Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Read online

  She drained her glass, and poured another. God, if only she’d known. Her heart pounded in her chest at the thought of her life ruined by those two men. They’d stripped her of her job, destroyed her reputation, killed her dream of becoming a writer, and left her with nothing except an empty future. She had no family to fall back on, no children or husband, no close friends, no savings, a modest pension plan that, when cashed in, would run dry in a few years. The prospect of going to prison terrified her beyond belief. That, she couldn’t face. She shuddered at the idea of being locked up surrounded by lesbians and brutal guards.

  More than tipsy, she went to the kitchen, returned with another bottle of Merlot, and filled the glass. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast but wasn’t a bit hungry. At the laptop, with her fingers poised above the keys, she considered what to do. Over the years, she’d publicized numerous events at the center and had a sizable number of broadcast and print media contacts in her email address book, including reporters at the major television stations in Albuquerque and El Paso, and investigative journalists at the big newspapers in both cities, as well as an editor up in Santa Fe. Why not tell them what had happened? Ask them to find out why she was arrested after evidence found at the Fergurson Center implicated a former, highly respected police chief in a cold-case murder investigation that was being conducted by his son?

  She’d propose that the police were trying to keep her silent. That Lieutenant Istee was engaged in a cover-up to protect his father. At the very least, why hadn’t Kerney been questioned? And if he had, why hadn’t the public been told?

  She’d speculate that the conspiracy went to the top of the state police chain of command. And finally, she’d demand an apology from the police for being branded a lawbreaker for trying to do the right thing. She’d put everything she sent out on her Facebook page as well.

  It could go viral. All it would take was just one reporter to show some interest. Davenport bared her teeth in a smile and began typing.

  By lunchtime Saturday Clayton had almost forgotten about Kerney and the investigation. The drive home to Mescalero with the family in the morning to visit his mother had turned into a spur-of-the-moment gathering of uncles, aunts, and cousins he hadn’t seen for some time. In the tall pines of the high mountains with the sacred Sierra Blanca in view, Clayton sat on Isabel’s front porch watching Hannah and Wendell with his uncle James at the corral saddling up three ponies in anticipation of a short trail ride they’d take after everyone finished eating. Perched on the porch railing, his cousin Selena, who helped run the resort and casino for the tribe, was telling him about a Texas oilman who’d lost six hundred thousand at craps just before he had a fatal heart attack in the bar while his wife was busy playing the slots. Nobody, including the wife, shed a tear. Security moved the body out as quickly as possible to keep any lurking ghost at bay.

  In the kitchen, Grace, Isabel, and the aunties had three different kinds of stews going, a meat and piñon nut that was Clayton’s favorite, a vegetable with red chili, and a green chili with chunks of potato. There were two huge bowls of salad in the making: macaroni and a mustard-potato concoction—Grace’s specialty. The delicious smell of fry bread filled the air, mixed with the spicy aroma of simmering chili sauce.

  The staggering amount of food being prepared suggested more friends and relatives would be arriving throughout the day, although Isabel hadn’t told him as much. It would be a feast, and Clayton looked forward to it. A day away from work, back in his ancestral homeland, surrounded by his people, felt cleansing, a release from all his doubts about Kerney. Starting out from Las Cruces, he’d gone so far as to turn off his cell phone to leave the case behind. But, if needed, Luis Mondragon knew where he was and how to reach him. He hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

  In the front room, two more cousins and his uncle Bernard were gathered at Mom’s new flat-screen television watching a satellite broadcast of a Chicago Cubs baseball game. Out back, several youngsters had a game of horseshoes going, and Clayton could hear the clink of metal against the stakes. In the driveway, Fred Peso, about the oldest Apache alive, leaned against the fender of his pickup truck talking politics with two retired tribal administrators.

  It was about as perfect a day as it could get, and Clayton pondered coming home for good, not just occasionally on a stolen Saturday. The idea appealed, but any continuing thoughts about the future were waylaid by more arriving guests. It wasn’t until later in the afternoon, after all had eaten their fill and Wendell and Hannah were back from their trail ride, that his mother had a moment to spare with him.

