

  "He may own a house in Rancho Caballo."

  "I wouldn't know."

  Gilbert put the photograph away.

  "I understand that some time back you lost a key to the governor's private elevator and had to have it replaced. Did you ever find the key?"

  "No."

  "You didn't loan the key to anyone?"

  "No."

  "Did you ever date Amanda Talley?"

  "Yes, we dated for a while, two years ago, soon after she came to town."

  "But not recently?"

  "I said it was two years ago."

  "I'm a little confused about your answer. Last month you were seen in the governor's suite after hours with Amanda Talley."

  "I may have run into Amanda at my uncle's office one evening, Sergeant, but that's all there was to it."

  "Why would Ms. Talley be in the governor's office after hours?"

  "Do you suspect Amanda, Sergeant?"

  "What was your business there that night?"

  "I believe I left a legal brief for the governor's chief of staff to review."

  "You didn't rendezvous with Amanda at the governor's office that evening?"

  "Are you suggesting a romantic interlude of a sexual nature? Isn't that how you referred to it in my office? I did not. As I told you, our relationship has been over for a long time."

  "Several of Ms. Talley's closest friends suggest otherwise.

  They report that you and Amanda continue to meet privately upon occasion."

  Springer blinked.

  "If you've spoken with Amanda, I'm sure you know that's simply not true."

  "We haven't been able to reach her yet. She's out of the country."

  "Isn't it premature to make accusations you can't substantiate?"

  "We found some pubic hairs on the carpet in the governor's office.

  Right in front of his desk."

  "Did you?"

  Gilbert reached out, plucked a loose hair off the collar of Springer's bathrobe, and inspected it.

  "From two different individuals," he lied.

  Springer paled considerably as he watched Gilbert place the hair between the pages of his notebook and close the cover.

  "You just violated my constitutional rights," Springer said.

  "You have no authority to collect physical evidence without a search warrant."

  "Physical evidence?" Gilbert replied innocently.

  "You're not a suspect, Mr. Springer. Didn't I make that dear? I don't think you have any reason to be concerned."

  "It's time for you to leave. Sergeant."

  Outside, Gilbert took a deep breath. A piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, although it probably didn't matter much, since he couldn't actually prove Roger Springer had jumped Amanda Talley's bones on the governor's carpet.

  The whole thing had been a bluff, and the ploy could cost him, big time. Gilbert was sure the brass would hear about it in the morning, and the thought that he might get bounced off the investigation and stuck in some cubbyhole, sorting evidence inventories for die rest of his career, didn't sit well.

  Gilbert doubted he would get much sleep when he got home. the doctors had given Robert painkillers. He woke up to Kerney's gentle shaking with a small groan. His beard had been shaved off, and there were bruises on his mouth and chin. His lip was split and two upper front teeth were miss
ing.

  Without the beard, Robert's face had an unused quality to it, except for his eyes, which looked very old.

  His left arm was suspended in a cast, and his torso had been wrapped to immobilize a broken rib.

  He looked at Kerney and said nothing. It made Kerney wonder if Robert was hearing voices in his head. Finally, Robert licked his lower lip and coughed.

  "How are you, Robert?" Kerney asked.

  "Un poco de agua, por favor," Robert said.

  With great care, Kerney tilted Robert's head off the pillow and placed the straw protruding from the plastic water jug between Robert's lips.

  Robert took several small sips and then pulled the straw from his lips.

  "It hurts to use my mouth," he said.

  "You don't have to talk now, if you don't want to."

  "You understand Spanish, Kerney," Robert said.

  "Who did this to you?"

  "El Malo."

  Kerney knew the term. It meant "the evil one," a colloquialism for the devil.

  "How did he do this to you?"

  Robert blinked and looked confused.

  "My head feels better."

  "I hope it stays that way."

  "El Malo never stays with me. He's just non hatajo de mentiras."

  "He lies to you?"

  Robert smirked.

  "He says I'm not crazy."

  "That must be good to hear."

