Serpent Gate Page 15

  • • •

  “I felt like I was the target of an investigation,” Bucky Watson said. He’d been bitching from the minute he’d arrived in Roger Springer’s office to discuss his meeting with Sergeant Martinez.

  “Stop worrying,” Springer said. He sat across from Bucky, who drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair and shifted nervously. “I told you on the telephone the state police would be asking questions,” he added.

  “About the O’Keeffe fund-raiser,” Bucky shot back. “Not my property holdings.”

  “It’s no big deal. I talked to Vance Howell at the governor’s office. They’ve got no leads, so the cops are taking a scattergun approach to the case, hoping something will turn up.”

  “I still don’t like it.” Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “Is Amanda really a suspect?”

  “Howell says the working assumption is that her loose talk may have planted the idea for the robbery.”

  “Can’t she straighten this thing out?”

  “She’s on vacation in Belize.”

  “Do the cops know about you and Amanda?” Bucky asked.

  Roger laughed. “Amanda likes to keep her trysts secret.”

  “And I like to keep my business affairs private,” Bucky snapped.

  “Relax. I can ask the governor to flex a little political muscle, if need be. Given the size of your contribution to his reelection campaign, I’m sure he’d oblige.”

  “That would help,” Bucky said.

  “I’m always glad to be of service to a friend.”

  Bucky changed the subject. “I need to move more money into Rancho Caballo. What’s the status on the equestrian center plans?”

  Springer got up and went to the desk. “It’s ready to go. All I need is a signature and a check.” He picked up a document and walked back to Bucky. “Now that we’ve attracted the wealthy golfers, it’s time to bring in the rich horsy set.”

  “How much?” Bucky asked, taking the papers.

  “Nine million, to cover design, planning, and land acquisition. Can you swing it? The corporation is cash poor until we finish selling the remaining lots. We went overbudget on the clubhouse and golf course.”

  Bucky scanned the papers for the bottom line. “Cobb stands to make a hell of a profit on the land sale to the corporation,” he remarked.

  “Stop complaining, Bucky. You get what you need out of the arrangement.”

  Bucky scrawled his signature and handed the papers back to Springer. “When do you want the check?”

  “Anytime this week will do.”

  • • •

  Neil Ordway fumed as he slugged back the double shot of whiskey. He wanted to grind the shot glass into the face of the owner of the Cottonwood Bar, who stood behind the counter smirking. His scuffle with Kerney had been reported to the town council, and instead of accepting his resignation, the council had fired him instead. His chances of getting another law enforcement job were now less than zero.

  It had taken all of thirty minutes for the news to spread throughout the village.

  After turning in his equipment, the keys to the office and patrol car, and his badge and commission card, Ordway had walked from the town hall to the bar brooding over ways he could get back at Kerney.

  He glared at the proprietor, a chunky man who always dressed Western and prided himself on looking like Kenny Rogers, the country singer. Ordway was sure the man dyed his carefully trimmed white beard and razor-cut long hair to intensify the similarity.

  He pointed at his empty glass. The owner filled it quickly and moved away.

  It was dinnertime and Ordway was the lone customer in the bar. The Cottonwood, a sleazy joint that smelled of sweat, stale liquor, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, catered to hard-core boozers. The crappy, dingy atmosphere suited Ordway’s shitty mood perfectly.

  He downed his drink, ordered one more for the road, drank it quickly, bought a fifth to carry home, and stepped out into a cold night wind. There was no one in sight, and the main drag was virtually empty except for a few cars parked across the street in front of the Laundromat.

  Ordway buttoned up against the cold and started walking. A car passed by and he stiffened with embarrassment as the glare of the headlights caught him. Even though his rented house trailer behind the Shaffer Hotel was just a few minutes’ walk away, Ordway felt humiliated at the thought of being seen hoofing it home. He hurried across the main drag before another car cruised by, and ducked down a side street.

