Serpent Gate Page 11

  “I’ll take Facundo with me,” Carlos said. “Gracias, Nick. Go have a good time.”

  When Palazzi turned to leave, Carlos reached out and broke his neck.

  • • •

  At quitting time, Andy’s secretary brought Kerney the typed transcript of Robert Cordova’s statement. He stood by the conference room windows watching the last brushstroke in a red sky change to twilight, and thought about Robert’s account of the rape of Nita Lassiter. Robert’s recall, while disjointed, had been fresh and detailed, as though it had happened days instead of years ago. Kerney stayed at the window and read through the meat of Robert’s statement.

  KK: “Robert, tell me what happened on May 18, 1980.”

  RC: “Addie and I—”

  KK: “Can you identify Addie more precisely?”

  RC: “Anita Lassiter. Her nickname was Addie when I lived with her family. That’s what I call her.”

  KK: “Go on.”

  RC: “It has a big head with round spots for the body. And ears and little feet.”

  KK: “Back up, Robert. What are you talking about?”

  RC: “The snake, man.”

  KK: “Let’s start over. Were you with Addie—Nita Lassiter—on May 18, 1980?”

  RC: “Yeah. After school, Addie and me went snake hunting. I wasn’t crazy then. I was pretty cool. Had a lot of friends. Everybody liked me.”

  KK: “Where did you and Addie go?”

  RC: “Serpent Gate.”

  KK: “Tell me about Serpent Gate.”

  RC: “I already told you. It has ears and little feet, just like the one on Pop Shaffer’s fence.”

  KK: “Where is it?”

  RC: “Out of town. Snakes live there. Addie says it’s because of the gophers and mice. Snakes eat them.”

  KK: “And there’s a serpent like the one on Pop Shaffer’s fence?”

  RC: “It’s identical. Some Indian put it there hundreds of years ago. It’s on a big boulder. There’s lots of other stuff scratched and painted in the rocks.”

  KK: “Rock art?”

  RC: “Yeah.”

  KK: “What happened at Serpent Gate?”

  RC: “He kept saying, ‘Do you like my snake, Addie? Tell me you like it.’ Stuff like that.”

  KK: “Slow down, Robert. Who are you talking about?”

  RC: “Paul Gillespie. He fucked her, man. Had her pinned to the ground. Raped her, man. Her panties were down at her ankles. Kept saying ‘Jesus Christ, you have a tight pussy.’ He beat me up, man. Bad. I passed out for a minute or two.”

  KK: “Was he alone?”

  RC: “Yeah. He had a rifle. I should have killed him. Addie made me promise not to tell anybody.”

  KK: “Maybe Addie wanted to have sex with Gillespie.”

  RC: “Fuck you. Addie isn’t like that.”

  KK: “How do you know?”

  RC: “He held the rifle under her chin. Said she had to fuck him or he’d shoot both of us. Then he slapped her. He was drunk.”

  KK: “How drunk?”

  RC: “Well, maybe not drunk. But he had a six-pack of beer with him.”

  KK: “Can you remember anything else?”

  RC: “No. Will you take me to jail now like you promised?”

  KK: “In a minute. Nita means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”

  RC: “She’s my best friend. She doesn’t let anyone but me call her Addie.”

  KK: “Is that why you didn’t want to tell me you saw Nita outside the police station the night Gillespie was killed?”

  RC: “Who says I saw her?”

  KK: “Nita does.”

  RC: “She’s lying. I didn’t see nothing.”

  KK: “You need to tell me the whole truth, Robert.”

  RC: “I want to go to jail now.”

  KK: “Nita wants you to tell the truth.”

  RC: “Satan killed Paul Gillespie.”

  KK: “Try to remember what you saw outside the police station.”

  RC: “Crazy people don’t have to remember.”

  KK: “We’re going to have to talk about this again.”

  RC: “No way.”

  KK: “You’re one tough customer, Robert.”

  RC: “That’s right.”

  Kerney stared out the window, thinking about Nita Lassiter, her pregnant daughter, and Robert, wondering how many other victims Paul Gillespie had left behind.

  • • •

  Sergeant Gilbert Martinez, the lead agent on the art theft case, stood in the open doorway of the conference room waiting for the new deputy chief to notice him. Chief Kerney stared out the window with a sheaf of papers in his hand, apparently lost in thought.

  For ten of his fifteen years on the force, Martinez had been assigned to the criminal investigations unit in Albuquerque with officers and supervisors he knew well. His promotion to sergeant and transfer to Santa Fe had come through two months ago. Now he had a new boss he didn’t know, responsibility for a case that could turn into a political time bomb, and information that made him believe the bomb might be ticking.

  Over the years, Gilbert had watched some damn fine agents and investigators get demoted back to patrol duties or dumped at a desk job because they pissed off a department bigwig or politician. And while the brass bragged about having the best cop shop in the state—which wasn’t an exaggeration—it was still a bureaucracy, where people covered their asses and shit flowed downhill.

  Two brief meetings with Kerney had not yet told Martinez what kind of cop the deputy chief would turn out to be when faced with the tough decisions. He was about to find out.