  "It's a lie." Robert paused for a moment.

  "Once I dreamed I was Jesus Christ. You know what I did in the dream?"

  "What did you do?"

  "I killed myself." Robert giggled.

  "Isn't that funny?"

  "That was some dream."

  "El Malo makes me dream shit like that. It's bad luck to dream you're Jesus."

  "Who beat you up, Robert?"

  "I was naguitas, Kerney. A real sissy. I didn't even throw one punch.

  Not one."

  "Maybe you didn't have the chance."

  "You're supposed to fight back. That's the rule."

  "Even tofe bolos like you can get tricked," Kerney ventured.

  Robert considered Kerney's statement.

  "You got fucked up pretty bad, shot and everything. Isn't that right?"

  "That's right."

  "Were you scared when it happened?"

  "Terrified. Who beat you up, Robert?"

  "That fucker Ordway said you sent him some smokes to give to me."

  "Ordway did this?"

  "Yeah."

  Kerney stayed with Robert until he closed his eyes and fell asleep. on the drive back to Santa Pc, Kerney made contact with the state cop who lived in Mountainair, and asked about Ordway's whereabouts. The officer reported Ordway had cleaned out his trailer, loaded up a small U-Haul, and left town.

  Tired to the bone, Kerney turned down the squawk box volume and popped a Wynton Marsalis tape into the cassette deck. Some deep-down, throaty blues would carry him home. Or not exactly home, as Andy had so correctly pointed out.

  He would love to put his cowboy boots on the coffee table at Harper Springer's ranch and call the place his own, but that was a pipe dream.

  If he stayed in Santa Fe, reality would be a furnished box apartment with all the charm of a minimum-security federal prison. That just wouldn't do.

  He was approaching the off-ramp to St. Francis Drive when the realization hit him that he wasn't thinking clearly. He switched his attention to the rearview mirror. The headlights of three cars behind him flickered in the mirror. He slowed to let them close, clicked on the turn signal, and continued past the exit. Two of the cars turned off while the third stayed behind him.

  He didn't know if he was being followed or not, but it was time to start playing it safe. He moved into the left lane, swung the car off the pavement onto a dirt crossover that connected the divided highway, and merged with the southbound traffic. The northbound car continued on without slowing.

  From now on, he would take alternate routes to and from work and vary his routine. With an eye on the rearview mirror, he got off the interstate, and took side streets to Fletcher's house.

  At the house, he scanned the grounds for anything out of the ordinary before going inside. Everything looked perfectly peaceful.

  Kerney turned on the table lamp in Fletcher's bedroom and found him curled up in a ball under an old hand stitched floral-wreath quilt. The bed, a massive nineteenth-century four-poster, was angled to provide a view of a walled garden at the rear of the house. Nichos carved in the adobe walls displayed an assortment of folk art animal figures that included Acoma Pueblo owls. Cochin storyteller bears, and mythical Mexican beasts. On the floor in the four corners of the room stood carefully grouped menageries of hand-carved, painted animals. Pigs, skunks, donkeys, lions, and chickens of various sizes were arranged facing the bed.

  "Wake up, Fletcher," Kerney said.

  Pletcher pulled a pillow over his head.

  "It's much too early to wake up," he muttered.

  "It's time for our run."

  Kerney removed the pillow and Fletcher opened his eyes. Dressed to go running, Kerney wore a fanny pack around his waist.

  "Why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?" Fletcher asked as he sat up.

  The pouch, designed with a special sleeve for a quick draw, held Kerney's loaded semiautomatic and a spare dip, but Fletcher didn't need to know that.

  "Dress," Kerney said, ignoring the question and tossing Fletcher's sweats on the foot of the bed.

  "I'll wait for you outside."

  When Pletcher joined him, Kerney took a different route for their morning run, half-expecting Fletcher to complain. But as Kerney led the way out of the neighborhood and up a narrow street mat gave them a view of the mountains, Fletcher said nothing.