  At the corner where Pop Shaffer’s old, long-deserted motor lodge cabins stood, Ordway stopped and looked down the sidewalk toward the hotel. He smiled wickedly at the sight of Robert Cordova parading up and down in front of the weird concrete fence next to the hotel.

  Half drunk, Ordway remembered getting a message earlier in the day that the county jail had released Cordova from protective custody. He stuffed the paper bag with the whiskey bottle inside his jacket, walked to Cordova, reached out, and yanked Robert’s hands away from his ears.

  “Hey, Robert,” he said pleasantly.

  Robert opened his eyes. “Fuck you,” he snarled, trying to pull away.

  “Be nice. I got something for you.”

  “You ain’t got nothing I want,” Robert said, still struggling to free himself from Ordway’s grip.

  “It’s from Kerney. He sent you a present, a carton of smokes. Asked me to make sure you got them.”

  Cordova relaxed and Ordway released his hold.

  “Where are they?” Robert asked.

  “In my police car around the corner. Come on. Let’s go get them.” He patted Cordova on the shoulder and walked him away from the hotel lights.

  When they reached the darkness of the motor lodge, Ordway pushed Cordova into the small courtyard that separated the stone cabins and slammed his fist into Robert’s mouth. He heard Cordova’s rotten teeth crack. He hit him again and felt some teeth break free.

  Robert sank to his knees, blood bubbling out of his lips.

  “How do you like your present, you crazy little motherfucker?” Ordway asked as he brought his knee up to Cordova’s chin.

  Robert collapsed on his side and Ordway started kicking him with his steel-toed boots.

  8

  Carlos Ruiz found planes nerve shattering. During the flight, he stayed glued to his seat while the three men with him oiled weapons, loaded ammunition clips, and chatted with one another. He tensed up when DeLeon’s pilot announced through the open cockpit door that they would touch down at the Santa Fe Airport ten minutes behind Kerney. Takeoffs and landings bothered Carlos most of all.

  After Carlos had followed Kerney to the airport the night before, DeLeon had ordered him to continue the surveillance, no matter where the gringo went. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to round up DeLeon’s pilot and tail Kerney to El Paso. Once Carlos was back on the ground, shadowing the gringo had been easy. Kerney had no idea he had been followed.

  Carlos had stayed in contact with the patrón by telephone, advising him of Kerney’s movements. As soon as Kerney crossed into Juárez, DeLeon ordered Carlos to find out what the gringo was up to. That too proved to be a simple task. First, Kerney spoke with Rose Moya, and then immediately moved on to meet with Francisco Posada’s former houseboy, Juan Diaz. After Kerney left, Carlos put another man on Kerney while he paid a visit to Juan.

  Experience had taught Carlos that men feared the loss of physical capacity. If you threatened to cripple a man, blind him, or cut off his cock, most became cooperative within a very short time. Juan proved to be no exception. Carlos didn’t need to rough up Juan to learn that Kerney was investigating the Santa Fe art theft. But when Juan hesitated to say more, Carlos loosened his tongue by smashing the bones in his right hand. It alarmed Carlos to discover that Kerney suspected DeLeon.

  He reported Juan’s disclosures to the patrón. Don Enrique seemed unsurprised, which probably meant Carlos had simply confirmed information already at DeLeon’s disposal. The jefe ordered con
tinued surveillance.

  Kerney spent the rest of the day meeting with norteamericano law enforcement officials in El Paso. As luck would have it, Kerney spoke with a DEA agent on DeLeon’s payroll. Carlos talked to the agent after Kerney and learned that fingerprint evidence from the burned van had led the gringo to suspect DeLeon’s organization. That was all the agent knew. Carlos passed on the news to DeLeon, who once again seemed unperturbed.

  Carlos ran over the torching of the van in his mind. He thought he had destroyed the vehicle sufficiently to erase all the evidence. Would DeLeon hold him responsible for the oversight?

  He would find out soon enough, and although the thought of facing DeLeon’s anger chilled him, he knew better than to try to run or hide.

