Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 11

  He half smiled. “Hopefully I’ve ruined any chance you ever had to be recalled to active duty.”

  Sara reached over and squeezed his hand. He no longer looked ghostly pale. “Well, we’ve found one good thing out of this mess we can agree on. I’ve no desire to be anything but a full-time civilian.”

  “Amen to that,” Kerney replied.

  He dozed again until they left the highway southeast of Santa Fe and turned onto the cutoff that led to the ranch road. At the gate, a polite, armed security guard checked their IDs, welcomed them home, and waved them through. They drove across the lower pasture and up the canyon to the ranch house, sheltered by a low ridgeline with views of the Galisteo Basin and Ortiz and Sandia Mountains coursing across the horizon. To the north, behind the low-slung, adobe house, the land rose gradually, hiding all but the night lights of Santa Fe from view, with only rolling pastures, lightly sprinkled with piñon and junipers, and the Jemez and Sangre De Cristo Mountains in sight.

  Kerney sighed in relief. He was home.

  Sara parked next to Kerney’s truck. “I’m going to ask my parents to keep Patrick in Tucson for a few more days.”

  “Good idea.” Kerney opened the passenger door. “I’ll call him in the morning.”

  “He believes in you with all his heart, Kerney.”

  “I know that, but he deserves to hear me tell him that I didn’t kill Kim Ward.” His jaw tightened.

  “What is it?”

  “I just didn’t keep her from getting killed.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He pulled himself out of the vehicle, his wrists still sore, his back still a tight knot. “Yes, I do.”

  “You need a drink, a soak in the tub, a good meal, and more sleep. Those are orders, not suggestions.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kerney replied, as they walked together to the front door, accompanied by the sound of an approaching drone.

  Sara woke to find Kerney gone from bed. In the kitchen, a carafe of fresh coffee and a rinsed-out mug signaled he was probably at the horse barn doing morning chores. Across the meadow, the sight of the old ranch pickup parked at the corral confirmed it. She decided to forgo coffee, hurried to dress, and drove to the barn under low clouds of a fast-moving April snowstorm, half rain, half snow, that promised to linger for a short while.

  Kerney’s dream to raise and train cutting ponies had ended when Riley, Jack Burke’s son, was murdered while Sara, Kerney, and Patrick were living in London. They dissolved the partnership and sold the stud stallion, leaving only Kerney’s horse, Patrick’s pony, and Sara’s mare stabled at the ranch, along with a small herd of cattle on the large pasture leased to a local producer. Kerney had talked about ending the lease and putting a few cows of their own on the land, but had yet to do it.

  In the barn, she found him currying Pablito, Patrick’s pony. Hondo and Ginger patiently waited their turn. The stalls had been mucked out, fresh straw laid down, water troughs filled, and feed put out. Some of the tension that had etched Kerney’s face the day before had dissipated. She was happy to see it, and glad to find him with the horses—a sure sign he was bouncing back from the ordeal of the last few days.

  “You’re up early,” Sara observed cheerily, as she stepped into ­Ginger’s stall, patted the mare’s muzzle, and started grooming her.

  “I overdosed on sleep,” Kerney replied, inspecting a small cut on Pablito’s flank. “Besides, I need something to do other than brood.”

  “We should go riding when the storm breaks,” Sara suggested.

  “I’d like that.”

  The familiar sound of a truck diesel engine outside announced the arrival of Juan Ramirez, the producer’s hired hand who drove down several times a week from Pecos to check on the cattle. As a side job, he also looked after the ponies and the ranch when the family was away.

  He slid open the double doors and stepped inside, bundled in a heavy winter coat with his cowboy hat pulled down to the top of his ears. The storm had turned to heavy snow, and the cab of Juan’s truck was covered in a good six inches of the wet stuff.

  “We got three inches on the ground so far in Pecos,” he declared, as he closed the doors, stomped his feet, nodded a greeting at Sara, and grinned at Kerney. “Hey, you’re out of jail, man. That’s good, real good. You ain’t no killer, no matter what they say. I know that.”

