Serpent Gate Read online

  From Tularosa and Mexican Hat to Dead or Alive and Hard Country, the bestselling Kevin Kerney novels from Michael McGarrity are classics in the American Southwest’s crime fiction tradition.

  Praise for Michael McGarrity and his “exceptionally intelligent, humane mystery series” (Publishers Weekly)

  “Each new Michael McGarrity novel about New Mexico lawman Kevin Kerney is better than the last.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “McGarrity deals in the quotidian reality of a cop’s life, and he does so with remarkable verisimilitude.”

  —Booklist

  “McGarrity has a cunning mind for crime fiction.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “First rate.”

  —Arizona Daily Star

  “McGarrity may be the best writer of the genre working today.”

  —Tulsa World

  “The series remains one of crime fiction’s most readable.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “McGarrity’s familiarity with human failings and emotions . . . helps him bring his characters to life. . . . There are no stereotypes, just living, breathing people.”

  —The Denver Post

  Go back to where it all began for lawman Kevin Kerney . . . Enjoy the raw realism and heart-pounding action of this quartet of novels that first introduced the unforgettable New Mexico detective!

  Praise for

  HERMIT’S PEAK

  “The best in a series that is now approaching distinguished. . . . Brisk pacing, meticulous plotting, and characters to root for.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Plenty of action, a sympathetic central character, and a little healthy sex make this an enjoyable, readable mystery.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “Ingenious.”

  —Taos News (NM)

  “An excellent police procedural with scrupulous attention to detail.”

  —Toronto Globe & Mail

  SERPENT GATE

  “A real winner. . . . A perfect blend of riveting action and richly evoked characters.”

  —Linda Fairstein

  “A masterpiece of plot, setting, and character . . . [to] be savored.”

  —Booklist

  “A compelling blend of old-fashioned, street-smart detection, tenacity, and modern motivation.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “Stunning suspense, fascinating characters, a rich tale, and a splendid evocation of place. . . . Magnificent.”

  —Wendy Hornsby, Edgar Award–winning author of The Hanging

  MEXICAN HAT

  “Outstanding. . . . McGarrity ingeniously orchestrates . . . a complex, action-filled plot.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Exciting.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “McGarrity knows what he’s writing about—and how to write it.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  An Anthony Award Nominee

  TULAROSA

  “McGarrity knows his territory . . . his characters are as memorable as the environment they live in.”

  —Albuquerque Journal

  “Few mysteries are as fresh and powerful as this rich Southwestern tale. . . . McGarrity delivers atmosphere, action, romance, and prime satisfaction.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Packs excitement, color, and character in its pages. . . .”

  —The Denver Post

  “Mystery fans shouldn’t miss it. . . . moves like lightning.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  Thank you for purchasing this Scribner eBook.

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  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About Michael McGarrity

  For Manuel “Dave” Hernandez,

  Jerry Ortiz y Pino,

  Miriam Brownstein,

  Cathy Fernandez,

  and Larry Martinez,

  who helped set me on the path to

  Serpent Gate.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My sincere thanks go to Janette Smith, formerly of the New Mexico Department of Public Safety, Training and Recruiting Division, now retired; Michele Maxwell of the New Mexico Department of Public Safety, Office of the Secretary; Agent Bob Parsons of the New Mexico State Police; and Kathryn Jimenez of Mountainair, New Mexico, all of whom helped me during the research phase of Serpent Gate.

  Any alteration of fact, either deliberate or otherwise, pertaining to the New Mexico State Police, the New Mexico Department of Public Safety, current state criminal statutes, and investigative procedures is my sole responsibility.

  1

  Kevin Kerney sat in an unmarked state police car across the street from the Shaffer Hotel in Mountainair, New Mexico, waiting for Robert Cordova to show up. Kerney had tracked Cordova to the state mental hospital in Las Vegas, only to discover that he had run off two days earlier. Cordova was a schizophrenic with a history of disappearing from the state hospital as soon as he was stabilized on medication.

  A hospital psychiatrist had told Kerney that Cordova had no permanent residence and usually went back to his hometown of Mountainair after running off. Eventually he’d show up at the health clinic in town, looking for cigarette or coffee money, or he’d be found wandering the streets in a full-blown psychotic episode.

  Kerney had already checked for Cordova at the clinic. The secretary hadn’t seen Robert, nor had the other locals Kerney spoke with, but everybody he questioned noted Cordova liked to hang out in front of the Shaffer Hotel.

  Twenty minutes into Kerney’s wait, the information proved to be right on the money. A scruffy-looking man with an untamed beard and tangled dark hair came scurrying down the street around the corner from the state highway that ran next to the hotel. Filthy high-top sneakers with no laces slapped against his bare ankles as he hurried to a low fence in front of a small park and gazebo adjacent to the hotel. He stopped dead in his tracks and wheeled to face the fence.