  She joined him on the porch, where he occupied the same chair he’d claimed since morning, and kissed him on the cheek, announcing Grace was in the kitchen catching up with her mom and that Wendell and Hannah had taken off with some friends for a short drive to nearby Ruidoso.

  The crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and the wrinkles on her cheeks showed her age, but her eyes remained as shiny and clear as a young girl’s.

  “This was some great fiesta you threw,” Clayton said. “Care to tell me what the occasion is?”

  “Just a reminder,” Isabel answered with a sly smile.

  “Of?” Clayton waved her off before she spoke. “Wait, let me guess, where I’m from, who I am, where I belong.”

  Isabel nodded. “You know me well. It was also to celebrate the joy and pride I have for you and your family.”

  Kerney popped into Clayton’s head. Right now he didn’t have much pride and joy about him. Would it totally evaporate? He hoped not.

  Isabel leaned close to him, searching his face. “What’s the matter?”

  “I hope I’m wrong, but my part of the family may not bring much happiness. Kerney is the prime suspect in the cold case I’m working on.”

  “The Kim Ward murder?”

  Clayton nodded.

  “Impossible,” Isabel snapped. “Never in a million years. Have you talked to him?”

  Clayton shook his head. “Not yet. For now, he’s just a person of interest. There’s not enough evidence to charge him with the crime.”

  Isabel’s expression turned stormy. “He knows nothing about this? What are you doing even investigating him anyway? Why isn’t another officer handling this?”

  “It’s my job, and I want to know if he did it, dammit.”

  “Call him in Santa Fe and ask him,” Isabel ordered. “Tell him what you’re doing. Let him defend himself, and then step aside. I am astonished that you would even consider him capable of such a thing.”

  Clayton thought back to a day years ago, when he’d broken his leg in a fall. It had happened when he was working alongside Kerney as they closed in on Craig Larson, a spree killer, in the rugged northern New Mexico mountains. Kerney had called for medical assistance and left him behind. When he returned, the target was dead.

  Clayton had always wondered if Kerney had executed Larson. Among Larson’s many victims was a young man who’d been Kerney’s neighbor and friend. Larson had shot him down in cold blood at Kerney’s front door.

  He knew Kerney was capable. Under the right circumstances, he would be, too.

  “I didn’t think you gave a hoot about him,” he finally said. “Besides, he’s not home.”

  Isabel stood. “When I was young, unsure, and half afraid of the White Eyes’ world, that man—your father—gave me much more than just you. Call him right now, wherever he is.”

  A black-and-white state police cruiser turned onto the long driveway to the house, emergency lights flashing.

  Clayton pushed himself upright and started toward the oncoming unit. “This may not be the best time for that.”

  With a grim look on his face, Luis Mondragon opened the passenger door window and said, “Get in.”

  Clayton opened the door as he waved his mother away. “What’s up?”

  “It’s all over social media that you’ve been shielding your father from murder charges. That Davenport woman went on Facebook about it, and
she’s got several TV reporters interested enough to ask for interviews about the allegation. Santa Fe is screaming for your head, and the DA told Henry Larkin to get a warrant for Kerney’s arrest signed pronto.”

  “Shit.”

  “Larkin wants an exact location of Kerney’s whereabouts, so he can have local authorities arrest and hold him for extradition.”

  “I don’t have an exact location. I’ve already told Larkin he’s in Missouri with his wife and son. Tell Larkin to call the army.”

  Mondragon nodded. “Okay, but you’re coming with me. I bought you some time, and told Deputy Chief Serrano you were participating in an Apache religious ceremony at some secluded place on the rez but I’d try to track you down. Otherwise, a chopper would be here right now taking you to Santa Fe, so you could fall on your sword.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Have you called or talked to Kerney?”

  “Not once.”

  “If you can prove that to Internal Affairs, you might survive. But even with proof you didn’t contact Kerney, they’ll argue that you crossed the line.”

  “I should have punted this case to someone else as soon as I knew Kerney was involved.”