  Tired of waiting to be noticed, Gilbert cleared his throat to get Kerney’s attention.

  “Come in, Sergeant,” Kerney said as he turned, spotted Martinez, smiled, and walked to the conference table. “Grab a seat.”

  The chief looked tired and his limp seemed more pronounced.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Tall, slender, with blue eyes and light brown hair graying at the temples, Martinez didn’t fit the popular stereotype of a Hispanic. An unruffled man with a gentle way of speaking, Gilbert looked more like a college professor than a cop. He sat across from Kerney and opened a thick file.

  “We’ve got a potential hot potato on our hands, Chief.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I talked to a journalist with some reliable sources. He relayed some rumors floating around about Roger Springer, the governor’s nephew, that may be of interest.”

  “What kind of rumors?” Kerney asked.

  “Springer’s marriage fell apart midway during the governor’s first term. Springer is a lawyer. He was serving as deputy general counsel on the governor’s staff at the time. Rumor has it that Springer was screwing around with some of the women in the governor’s office. Springer left his position to enter private practice with a firm here in town. According to my source, the governor called in a few favors to keep the situation hushed up.”

  “How did he do that?” Kerney asked.

  “The two women in question got promoted into jobs at state agencies. One now works in the health department and the other one has a position at the state library.”

  “Go on,” Kerney said.

  “From what I’ve been told, it’s like Springer never left his uncle’s staff. His law firm has a consultant contract with the governor’s office. He’s handling litigation with Texas over the apportionment of water rights in the Pecos River. He has free and unrestricted access to the governor’s suite.”

  “Does that include underground parking and use of the private elevator in the Roundhouse?” Kerney asked.

  “According to the night janitors, it does. Springer sometimes shows up late at night, with different women in tow. It has happened three or four times.”

  “Are any of them blondes?”

  “I don’t know,” Martinez replied.

  “Is he currently dating anybody on the governor’s staff?”

  “If I can believe wh
at I’ve been told, he’s not.”

  “What else have you learned about Springer?”

  “He runs with a fast crowd of thirty-something yuppies. He drinks at the best watering holes, gets invited to the most prestigious gallery openings, has opening night tickets to the opera, dates a lot of different women—that sort of thing. He lives high off the hog, but supposedly can afford it.”

  “Have you verified his financial status?”

  “Not yet,” Gilbert replied. “One more thing, Chief. Some of the people Springer hangs with are known recreational drug users. Mostly cocaine, hashish, and marijuana.”

  “Is Springer a user?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “When is the last time Roger Springer was seen at the Roundhouse with a woman?” Kerney asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve read the lab report on findings from the crime scene?”

  “I have,” Gilbert answered.

  “Maybe we should find out if Springer’s been dating any blondes.”

  Martinez nodded.

  “Meet with Springer personally, Sergeant. Tell him we have reason to believe that he’s been using the governor’s office for late-night romantic rendezvous. Reassure him that his conversation with you is strictly off the record, at this point. Let’s see where it takes us.”

  “This could get me reamed, Chief.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Kerney replied. “If you catch any flak from Springer, bail out and dump it back in my lap. I’ll take the heat. If he’s sharp, he’ll put up a smoke screen to protect his uncle, but you still might learn something.”

  Martinez studied Kerney, who looked him dead in the eye without flinching or fidgeting. Cops were no better than anybody else when it came to telegraphing lies, and Kerney was playing it straight with him. That was good enough for Gilbert.

  “You’ve got a deal, Chief.”

  “One more thing, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “I don’t think the governor personally selected all the artwork for his office. From what I saw at his ranch, his taste doesn’t include Georgia O’Keeffe. Her works were the most valuable of the lot. Worth almost half of the total haul. Send somebody to the fine arts museum in the morning. I want to know who put the collection together and when it was installed. Talk to that person.”

  “What are we looking for here, Chief?”

  “Clues, Sergeant. I’ve been told that occasionally curators decide to appropriate art for themselves. If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be smart to move the works you wanted to steal to a less secure setting before you swiped them?”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  • • •

  Carlos sat in the Range Rover across the street and watched a tow truck back up to the van parked at the side of the Walmart in Silver City. Two city police units were stationed in the parking lot to keep curious people away, and a cop in civilian clothes stood next to the van directing the tow truck. His unmarked police car idled nearby.

  “We got here too late,” Facundo said indifferently.

  Carlos shot him a dirty look, but in the darkness Facundo missed it.

  “Do you want to leave?” Facundo asked.

  “Not yet,” Carlos answered. DeLeon had told him to retrieve the van, which now appeared impossible. What would DeLeon want him to do? “We’ll wait,” Carlos added.

  The van couldn’t be traced back to DeLeon, of that Carlos was certain. But the patrón was a man of exacting standards, who viewed an inability to carry out orders as negligence, regardless of the circumstances.

  Carlos stopped grappling with the problem. It was too confusing. His best bet was to call DeLeon and ask for instructions. But he would wait until he knew exactly where the police were taking the vehicle before disturbing the patrón.

  The tow truck pulled away with the van and Carlos nudged Facundo. “Stay at a safe distance behind the police car,” he ordered.