  Kerney smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, amigo.” Many years ago, he’d busted a very young Juan Ramirez on a drug charge. After serving a year and a day in the county lockup, Juan had turned his life around. Now middle-aged, he had a weathered face from laboring at just about any kind of outdoor work he could find.

  “Jail’s no fun, jefe,” Juan added knowingly. “It still gives me shivers to think about doing time.”

  “I didn’t like it much, either,” Kerney replied agreeably. “Come by for coffee when you’re done with the cattle.”

  Juan grinned. “Bueno, gracias.”

  Sara smiled appreciatively at Juan. His straightforward, genuine belief in Kerney’s innocence made a good start to the day even better.

  After breakfast and a chatty coffee break with Juan, Kerney went into the library and called Patrick in Tucson. When he finished the call, he came into the kitchen smiling. Through the patio doors, the storm was clearing, leaving behind a lovely light blanket of sparkling snow on the grassy meadow.

  “It went okay?” Sara asked.

  “He was hesitant to talk about it at first, but he got over that in a hurry. He asked all the right questions. That boy would make a great cop.”

  “I’d much prefer he takes up ranching, and keep the family tradition alive for a few more generations.”

  Kerney nodded in agreement. “That would be fantastic. When are you going to quiz me about Kim Ward?”

  “Do I have to?”

  Sara’s response caught Kerney by surprise. “I guess not.”

  “Then I won’t. We’re seeing Dalquist in two days to plan our counterattack.”

  Kerney shook his head. “That’s too long to wait.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Are you being firm with me?”

  “You bet. Didn’t we say something earlier about taking the ponies out for some exercise after the storm passed?”

  “We did.”

  “Are you still up for it?”

  “A short ride would suit me.”

  “Promise not to fall out of the saddle.”

  “I’m not that beat-up. But if I do wreck, just have Hondo drag me back to the barn.”

  “It’s a deal. While we’re saddling up, you can tell me about Nita Lassiter.”

  Kerney’s eyes widened. “Dalquist told you?”

  Sara nodded. “Well?”

  “She killed a cop.”

  His answer stunned her. “There has to be more to the story than that.”

  Kerney reached for his coat on the wall rack near the patio doors. “There is.”

  “I’m listening,” Sara replied as she tugged on her coat.

  With Clayton pulled from the case and temporarily reassigned to Santa Fe, where he was inventorying seized vehicles for the next public auction, Paul Avery got tapped as acting supervisor. The brass didn’t want to do it, as there were more experienced, higher-ranking agents within the division. But the department’s ever-cautious chief legal counsel respected Gary Dalquist’s ability to exploit any potential prosecution weakness, and felt disrupting the continuity of the case by bringing in someone new could be risky.

  Not the least bit intimidated by a less-than-enthusiastic Deputy Chief Serrano, who’d assumed full administrative oversight of the investigation, Avery dug in. He had a saturation team headed by Carla Olivas looking for Kim Ward’s mother in Belen and the surrounding communities. He had an agent down in Anthony doing an additional search of the chicken coop and junk car where Tom Trimble had lived, and interviewing everyone who knew him. Additionally, James Garcia was leading a team of three agents backtracki
ng on everyone who’d already been interviewed in the hopes of shaking loose fresh information, while Charlie Epperson worked the list of Kim Ward’s former college rodeo teammates.

  Called up to Santa Fe to brief Chief Serrano, as well as a senior advisor to the governor, Avery drove into town early enough to stop at a roadside café on the south side of town and meet Sergeant Gabriel Medina, a supervisor in the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office Investigations Unit. Gabe had been his best friend since elementary school in Albuquerque.

  The café was a dive that smelled of greasy fried food and looked in need of major renovation, starting with demolition. Through the thin walls, the sound of power ratchets from the tire store next door reverberated.

  “Have you found someone for me?” Avery asked as he joined Gabe at a back booth. His boyhood friend still wore the exact style of black-frame eyeglass that he’d had since kindergarten. He looked more like a high school science teacher than a cop.