  “Ain’t hindsight wonderful?”

  Through the windshield, Clayton could see Grace hurrying toward the unit, with Isabel close behind. All the aunties had gathered on the porch, arms crossed, looking ready to go to war.

  He took a deep breath and opened the car door. “Give me a minute.”

  “Make it quick,” Mondragon advised.

  He didn’t like what he had to say to Grace and his mother. Didn’t like it at all.

  CHAPTER 8

  Because he was an ex-cop, Kerney spent three days locked in a segregation cell for his own protection. Except for a phone call with Sara to figure out a strategy, a closed-circuit TV extradition hearing before a judge, and a meeting with the local lawyer Sara had retained, he was completely isolated. He hated every minute of it.

  The lawyer, Roy Mossy, had given him a copy of the criminal complaint that had been prepared and signed by Clayton Istee. What had he done to that man, to be treated so outrageously? What in the hell was Clayton doing investigating him anyway? Clayton should have recused himself from the case the minute Kerney had become a person of interest.

  There would be no answers until he got out of jail and could start his own investigation. It would be up to him to prove his innocence. But first he’d get Clayton kicked off the case. If it ruined his career, so be it. He wasn’t feeling fatherly about him at all.

  Clayton knew what kind of man he was. They had worked side by side as cops, gotten to know each other’s families, built a cordial, if somewhat distant, relationship. If Clayton had asked Kerney about Kim Ward, he would have learned that she had been the first true love of his life, and that her disappearance had haunted him for years. It was Kim’s disappearance that played a big part in his decision to become a cop.

  An hour before Kerney was to fly home in the custody of officers from the New Mexico State Police, Roy Mossy told him his arrest for murder had gone viral on social media and been picked up by national print and television news outlets as a headline story. Pundits were calling him a fake hero, a rogue cop, a killer with a badge. Realizing he’d already been convicted in the court of public opinion, Kerney’s spirits sank.

  “You’re national news,” Mossy said. “They’re going to perp-walk you out of here in front of a mob of reporters and cameras.”

  Kerney knew what to do: keep his head up, look straight ahead, stay composed, answer no questions. No smiling, frowning, or reactions that could be interpreted as anger or defiance.

  He was glad Sara wouldn’t be there to see it. She was in New Mexico retaining the services of Gary Dalquist, a top-flight criminal defense attorney with an outstanding record of winning acquittals in capital murder cases. She’d meet him at the Las Cruces airport when the plane arrived.

  He wondered how Patrick was doing. It had to be tough on a kid of fourteen to have his father accused of murder.

  Dressed in his wrinkled suit, Kerney processed out of jail, accompanied by two NMSP plainclothes officers, who cuffed his hands behind his back and guided him through a throng of converging reporters and cameramen, shouting questions and jabbing microphones in his direction. The scene played out again at the regional airport, where a chartered turboprop waited to fly him to Las Cruces.

  During the flight, the officers kept Kerney cuffed to the back, which became increasingly painful. He kept his mouth shut and didn’t complain.

  On their approach to the little-used Las Cruces airport, it was clear Kerney was in for a repeat performance. State police officers had used their units to form a barricade to hold back a crowd gathered in front of the small terminal building. Vehicles filled the parking lot and lined the shoulders of the access road.

  He deplaned accompanied by the two cops. His shoulders ached, his hands were numb, and his head throbbed with pain, but he kept his self-control and didn’t wince.

  He almost smiled when he spotted Sara in the crowd standing next to Gary Dalquist. Prosecutors hated to go up against Dalquist. With his deep, rumbling voice, cherubic face, and flamboyant personality, he could turn criminal proceedings into theater.

  Kerney had known him for years. Now in his late seventies and semi-retired, Dalquist only took cases that appealed to him.

  Kerney’s escorts bundled him into the backseat of a waiting police unit while cameramen jockeyed for the best shots and reporters shouted questions.

