"Sounds like he's pretty sharp."
"He is."
"If the feds aren't playing straight, he's got a right to know. I'm guessing it's about the ex-ambassador's wife who got iced up in Santa Fe."
"That was my guess too."
Ingram made a face.
"Those damn prima donnas. Somebody ought to tell the Bureau we don't have a national police force in this country-thank God. I'd love to know what he's got cooking. I bet it would make a great story. Did your pal give you any specifics at all?"
"Nope, he just asked for a records search of FBI agents who belong to the society. When this agent's name didn't pop up, he asked me to expand the search to all members with the same first name."
"Well, let's see the picture."
Browning reached for his coat jacket, fished out the fax, and handed it over.
"This isn't Major Elaine Cornell," Ingram said.
"You're sure?"
"Positive," Ingram replied snapping a finger against the fax paper.
"Compared to Cornell this woman looks halfway decent. I think the major is one of the 'don't ask, don't tell' soldiers."
"Good enough," Browning said, retrieving the fax.
"Stay for dinner." Ingram picked up the cordless phone from the end table and tossed it to Browning.
"Call your friend with the news while I get the grill cranked up. You like your steak medium rare, right?"
"Hey, you don't have to feed me," Browning said.
"No bother, amigo," Tim said as he made his way to the kitchen.
"Besides, I need some company."
After a few more drinks, a steak and potatoes dinner, and an hour of laid-back conversation, Browning left. Ingram took his cordless phone into the study, used the redial key to access the number Browning had called, and identified its location using a software program on his laptop computer. Then Special Agent Ingram called Charlie Perry and gave him the news.
"What's the state police chief mucking around in this for?" Perry grumbled.
"Not my problem, Charlie. You can tell Applewhite-who in hell came up with that name? — that her cover is intact. Make sure you put a lid on this so it doesn't spread any further."
"Yeah, sure," Perry said.
"I know what to do."
Ingram's next call went to the executive who managed the operations of the computer-chip facility.
"At the end of the week, downsize Fred Browning," he said.
"In the meantime keep him completely out of the loop."
"He doesn't know anything in the first place," the man replied.
"Care to tell me why?"
"Double up on production security and be prepared for a complete facility shakedown next week."
"I still need a reason."
"Make one up."
"He'll put up a stink about it."
"Not if you give him a generous severance package and recommend him for a new job with another company," Ingram said.
"I'll get back to you with the specifics."
"Do we have a leak?"
"Unknown at this time," Ingram answered.
"Your new security chief will report to you on Monday. Assessing any security breach will be his first assignment."
"And who exactly is that person going to be?"
"Someone with impeccable credentials."
Ingram's last call of the evening went to a Silicon Valley company vice president. He hung up after making sure Fred Browning would have a job in California with more money and greater responsibilities, at least for a while.
That should keep Browning from pondering too carefully the events of the week or jumping to conclusions.
If not, stronger arrangements might be necessary.
Kerney stayed in his office well past quitting time, half expecting to get a phone call summoning him to city hall to explain his decision to pull Officer Herrera off the streets. According to Helen Muiz, Herrera had stormed out of police headquarters at the end of his shift after receiving his transfer papers, saying he had no desire to be a paper shuffler or a desk jockey. She gave Kerney five-to-one odds that Cloudy had gone directly to his uncle, the city councilman, to complain. So far, there had been no repercussions, but that could change quickly.
His meeting with Captain Larry Otero had gone better than expected, and Helen was typing up the promotion order and the personnel paperwork for Kerney's new deputy chief.
Before leaving his office she predicted the deep-freeze reception Kerney had received as chief was about to thaw rapidly. She gave him twenty-to-one odds on it, along with a big smile of approval.
Ten minutes into his talk with Otero, Kerney knew he'd found his second-in-command. The captain was smart, level headed, and a good fit with his temperament and management style. Otero agreed not only to take over supervision of day-to-day department operations, but also to spearhead the completion of the five-year strategic plan that had been left hanging by the last administration.
Andy Baca's call to report that Special Agent Applewhite wasn't an army intelligence officer had left Kerney questioning whether he'd been paranoid or just way off the mark about his gut reaction to the woman.
He still felt uneasy. While he had no reason to doubt the national security implications of the case, he found it hard to understand why Applewhite had fed him a line about her State Department assignment.
Kerney knew he would never be given all the facts or reasons, regardless of the outcome, and that galled him.
He was equally bothered by his thirty-year-old recollections of Hamilton Lowell Terrell, aka the Snake, Kerney's first in-country commander. He had not been a man to be trusted.
Under Terrell's command routine patrols were reported as inserts into enemy territory, every skirmish became a major firefight, any setbacks in field operations were blamed on the attached ARVN units, and body counts were always inflated. But old grievances about Terrell probably had no bearing on the present situation.
Because he saw no point to it, Kerney had opted out of attending a task-force debriefing session currently in progress. He already knew that Terjo was still missing and that the special agent sent to Ramah had yet to locate or interview Proctor Straley's ranch manager, Scott Gatlin, alleged to be the third of Phyllis Terrell's recent lovers. He also knew that Sal Molina hadn't been allowed anywhere near Proctor Straley or his daughter Susan, who were sequestered in a Santa Fe hotel suite with FBI bodyguards.