  Before the man turned, Kerney got a good look, consulted a mug shot, and made a positive ID. A runt of a man in his mid-thirties, no more than five foot four without an ounce of fat, Cordova wore tattered jeans that hung low on his hips and a soiled plaid shirt, too large for his skinny frame, that ballooned around his waist. It was a chilly early November day and Cordova wasn’t wearing a coat.

  Cordova interlaced his fingers at the back of his head, stuck both thumbs in his ears, did an abrupt about-face, and started marching from one end of the fence to the other in a rigid measured cadence, as though he were a sentry on patrol.

  The fence bordering the park was a stunning piece of folk art. The railings, posts, and two gates were fashioned out of hand-formed concrete imbedded with an amazing array of icons depicting two-headed animals, fanciful birds, stylized fish, and human figures, all made with odd-shaped colorful stones. Smack in the center of the fence, a long serpent with an arrowhead tail writhed and coiled, its head sporting a sharklike fin, the base of its neck sprouting incongruous insect legs.

  On the railing above the serpent, the artist had signed and dated his work, using pebbles and hand-cut fragments of shale to spell out B
UILT BY POP SHAFFER 1931. Shaffer had also built the hotel he’d named after himself.

  Kerney stayed in his unit with the motor off and the window open watching Cordova parade up and down, his thumbs jammed in his ears, shaking his head vigorously.

  Cordova’s bizarre behavior made Kerney hold back from making an approach. He didn’t know much about Cordova’s mental condition other than that the man heard voices and talked to Jesus Christ a lot. Kerney didn’t want to fight his way through Cordova’s delusions; he needed Cordova to be rational when he questioned him.

  Six months ago, Cordova had been interviewed about the murder of Patrolman Paul Gillespie. He’d been completely incoherent at the time, in the middle of a psychotic break. After the interview, Cordova disappeared and could not be found again for further questioning. Kerney hoped he could learn something from Cordova that might help him get a handle on the case. He was running out of leads on an investigation going nowhere.

  The murder had stymied the state police and the FBI. Officer Gillespie had been found shot once in the head with his own handgun at the Mountainair police station on the opening night of the annual town rodeo. Virtually every resident of Mountainair and the surrounding area had attended the event, including Gillespie, who was on duty at the time. He was seen leaving the rodeo grounds during the calf-roping finals. An hour later his body was discovered by Neil Ordway, chief of the two-man force.

  A month after Kerney’s friend Andy Baca had been appointed chief of the New Mexico State Police, he had reached out for Kerney, given him a badge, and sent him down to Mountainair to find Gillespie’s killer. For almost four weeks Kerney had been making the eighty-mile drive from Santa Fe to Mountainair, spending his days running down every possible lead. So far, he had nothing to show for the effort.

  Cordova suddenly stopped marching, pulled his thumbs out of his ears, and ran a hand over the serpent icon in the fence. To Kerney it seemed almost like a caress. Cordova turned, looked in Kerney’s direction, raised his face toward the weak November sun, and smiled. His body relaxed and his face lost some of its tightness.

  Kerney thought maybe the time was right to approach Cordova. He got out of the car, and as he crossed the street Cordova extended his hand like a pistol, sighted with one eye, and pulled off an imaginary round.

  “Are you a cop?” Cordova called out as he walked toward Kerney in a tough-guy strut.

  Kerney stopped and nodded.

  Cordova smiled broadly. His teeth were chipped and badly stained. His beard had dried gobs in it, but Kerney couldn’t even guess what the substance might be.

  Cordova put his wrists together at his waist. “Cuff me and take me to jail. I’m hungry.”

  Cordova gave off a ripe odor of vomit and urine, and his breath reeked of stale cigarette smoke. Kerney forced down a gag reflex. At six feet one inch, he loomed over the man. He stepped back in an attempt to get away from Cordova’s rankness.

  “How about I buy you a pack of smokes and a meal?” he countered, nodding in the direction of the hotel.

  “I said I want to go to jail,” Cordova said crankily, craning his neck to look at Kerney. “I’m a fucking mental patient. You’re supposed to take me to jail.”

  “Maybe later, if you cooperate.”

  Cordova stared in disgust at Kerney.

  Behind the dirt, the beard, the unruly hair, and the chipped stained teeth, Cordova’s eyes looked clear.

  “How come you limp?” Cordova asked.

  “I got shot,” Kerney answered, thinking back to the incident that had ended his career as chief of detectives with the Santa Fe PD. An old friend and fellow officer had failed to back him up on a stakeout. The end result was one dead drug dealer, permanent damage to Kerney’s right knee, and a partially destroyed gut.

  “Were you a cop when it happened?”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  Cordova threw a couple of jabs in the air at an imaginary opponent. “I’d never let that happen to me. I’d fuck somebody up if they tried that shit.”

  “I bet you would,” Kerney replied. “Do you want that meal and pack of smokes?” He inclined his head toward the hotel.

  “What do you want?” Cordova asked.

  “Just to talk.”

  “They won’t let me in there.”

  “They will if you’re with me.”