  Facundo waited until the tow truck was a block away before he pulled onto the street. The flashing blue lights on the truck made it easy to follow. At the police station, the truck turned and disappeared behind the back of the building. Facundo continued on to the next intersection before doubling back and coasting to a stop at the curb.

  “Wait here,” Carlos said as he got out of the vehicle.

  He walked behind an adjacent building and stood in the shadows. The tow truck operator was winching down the van at the back of a parking area inside a vehicle impound lot. No one else was in sight. Three empty police cars, including the one that had followed the truck to the station, were parked near the rear entrance.

  Carlos took the cellular phone from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and dialed DeLeon’s private Santa Fe number. As soon as DeLeon came on the line, he explained the situation.

  “You did well to call me,” DeLeon said when Carlos finished. “Is there any way you can safely get to the vehicle without being seen?”

  “Yes, patrón. It is not under guard. But I believe the police will search it soon.”

  “Can you drive it away?”

  “No, patrón. It is parked in an impound lot behind a locked gate.”

  “Burn the van,” DeLeon instructed. “Do not allow yourself to get caught. Do not allow the police to see the Range Rover.”

  “Yes, patrón.”

  Carlos rang off and studied the layout. He would climb the impound fence at the rear of the lot, and use darkness for concealment. He went back to the Range Rover, took the road atlas away from Facundo, and tore out a handful of pages.

  “Drive away when I leave,” Carlos ordered. “Do not come back here. I will meet you at the all-night convenience store on the main street in one hour. We passed it on our way here.”

  “I know where it is,” Facundo answered, as he slipped the vehicle into gear and pulled away.

  Carlos waited until Facundo was out of sight before returning to the back of the building next to the station. The tow truck was gone and no one was in sight. Staying in the shadows as much as possible, he made his way quickly to the rear of the impound lot, climbed the fence, and moved in a crouch to the van.

  He reached under the fender near the fuel tank, found the flexible hose to the tank, and slashed it with a knife, opening a wide, deep cut. He stuffed some twisted pages from the atlas down into the tank until they were saturated with gas. He pulled them out and repeated the process until he had enough to make a fuse that ran from the tank to the ground.

  Maybe he had three or four seconds to get away once he lit the paper. He judged the distance to the back fence. He could just reach it before the van blew up. Somebody might catch a glimpse of him, but he would be too far away to be identified.

  He lit the fuse and started running at full tilt. The van exploded into flames and heat seared the back of his neck. He was safely over the fence and in deep shadows when the first cop burst out of the back door of the police station, carrying a fire extinguisher.

  Carlos turned down an empty side street and trotted away.

  6

  Kerney was two blocks away from Fletcher’s house and some much needed sack time when he got the news that the van used in the shooting of Officer Rogoff had been found in Silver City. He hit the siren and ran Code Three back to headquarters. Within minutes of his arrival the Silver City PD dispatcher called to report that the van had been torched and heavily damaged by persons unknown.

  Kerney reviewed the background information on Nick Palazzi. While serving time in a California prison, Palazzi had joined the American Nazi Party. Any known party members in the Silver City area needed to be identified and interviewed immediately. His arrest for a contract killing had been tied to a territory dispute among drug traffickers in Southern California. Intelligence information needed to be updated on trafficking in southwestern New Mexico. Street dealers had to be rounded up and grilled. Palazzi was known to favor prostitutes as girlfriends. Local hookers should be contacted and interviewed.

  He put toget
her a few more facts on Palazzi, assembled the response team, sketched out the information, and fielded some questions before sending them on their way. A plane waited at the airport to fly the team on the forty-minute hop to Silver City.

  He sank into a chair, thinking it was more than likely that—assuming Palazzi torched the van—he would be across the Mexican border before the plane touched down at the airport. But unless crime scene techs could develop some solid evidence from the van, searching for Palazzi was the only card he had to play.

  He fleetingly thought about a good night’s sleep, pushed himself upright, and went to make a pot of coffee. His patched-together gut wouldn’t like it, but the caffeine would keep him awake.

  As he watched the coffee brew, Kerney brooded over the fact that tying Officer Rogoff’s murder in with the art theft could have been a mistake on his part. If the two crimes weren’t connected, it would mean starting over from square one. He carried a coffee cup back to the conference room and stared at the telephone. He doubted the team would have anything to report for at least several hours.

  He sat and read through the agents’ field interview reports, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing jumped out at him. He put the reports aside, picked up a clean sheet of paper, drew a line down the middle, and started separating out the facts of the two cases. If he had to give up the theory of connecting Palazzi to the theft, he needed to be ready to move as quickly as possible.

  • • •

  Kerney caught a quick nap on Andy’s couch and at dawn went outside to clear his head. The reports from Silver City had been encouraging. The interior of the van had been badly burned, but fingerprints had been lifted from the vehicle and some human hairs had been found on a piece of unburned carpet.

  On the lawn next to the law enforcement academy, a class of new recruits were preparing for an early morning run. A light dusting of snow covered the ground and the temperature hovered near freezing. High in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, snow clouds masked the peaks, but the foothills were glistening pale pink in the early morning light.