  Gabe nodded and glanced at his watch. “You owe me big-time. We’re meeting him in an hour.”

  “Great.”

  “I’m hiking into the Gila Wilderness for some fly fishing this weekend,” Gabe said with a wicked grin. “Want to come?”

  Avery groaned. He’d accompanied Gabe on one such expedition and had returned from the mountains bored, leg-weary, and sick of eating fish. “Aren’t you ever gonna stop ribbing me about that?”

  Gabe grinned. “Never. Don’t worry, though, I won’t make the mistake of taking you with me again.”

  “Thank God.” Avery paused as the waitress poured coffee and sauntered away. “So, tell me.”

  “Your CI is Juan Ramirez. He did a year in county a long time ago on a drug bust, otherwise his record is clean. Works for a small rancher in Pecos who leases pastureland from Kerney. He also looks after Kerney’s horses and ranch when the family’s gone.”

  “How did you manage to recruit him?”

  “His sixteen-year-old nephew is a bit of a fuckup. I’ve got him in juvie on multiple charges stemming from an auto burglary and subsequent high-speed chase. Ramirez’s sister doesn’t want her boy to spend his next couple of birthdays locked up. I promised Juan I’d talk to the judge.”

  “Of course.”

  Gabe wagged a cautionary finger at Avery. “Ramirez is not a happy camper about this arrangement. He likes Kerney and his family. He could easily get agitated and want to bail on you.”

  “Will you babysit him for me? I can’t do a lot of hand-holding from Las Cruces.”

  Gabe sighed. “You do know there isn’t a serving or retired cop in Santa Fe who thinks Kerney killed that woman, and that includes a lot of your own people.”

  “Does that make what I’m asking you to do wrong?”

  Gabe shook his head.

  “I’m sure Kerney is going to work his own investigation, and I need eyes on him as much as possible. Overhead drones and surveillance tails aren’t enough. I want to know what he’s thinking, what his plans are.”

  “I’m not sure Ramirez can give you that, but I’ll handle him for you. However, you have to meet with him first.”

  “To cover your butt?”

  “Damn right.”

  Avery laid money on the table and stood. “Let’s go.”

  “You haven’t touched your coffee.”

  Avery stared at the oily, murky brew. “I’m a cautious man when it comes to food and beverage.”

  Assigned to deskwork in the vehicle maintenance building behind the Department of Public Safety headquarters in Santa Fe, Clayton had little to do except wait for the next round of interrogation, conducted by Captain Wayne Upham, head of Internal Affairs. He was a sour-looking hulk of a man nearing retirement, with no sense of humor, who seemed determined to find Clayton guilty of wrongdoing far beyond not recusing himself from the Kim Ward murder case.

  Except for the windowless corner office Clayton sat in, the long, narrow building consisted mainly of large bay doors, hydraulic lifts, pits, diagnostic equipment, tool chests on rollers, and wheel-alignment and tire-mounting machines. The place reeked of motor oil and exhaust fumes, and the service and repair work constantly going on made for a noisy racket even with the office door closed.

  There was no office phone, and the department had confiscated Clayton’s personal cell phone for analysis. He was effectively cut off from everybody.

  When he wasn’t being grilled by Upham or one of his underlings, Clayton roamed the seized-vehicle impound lot, filling out the various forms and legal papers necessary for the upcoming public auction. Off duty, he drove an old, crappy unmarked unit to his room at a nearby Cerrillos Road motel, or one of the family-style restaurants that flanked a large southside shopping mall, whose mostly empty parking lot testified to the popularity of online shopping.

  He wasn’t physically locked up, but he could only use the vehicle for official business, personal errands, and meals. In the evenings, after a workout in the motel gym and dinner, he stayed in his room watching TV or reading a book, waiting for Grace to call. When they talked, he stayed cheerful and played down his misery, reassuring her all was okay and he’d be home soon. He wasn’t fooling her, but thankfully she didn’t challenge him about it.