  The first full light of morning streaked speckled carmine on the flat underbelly of some stratus clouds, brushed the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and nickered against the peak of Sun Mountain. Sunlight tipped the mountaintops as though it were a hazy rivulet of gold spreading across the high summits.

  "Why do you look so pleased with yourself?" Kerney asked as they jogged past an open field that gave mema better view of the mountains.

  "No particular reason," Fletcher replied.

  "Unless you might have some small interest in learning the identity of the mysterious man who was with Bucky Watson at the O'Keeffe benefit."

  Kerney slowed to a trot.

  "What have you been up to, Fletcher?"

  "I happened to run into Bucky and his friend at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. The man's name is Vicente Puentes. He's Hispanic, with classic Castilian features-quite good-looking. A Mexican from his accent, I would say. Gilbert has a picture of him."

  "What were you doing at Rancho Caballo?"

  "Having dinner. The food was excellent."

  "Did you learn anything more about Fuentes?"

  "Only that he's an occasional visitor to Santa Pc. He looks to be quite wealthy."

  "I want you to be careful, Pletcher."

  "Careful about what?"

  "The men we're looking for can be very dangerous."

  "Have you identified the crooks?"

  "We've got a line on them. Don't let any strangers into the house, and if you see anyone suspicious in the neighborhood, I want you to call me right away."

  "Have you been sending patrol officers to check on my house?"

  Kerney nodded.

  "Andy has. It's just a precaution. Do you have to go anywhere during the next few days?"

  "A trip to the grocery store. I need to fill my larder.

  That's all."

  "Do that, but otherwise stay home, and keep the doors and windows locked."

  "You're scaring me a bit, Kerney. Whatever is the matter?"

  "Just do as you're told," Kerney said.

  "And no more playing Hercule Poirot. This isn't one of those cozy mystery novels you love to read."

  The hurt look on Fletcher's face made Kerney stop.
^ don't want anything bad to happen to you."

  Pletcher smiled wanly.

  "I'll do as you've asked. But I must say you have a rather fierce way of showing your concern." buck? watson's art crating business was housed in a two-story Victorian, on a side street in the Guadalupe District of Santa Fe. A redbrick structure with a wide front porch and a gabled roof, it had a loading dock at the back of the building that led to an alley. Two other Victorians were on either side, one used as a dance studio, and the other rented by a high-end furniture maker.

  Across the street stood an upscale nightclub and restaurant. It was one of the few buildings on the street Bucky's company. Matador Properties, didn't own.

  The Guadalupe District, within walking distance of the plaza, had once been a blend of homes and family owned businesses. As the tourist industry expanded, and all the buildings on the plaza were fully leased to serve the growing market, the new galleries, boutiques, and specialty shops began spreading into the Guadalupe area. Using De Leon money, Bucky had started buying before other investors jumped on the bandwagon.

  He stood on the loading dock and watched the trucks start off on the long haul to Chicago. His breath cut a ribbon through the frigid air of early morning. It had taken all night to put the shipment together.

  Moving nearly a half ton of cocaine and an equal amount of smack was no easy proposition. It had to be hidden in specially constructed crates and loaded precisely in the trucks to avoid raising suspicion.

  Bucky turned off the overhead lights and walked to the back of the crating room to the large tool closet.

  The drivers had been the last employees to leave, and the building was empty. He flipped on the closet light and swung open a floor-to-ceiling shelf that led to a secret basement. Six wetbacks supplied by De Leon had built the hidden passageway and fashioned a cellar under the crawl space. All the excavation work had been done at night; dirt had been hauled up in buckets by hand, loaded into trucks, and carted away before daybreak.

  Bucky walked down the stairs and checked his inventory.

  He'd deliberately held back some product so he could fill two upcoming shipments, one for Colorado and one for Kansas. He saw no reason not to make the deliveries just because De Leon wanted to bolster the Chicago market. The drugs would be gone within a couple of days, and because the well would be dry for a while, Bucky planned to bump up the price of a kilo and skim the difference, with no one the wiser.