  Carlos switched his attention to the three men in the plane. He wondered what plans the patrón had for them. Hopefully, they were coming to Santa Fe only to kill Kerney. But DeLeon could also use them to mete out punishment. Carlos needed to remain mindful of that possibility.

  The wheels thudded over the runway, and for the first time during the flight Carlos looked out the window. The bright lights of the small control tower were a welcome sight. He let go of the armrests and grunted in relief only when the plane slowed as the pilot applied the brakes.

  • • •

  Nita Lassiter stood at the railing on the second floor of the state police headquarters and watched Kerney walk slowly up the stairs. With his head lowered, he didn’t see her. She had noticed Kerney’s limp previously, but now it seemed much more pronounced; he was almost dragging his right leg up each step. He saw her, masked a small smile, and picked up his pace.

  “I see you made bail,” Kerney said as he reached the top of the landing.

  “Yesterday,” Nita replied. Dressed in blue jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and work boots, Nita held a brown leather bomber jacket in her hand. Her arm was no longer in a sling.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Lassiter?” Kerney asked, concentrating on her worried expression. Even in casual attire Nita looked feminine and elegant.

  “I’m here about Robert,” Nita replied. “He’s been severely beaten. He wants you to visit him at the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “He won’t talk about it. He has a fractured arm, a broken rib, and he lost some front teeth.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A deputy sheriff.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the Shaffer Hotel in Mountainair. He was lying in the courtyard of the old motor lodge.”

  “What hospital is he in?”

  “The university hospital in Albuquerque.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “Robert carries my business card in his wallet. The hospital called to see if I was his next of kin.”

  “No wonder Robert thinks of you as his sister.”

  “He really has no one else,” Nita answered with a slight shrug and small smile. “Will you go and see him?”

  “Of course I will. As soon as I finish up here.”

  “Thank you.” Nita dropped her gaze as Kerney’s blue eyes studied her. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “If you have another question, just ask it.”

  “You don’t seem to like my questions,” Kerney replied.

  “I’m not going to apologize for being upset when you came to take me to jail.”

  “Why should you? I’ve watched hard cases break down and cry when the jail door slammed shut behind them. You held up very well.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “You bet it is.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you don’t think of me as a criminal?” Nita asked.

  “Extenuating circumstances make some people less guilty than others.”

  “Your compassion surprises me.”

  Kerney grimaced at the sarcasm.

  “I sound like I’m spoiling for a fight, don’t I?” Nita said.

  “You’re angry.”

  “Mostly with myself. That doesn’t mean I have to take it out on you.”

  Kerney extended his hand. “I hope things work out for you.”

  “So do I.” Nita slipped her hand into Kerney’s and didn’t let go. “You’re a rare breed, Mr. Kerney. Under different circumstances, I think I would enjoy knowing you.”

  “I share the feeling,” Kerney replied. “Take care of yourself.”

  Nita smiled and let go of Kerney’s hand. “I plan to. Addie is about to have her baby. She went into labor an hour ago. I’m on my way to Socorro.”

  “Will you tell her the truth about Paul Gillespie?”

  Nita shook her head. “There’s no need. She’s agreed to put the baby up for adoption.”

  She walked down the stairs with her back straight and her head up, and Kerney fought off the unpleasant image of Nita dressed in prison garb, locked in a cell. He wondered if there was anything he could do to help her.

  • • •

  “How did it go?” Andy asked from behind his desk as Kerney entered his office.

  “Nobody seems to know where DeLeon is, but I did learn that he now has a diplomatic passport and he’s buying into legitimate businesses along the border.”

  Kerney sat, gave Andy the details, and finished up. “I’ve got an informant in Juárez trying to scour up some more facts.”

  “By the name of Juan Diaz,” Andy noted. “He called looking for you.”

  “Did he leave a message?”

  “It’s not one you’re going to like to hear. Carlos Ruiz laid some heavy muscle on him after your visit. Ruiz roughed Diaz up and forced him to snitch you off.”