  Clayton knew Upham’s attempts to demoralize and isolate him were part of a strategy to force him to a breaking point, a critical milestone in any interrogation. He’d already copped to poor judgment. But he wasn’t about to crack under Upham’s relentless pressure to confess that he’d deliberately contrived to conceal Kerney’s guilt, and withhold evidence pertinent to the investigation.

  At six the next morning, Upham’s secretary called with orders for Clayton to present himself at headquarters in thirty minutes. Upham waited for him in a harshly lit interrogation room, sprawled back in a metal armless chair, legs crossed, reading a file, a cup of coffee on the tabletop close at hand.

  Clayton sat across from him, facing the mirror that hid the video recording equipment and any interested observers. After a long silence, Upham looked at him and said, “I still don’t understand something.”

  Hands folded on the table, Clayton silently looked at Upham.

  “According to a statement made by Chief ADA Larkin, you took Erma Fergurson’s incriminating journal entries about Kevin Kerney along with all the additional evidence against him for Larkin to review,” Upham said. “Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And argued in favor of an arrest warrant, citing Kerney’s falsified police report about the allegedly stolen murder weapon, a partial of his fingerprint on the remaining cartridge in the cylinder, and a possible match with a bedspread from the house to a fabric fragment found with the remains. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Upham leaned forward, took a sip of coffee, and studied a typewritten sheet of paper. “After all the conversation, the back-and-forth, didn’t Larkin say to you, and I quote, ‘It might be wise to recuse yourself now’?”

  “He did.”

  Upham placed the sheet of paper facedown on the table. “Which you declined to do because you first wanted clarity as to Kerney’s guilt or innocence.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Upham smirked. “You needed clarity even though you were meeting with Larkin at the time, asking him to approve an arrest warrant for your father.”

  “Larkin didn’t think we had enough probable cause.”

  “But you did. Otherwise why ask for a warrant at all?”

  Clayton shrugged and stared at Upham’s bushy eyebrows.

  “Nothing to say?”

  “I wanted a second opinion.”

  Upham smirked again. “With an affidavit for an arrest warrant in hand, you wanted a second opinion. Seems you wanted more than that.” He paused for another sip of coffee. “You think your father is a killer, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Clayton replied.

  “When Captain Mondragon arrived to pick you up at your mother’s house in Mescalero, you asked him to wait a minut
e while you spoke to her. What did you say to her?”

  “I asked her not to contact Kerney.”

  “Why? Because she knew about the social media storm that Davenport caused by her Facebook posting?”

  Upham dangled the proposed lie for Clayton to grab on to like fish bait. But Clayton, like most Apaches, didn’t eat fish. “We hadn’t heard about it. Captain Mondragon was the first to tell me.”

  “And then you told your mother.”

  “No, I’d already discussed with her that I was investigating Kerney as a possible suspect.”

  Upham shook his head sadly. “In clear violation of departmental policy. Tell me again, you’re sure you asked your mother not to call your father.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And you sent a text message to Kerney telling him not to answer if your mother called his cell phone number.”

  “Yes.”

  Upham leaned back, coffee cup in hand. “Hoping that your mother would call, and that your text message would ensure that he’d answer.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I think it is,” Upham said. “I wish I could get you on an aiding-and-abetting charge, but it doesn’t fit the statute. However, accessory after the fact does fit. Combine that with the multiple department policy violations you engaged in during your investigation, and I believe I have proof of your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Clayton took a deep breath. He was hooked after all. “Make your pitch, Captain.”

  “Resign with an official admonishment in your file, which will allow you to keep your police officer certification, or be terminated with cause and face criminal charges.”

  Clayton nodded. “How do you want me to do it?”

  With a friendly smile, Upham laid out the plan. Clayton would resign on the spot, and be immediately flown to Las Cruces, where he’d turn in all departmental equipment and clear out all personal items from his office. Additionally, for the remainder of the investigation and any court action subsequent to it, he would agree not to give interviews or make statements about the case or his resignation to the media.