Meanwhile, Detective Bobby Sloan and the three agents on loan from Andy Baca were wading knee-deep through interviews in the Father Mitchell slaying with nothing substantial to report.
Kerney leaned back in his desk chair and looked around the stark office.
He'd done nothing to decorate it since moving in, and he wasn't inclined to hang up framed certificates, plaques, or other memorabilia from his law enforcement career as most other police chiefs did. He'd read recently that such a "trophy wall" was standard equipment for corporate VIPs and Capitol Hill politicians.
Now that he was a bigwig, maybe he should get with the program. If nothing else, it would spark some amusing sarcasm from Helen Muiz. And Sara would never let him hear the end of it, he thought with a smile.
Sara was coming in from Fort Leavenworth this weekend. After they toured the land in Galisteo that was up for sale, maybe she'd help him pick out a few prints he could have framed for the office.
Because of his hectic week and the intensity of her class schedule at the U. S. Army Command and General Staff College, he hadn't spoken to her for days. He missed the sound of her voice, the updates about the progress of her pregnancy, and all their exciting talk about building a home and starting a family.
With Larry Otero on board as deputy chief, unless something major broke in the homicide cases, the weekend would be his to spend with his bride.
He'd married Sara less than a year ago, soon after her return from a tour of duty in Korea, where she'd been decorated and promoted for crushing a North Korean assassinatio
n plot against the visiting secretary of state.
Although he saw her infrequently, she'd made Kerney feel far happier about his life than he ever could have imagined. The considerable wealth he'd recently inherited from the proceeds of Erma Fergurson's land bequest paled in comparison to the rich texture of his relationship with Sara. He couldn't imagine loving someone other than smart, sexy, feisty Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon.
He left his office, signed the paperwork for Otero's promotion Helen had waiting for him on her desk, said good-night, and drove to his cramped quarters, thinking it was time to get serious about building a new house.
The top-floor presidential suite at the Hotel San Marcos consisted of a sitting room, bedroom with master bath, fully equipped and stocked galley kitchen, and study. Furnished with high-quality reproductions of Spanish Colonial pieces and decorated with original lithographs of well-known New Mexico artists, it had corner fireplaces in each room, hand-troweled plaster walls, and Mexican tile accents in the kitchen and bath.
Ambassador Hamilton Lowell Terrell stood gazing out the sitting-room window with his back to Charlie Perry. The narrow street was empty of foot traffic and only a few cars remained parked at the curbs. From his vantage point he looked down on a line of flat-roofed buildings that housed retail shops, all closed for the night. At the corner of the block rose a three-story building. It had two rows of old-fashioned wood sash windows evenly spaced above the ground floor, some with broken glass, others with damaged screens. Although two stores, a gift shop, and a boutique operated at street level, the rest of the building looked empty and unused.
"You're quite certain everything is set?" Terrell asked, turning to face Perry, who stood in the galley kitchen stirring sugar into a freshly poured cup of coffee.
"We should be able to wrap it up tomorrow," Perry said as he dropped the spoon into the sink.
Terrell moved to the kitchen, rinsed and dried the spoon, and put it in the proper drawer.
"I don't like this probing by the local authorities into Applewhite's cover."
"That has been contained," Perry said, moving away from Terrell.
"It better be," Terrell said as he dried his hands.
"Is Proctor Stra ley on board?"
Perry sat on the couch facing the fireplace where pinon and cedar logs crackled in a warm blaze, and sipped his coffee.
"Along with his daughter Susan. They know about the affair between your wife and Straley's ranch manager. Mrs. Terrell made no effort to hide it, and both were well aware of Mrs. Terrell's appetites."
"Give me the specifics," Terrell said.
"As we discussed, you'll be the grieving husband."
Terrell stared at Perry, a cocky young man he didn't much like.
"I know my role.
What about the preparations for Scott Gatlin, the ranch manager?" he said.
"It's better if you don't know, Ambassador."
Terrell walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands.
"Don't presume to coddle me, Agent Perry."
Perry's smile vanished.
"Gatlin has been on vacation, fortunately traveling alone with no set agenda. He's due to return late tonight. He'll be intercepted as he arrives, taken to Gallup to be interviewed, and then released. He'll go home, get drunk, write a suicide note confessing to the killing, and put a bullet in his head."
"Is there anyone staying at the Straley ranch?"
"No, and there aren't any nearby neighbors."
"How will you make the confession stand up?"
"Threatening letters from Gatlin to your wife, vowing to kill her if he couldn't have her, were recovered by the FBI last night at her residence. A packet of letters written by Mrs. Terrell to Gatlin demanding that he stop harassing her will be found among his personal effects. Gatlin will be portrayed as a fixated, mentally ill stalker who killed his ex-lover."
"Straley isn't a stupid man," Terrell said, "and my sister-in-law has never liked me. Are you sure this will work?"
"Both of them know Gatlin as a lady's man with a temper and a jealous streak.