  “How the hell did Carlos get on to me?”

  “You were probably tailed as soon as you crossed the border,” Andy ventured. “I never should have let you go down there.”

  “If DeLeon knows I’m looking for him, it might force him out into the open.”

  “What an optimist you are. DeLeon has any number of resources he can use to kill you, without exposing himself.”

  “Should I go into hiding?” Kerney asked sharply.

  “Don’t get testy on me,” Andy answered gruffly. “But until the dust settles I’ve put Fletcher’s house under a close patrol, and Sergeant Martinez will be your partner. Where you go, he goes.”

  Kerney opened his mouth to protest and Andy cut him off. “No arguments, Kerney.”

  Kerney clamped his mouth shut and nodded. “Has Gilbert made any progress while I was gone?”

  “He’s got his team working hard on the Amanda Talley connection, and he’s searching records on the companies that own Rancho Caballo property to see what might be lurking behind the corporate veil.”

  “No breakthroughs,” Kerney summarized.

  “We’re running with one foot nailed to the floor,” Andy groused in agreement. He pointed to the open door to the conference room. “But if it will make you feel any better, there are a shitload of inconclusive field reports you need to read through.”

  Kerney pulled himself out of his chair with a rueful look on his face.

  “In the morning,” Andy ordered, holding up a hand.

  Kerney nodded. “Yeah. In my current state, I’d just have to read them all over again anyway.”

  “Go home. Better yet, get a home.”

  “Fletcher would be heartbroken to know that you don’t approve of my living arrangements.”

  “Fletcher may not want you staying in his guest quarters for the next couple of years.”

  “I doubt the investigation will last that long.”

  “I didn’t make you my chief deputy to work one case. As soon as we get through this mess, I’m going to fill your plate. There’s a hell of a lot of work we need to do in this department.”

  “Don’t try to shanghai me for the long haul, Andy.”

  “You’re in for the duration.”

  “We’ll just have to see about that,” Kerney noted as he left the of
fice.

  • • •

  Carlos found DeLeon in the living room, sitting in his favorite chair, reading some papers. The patrón was dressed to go out. He wore a lightweight camel hair jacket, a silk shirt buttoned easily at the collar, and a pair of charcoal trousers.

  Carlos hesitated before entering. The preserved head of a fighting bull, famous for its performance in the Plaza de Toros in Mexico City, looked over the room from above the fireplace. It glared at Carlos forebodingly with its glass eyes. He composed himself and walked toward DeLeon.

  Enrique waited for Carlos to draw near.

  “A sus órdenes, Don Enrique,” Carlos said.

  “Inglés,” Enrique snapped. “Speak English.”

  “I am sorry, patrón,” Carlos said, lowering his head slightly. “I am at your service.”

  “That’s much better. Are the men in the guest quarters?”

  “They are. With orders to stay out of sight until instructed otherwise.”

  “Very good.”

  “Do you have orders for them?” Carlos asked.

  “Not yet. Why do you look so troubled, Carlos?”

  “Because I failed to completely destroy the van, Don Enrique.”

  DeLeon flashed a reassuring smile. “No blame attaches to you. Palazzi’s stupidity created the circumstance. You did all that I asked to correct the situation.”

  “But now you are exposed to Kerney,” Carlos replied.

  “It is Kerney who is at risk. You must complete the dossier on him. I want to know where he is the most vulnerable.”

  “Do you wish to kill him yourself?”

  “I may allow you that privilege.”

  “I am glad that you still retain confidence in me, patrón.”

  “As always, Carlos. Go now. You have work to do.”

  Carlos departed with the feeling that he might soon be a dead man lifted from his shoulders.

  • • •

  Fletcher’s reputation as an artist who sold his work at high prices had given him sufficient cachet to arrange a late dinner meeting at the clubhouse with the exclusive broker who worked for Rancho Caballo. The broker had a visitor’s pass waiting for him at the security gate.