  Cordova grunted and looked Kerney up and down. Kerney’s jacket was open, and Robert didn’t see a gun. “What kind of cop are you, anyway? You’re not even wearing a pistola.”

  “Do you think I need it?”

  “Of course you do.”

  Kerney nodded, stepped to the car, unlocked it, got his holstered sidearm, and strapped it on his belt. “Better?”

  “Yeah. Now maybe they’ll let me in the restaurant. Can I order anything I want?”

  “Anything. I’m buying.”

  Robert held up two fingers, both stained nicotine yellow. “Two packs of smokes.”

  “Name your brand,” Kerney replied as he walked Robert to the hotel entrance.

  It was mid-morning and the hotel dining room was empty except for a young, round waitress who sat reading the newspaper at the lunch counter along the back wall. Kerney got Cordova settled at a table by the window that gave a view across the street of an empty single-story building and vacant lot.

  “What about my cigarettes?” he asked, as he grabbed a menu, crossed his legs, and started wiggling his foot. The loose, filthy sneaker slapped against his heel with a dull smacking sound.

  “After we eat,” Kerney replied.

  Robert grunted in dissatisfaction.

  Kerney waited for the waitress to notice them. The ceiling was another folk art masterpiece by Pop Shaffer. Dark wooden beams and handmade chandeliers were painted with an intricate tapestry of Native American symbols and mythical figures, some of which looked like they came strictly from Pop Shaffer’s imagination. Kerney’s gaze jumped from image to image; it was almost too much to take in at one sitting.

  Tired of waiting, Kerney cleared his throat. The waitress turned, glanced at Robert, nodded to Kerney, slipped off the lunch counter seat, and walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  “She’s calling the cops,” Robert predicted.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because the last time I was in here, I threw an ashtray at her.”

  “Did you hit her?”

  “Nope, she ducked. Aren’t you going to ask me why I did it?” His foot wiggle accelerated a bit.

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  Cordova smiled wickedly. “Nope.”

  The waitress reappeared and walked to the table. She stood as far away from Cordova as she could, using Kerney as a shield.

  “I can’t serve you,” she said to Kerney.

  “Yes, you can.” He held out his open badge case. “This is police business.”

  “I know who you are,” the woman said, looking over the top of her eyeglasses. Her watery brown eyes blinked rapidly. She had stringy brown hair pinned back in a bun, most of which had unraveled against her neck. Her testy expression made her double chin more noticeable.

  “I still can’t serve you.”

  Kerney smiled pleasantly. “Tell your boss if we don’t get served, I’ll have every state health-and-safety inspector I can think of down here tomorrow morning, crawling all over the place looking for violations.”

  Cordova grinned in delight as the woman turned and walked stiffly back to the kitchen.

  “That was bad,” he said to Kerney. “You put her down, man. I never had a cop do anything like that for me before. They usually treat me like shit.”

  “No sweat, Robert. What do you want to eat?”

  The waitress returned and grudgingly took Robert’s order of two cheeseburgers, a double order of french fries, and coffee.

  Robert didn’t talk while he waited for his meal to arrive. His gaze stayed locked on the pass-through window from the kitchen. He licked his lips and tapped a fi
nger anxiously on the table. Kerney wondered when Robert had last eaten.

  When the food came, Robert wolfed down the meal, hamburger juice dribbling into his beard. His foot didn’t wiggle when he ate.

  Finished, Robert picked at his broken teeth with a long fingernail, belched, and smiled. “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Robert rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Now I need a smoke.”

  “In a minute. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “How well did you know Paul Gillespie?”

  “He was a motherfucker. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Robert’s brown eyes turned angry. “I went to high school with him. He was always hassling me. Pushing me around, picking fights, teasing me—stuff like that. It got worse when he became a cop.”

  “How did it get worse?”

  Robert started to respond, glanced out the window, and clamped his mouth shut. Neil Ordway was walking toward the hotel entrance.

  “How did Gillespie mistreat you?”

  “He didn’t do nothing,” Cordova said, sneering in the direction of Ordway as the cop entered the dining room.

  A middle-aged man with a square face, thinning blond hair, and a pinched nose, Ordway stood over the table and looked at Kerney and Robert. He grinned without showing his teeth. It made his cheeks puff out.

  “What can I do for you, Chief?” Kerney asked.

  “I came for Cordova. Seems he’s run away from the Las Vegas funny farm again.”

  “Fuck you,” Robert said, his eyes hooded. “I’m not going back there. I’m never going back there.”

  “Don’t make this hard on yourself, Cordova,” Ordway said, wrinkling his nose. “Jesus, you smell like shit.”

  “I’ll take care of the situation with Cordova,” Kerney interjected before Robert could reply.

  Ordway pulled out a chair and sat. “Are you going to drive him back to Las Vegas?”

  “I said I’ll take care of it,” Kerney repeated, holding Ordway’s gaze. Ordway didn’t flinch.

  Robert leaned across the table, cleared his throat, and spat in Ordway’s face.