With the proof we'll provide there should be no reason for them not to buy it."
"Which is?" Terrell demanded.
"That Gatlin raped your wife the night of her murder. If necessary, we'll produce witnesses who saw him in Santa Fe before the crimes were committed."
Terrell nodded.
"I hope this Kerney fellow is as inept as you say he is."
Perry snickered.
"Kerney? Absolutely."
"I've read Kerney's background file, Agent Perry. His credentials as an investigator are strong, and he's made some impressive arrests over the years."
"I've worked with him before, Ambassador. Believe me, he's a loose cannon.
Besides that, he's running a department filled with shit-for-brains detectives."
"I don't think Chief Kerney remembers I was his commanding officer for a time in Vietnam."
"I didn't know that," Perry said.
"You didn't serve in the military, did you, Perry?"
"No, sir."
"Too bad. Ben Franklin once said that there is no such thing as a 'little enemy." The politicians didn't keep that in mind when we fought in Vietnam.
Don't make the same mistake with Chief Kerney, Agent Perry."
"I won't. We'll continue monitoring the situation."
"Very good. See that you do."
Perry left and Terrell moved to the writing desk, turning his attention to funeral arrangements. He thought about Phyllis as he began making a list: private services at the cathedral, burial at the national cemetery, invitations limited to a small group of government officials and the immediate family.
Aware of Phyllis's loose reputation, he'd married her anyway, because it allowed him access to Proctor Straley's sphere of considerable influence. At the time Straley had almost swooned with delight to see his tramp daughter finally so well wed. The great sex she gave Terrell until the marriage soured had been an enjoyable bonus.
Phyllis would be alive today, if she hadn't been so damn nosey. He paused and looked at his list. A letter of condolence to Proctor Straley from the President was in order. He made a note to call the White House in the morning.
Chapter 5
Kerney sat in an office chair and watched the smile on William Demora's face fade as he settled behind his large executive desk and tidied an already neatly stacked set or documents. Last night, without giving a reason, the city manager had called Kerney at home and asked for an early morning meeting. And it was very early indeed; workers at city hall weren't due to show up for another hour.
The city offices were housed in an old school building a block from the plaza.
In spite of extensive renovations the wide hallways, far wider than a modern office building would allow for, made it feel like a place for junior high students, not city bureaucrats. Kerney could remember the days when noisy, boisterous kids spilled out of the school to spend lunch hour on the plaza.
"Aside from carrying out the mayor's goals," Demora said, weighing his words carefully, "my job, as I see it, is to act as a buffer between my department heads and members of the city council. In other words, to keep politics from interfering with our daily operations. But I can't always shield my people from controversy. Especially if I find myself caught unaware."
"What's come up?" Kerney asked, maintaining a neutral tone.
Demora ran a hand over his closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard.
"The issue of your appointment of Captain Otero as deputy chief has raised some concern among several council members."
It wasn't the issue Kerney expected, but he held back his surprise and stayed silent.
"I thought we had an understanding that you'd run key appointments through my office first," Demora said.
"No," Kerney said evenly, "The understanding was that I would have full authority on all personnel matters and would keep you advised in a timely fashion."
"So
why am I placed in the position of learning about Otero's promotion secondhand through the grapevine?"
Kerney checked his watch.
"Otero's promotion orders were cut less than twelve hours ago, after city hall closed for the day. You would have gotten a call from me in about an hour. But to answer your question more specifically, the reason you heard about it through the grapevine is because I have inherited a department filled with people who are accustomed to undercutting the chain of command whenever it suits their purpose to do so. Who are the unhappy council members?"
"You needn't concern yourself with them," Demora replied.
"I'll deal with that problem. But surely you understand that the police officers' union is a political action group. You can't expect them not to use their influence to raise issues, especially with several strong union supporters on the council."
"Was the issue raised by the union?"
"Yes. They feel that Otero's appointment is a step backward."
Kerney chose his words carefully.
"Although the contract gives the union no voice in management issues, I'd be happy to meet with them here in your office to address their concerns."
"I don't think we should open that door to the union," Demora said quickly.
"But I… The mayor does expect you to concentrate on building employee morale. Your decision to promote Otero seems to be having the opposite effect."
"It's my highest priority," Kerney said.
"Every police department needs good morale to do its job of protecting the public and upholding the law."
"How you get to that goal is important, Chief," Demora said smoothly.
"Developing constructive and informed input from employees makes them feel empowered."
"Exactly how does the union view Otero?" Kerney asked, trying to move Demora away from his favorite team-building theory of management.
"He's seen as abrasive, argumentative, and authoritarian."
"Is that your reading of the man?"
"I've found him to be confrontational upon occasion. Unnecessarily so."
Kerney thought back to the purged documents about Officer Herrera that Helen Muiz had saved from destruction. None of Otero's memos had showed evidence of distribution outside the department. Had Demora been behind the cleansing of Herrera's personnel jacket and the decision to destroy Otero's career? Captains not slated for promotions were frequently buried in technical-duty slots, far away from the operational-command assignments that were crucial for advancement.
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