  As the young patrol officer wheeled his unit down the access road, followed by a small convoy of police vehicles, the glorious Organ Mountains came into view. Just the sight of them made Kerney feel better. He shook off the pain. He needed to be clear-headed in front of a judge, and by God he would be. Dalquist would have him out of jail in no time. Then the hard work of proving his innocence would begin.

  The urge to call Clayton and tell him what a disappointing asshole of a son he was crossed his mind. That would have to wait until later.

  On the short drive to the jail, Gary Dalquist suggested to Sara she should quickly get him home to the familiarity and comfort of their ranch, and, if possible, avoid talking about the case.

  “No matter how prepared he thought he was to handle jail, trust me, it’s a big shock to anyone’s system,” Dalquist commented. “He’ll need to decompress.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Sara replied, as she slowed her car behind a pickup truck that turned in front of her.

  Kerney’s appearance as he deplaned at the airport worried her deeply. Although the police had hustled him to the waiting marked unit, a quick glance convinced her he’d been under considerable stress.

  As she drove past the turnaround in front of the jail to the visitors parking lot, Dalquist proposed that they all meet three days hence in his Santa Fe office to discuss strategy. That would give him sufficient time to look over the discovery documents provided by the prosecution. In the interim, if the prosecution made demands to interrogate Kerney, he’d block it with a doctor’s order certifying he was recovering from police mistreatment on the flight home, and unable to comply. Also, to ensure their privacy at home, he’d arranged for twenty-four/seven security at the ranch road entrance.

  “That should stymie surveillance and keep any reporters at bay,” he added.

  “They’ll use drones,” Sara predicted as they walked toward the jail, a large modern facility close to the county administration building. “But every little bit of time we have out of sight will certainly help get us settled down and thinking straight.”

  Inside, the court hearing to secure Kerney’s release would be conducted by closed-circuit TV. Sara had a bail bond agent standing by.

  “Just make sure he stays put until our meeting,” Dalquist cautioned.

  “That may be hard to do. He doesn’t like loose ends, and being arrested for murder is a pretty big rope left hanging.”

>   “The case against him will never go to trial,” Dalquist predicted with a smile. “It’s about as bollixed as it can be.”

  “He’s going to want more than that,” Sara said.

  “Of course,” Dalquist replied. “Complete exoneration is our goal.” He searched Sara’s face. “Are you certain of his innocence?”

  “Completely.” Sara stopped at the front door and gave Dalquist a hard look. “Are you?”

  Dalquist nodded as he stood aside to let Sara proceed through the front door. “I’ve known your husband for many years, and I know his character. He once helped a confessed murderer he arrested receive a greatly reduced prison sentence because he believed, as did I, that her action was justified.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Ask him about Nita Lassiter,” Dalquist said. “However, our task is far more difficult, I’m afraid. To clear Kerney’s name, we’re going to have to find Kim Ward’s killer, if that person is even still alive. Or produce irrefutable evidence that proves Kerney is innocent. And the police won’t help us.”

  “I’m prepared to do whatever it takes,” Sara said firmly.

  “Well, then, let’s get started,” Dalquist replied, smiling to himself as Sara stepped inside. He couldn’t have had a smarter, more competent investigator to work on Kerney’s behalf. After but a few hours in her company, he’d concluded with certainty that Sara Brannon was an extraordinary woman.

  Out on bail with court orders to surrender his passport and remain in New Mexico, Kerney slept most of the way on the long drive home from Las Cruces. He stirred awake as they crested La Bajada Hill, with Santa Fe, nestled in its shallow basin, stretched out before them, the still-snowcapped Sangre De Cristo Mountains spilling down to the foothills of the city.

  “Welcome back,” Sara said.

  He stifled a yawn. “Jesus, I’m wrecked.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  Kerney shook his head sadly. “Sorry I spoiled your retirement party.”

  Sara flashed him a smile and laughed. “You didn’t mess up anything. Nice as they are, Tom and Margaret Benson would have bored you to tears, and the rest of the guests would’ve been gossiping about people you don’t know, or debating Pentagon politics. Besides, what happened has made my retirement party legendary, something to be talked about for years to come at officers’ clubs around the globe.”