Tularosa kk-1 Page 15

  "Was there any indication that Yazzi was killed elsewhere and his body moved to the cave?" Johnson inquired.

  "None that we could find," Sara answered.

  "Weapon?" Johnson asked.

  "We didn't find one."

  "Suspects?" he inquired dryly.

  "One possible," Sara noted.

  "There was a vehicle accident in Rhodes Canyon yesterday. A state Game and Fish officer, Eppi Gutierrez, was killed by a rock slide He had been staying at an old ranch that's used by wildlife and conservation officers when they're on the range. It's approximately ten miles from where Yazzi's body was found." Johnson smirked.

  "A dead suspect isn't much good. What do you know about Gutierrez?"

  "The usual background information," Sara answered.

  "He was a wildlife manager. Single. Never married. No military experience. No police record. No traffic tickets in the last five years. He held a degree in biology from New Mexico Highlands University. Started working for Game and Fish right after college. Had slightly over ten years on the job with steady promotions. I've ordered a deeper background check on him."

  "Was anything found in the vehicle?" Johnson asked, writing in his notebook.

  "We don't know that yet," Sara replied.

  "His pickup is buried in rock from the slide. The site is under guard with instructions to leave everything as is until further orders. I'd like you and your people to look at it, if that's possible." Johnson nodded and closed his notebook.

  "Be glad to."

  "Excellent," Major Curry responded, rubbing a hand over his bald head. "Do you have any more questions. Agent Johnson?" Curry's eyebrows were almost an invisible white against his pale complexion, which made his eyes seem huge behind the reading glasses. There was no humor in his gaze. Johnson shook his head.

  "Not right now." Curry stood up.

  "Keep Captain Brannon informed."

  "I'll be in touch," Johnson said, rising and reaching across the table to shake hands with the officers. As the door closed behind him, the smile dropped off Tom Curry's face.

  "What in the hell are you doing. Captain?" Curry demanded, yanking off his glasses and leaning across the table.

  "Sir?"

  "Don't 'sir' me, Sara." He waved his glasses at her.

  "I read the dispatcher reports every day, just like you do. Gutierrez's radio had the same locator chip that every MP unit on the base carries.

  I know exactly where you were when you called and left that message for Sheriff Baca." She felt his rebuke like a slap across her face.

  "Sir," she said weakly.

  "You found that goddamn body. Do you know how serious it is for an officer to falsify official reports and order subordinates to lie for them?"

  "Yes, sir, I do." She was numbed by Curry's criticism. He had every right to slam her.

  "Will your people stick to the line of bullshit you fed to Johnson?"

  "Yes, sir, they will." Tom got up from the conference table, walked to his desk, lowered himself into his chair, and stared at Sara across the room.

  "I want to know why you did this."

  She told him about the burglary, her conversation with PFC Tony, the phone call to Sergeant Steiner, and her suspicions about Meehan's involvement. Curry's look didn't soften.

  "You would jeopardize your career because of some stupid rivalry with Jim Meehan, who doesn't have to operate by the rules? There'd better be more to this fuckup than that. Tell me exactly what happened at Big Mesa and Rhodes Canyon." Sara collected her thoughts.

  "I can tell you how we found the body. Or I could start with Gutierrez's attempt to kill us." She paused. "But perhaps the major would like to hear about the two thousand gold and silver coins and the letters from President Grant we found."

  Incredulity spread across Tom Curry's face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, stuffing the glasses into his shirt pocket.

  "Start at the beginning. And just who in the hell is we?" *** "He had every right to jump down my throat," Sara concluded. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of it and twisted her class ring. Kerney sat at the far end of Sara's couch, legs extended, feet crossed. His cowboy hat rested on the cushion, still dusty and slightly mangled-looking. He wore a collarless maroon pullover shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of blue jeans. Sara wondered if he owned anything but jeans. The shirt accentuated Kerney's well-formed upper body.

  "I'm glad to see you're not feeling sorry for yourself." Gutierrez's inventory was in his shirt pocket, yet to be revealed.

  "Don't be snide." Kerney blinked in surprise at Sara's reaction.

  "I meant it as a compliment. What did Curry say?"

  "I think my report dampened his enthusiasm to have me cashiered. I got off with an unofficial reprimand."

  "Are you off the case?" In the act of taking a sip of her wine, Sara pulled the glass away from her lips.

  "Um, no. Officially, the FBI has the ball. A special agent by the name of Johnson is heading up the investigation. Did you find anything in Santa Fe?"

  Kerney grinned, took out the inventory, and waved it at her.

  "Gutierrez mailed an interesting letter to himself. Care to guess what was in it?"

  "Don't give me a hard time." She wiggled her fingers at him. "Come on, fork it over." Minutes passed after Kerney gave her the inventory before she peered at him over the edge of the paper.

  "This is incredible."

  "Three to four million dollars' worth of incredible," he replied. "I had an expert give me a rough estimate. There's more. I stopped at the historical museum in Truth or Consequences. They have archival material on the history of Fort McRae, a post that operated on the north end of the Jomada during the Indian Wars. According to the records, in the spring of 1873 a detachment left the fort with military supplies bound for Fort Stanton. The convoy was attacked as it entered the Tularosa Valley. Eight soldiers were killed, along with three scouts, and all the mules and horses were stolen."

  Sara waited for Kerney to continue. He didn't. She prodded him.

  "Is that all?"

  "The entire supply train was sacked by a band of Warm Springs Apaches led by a chief named Victorio. Nothing was ever recovered."

  "Does it match the inventory?"

  "I don't know. That information wasn't available. The person I talked to said it was probably in old War Department records. But I think Gutierrez found the spoils of that raid."

  "That's extraordinary," Sara said.

  "If you're right, Gutierrez was moving the cache in stages."

  "And we showed up during the last run," Kerney agreed.

  She flicked the papers with a finger.

  "But moving it where?"

  "Gutierrez would need an agent to manage the sale. The best way to sell it without getting caught is to a foreign buyer."

  "Where does that take us?"

  "Juarez," Kerney said.

  "We're only forty miles from the border. Mexico is too close not to be his first choice. Customs should be able to tell me who the big smugglers are. Chances are Gutierrez at least put out feelers in Juarez, trying to connect with somebody." Sara shifted position and started pulling at her ring.

  "You're assuming the transaction hasn't been concluded."

  "I am. The postmark on Gutierrez's letter is dated last week. His notes indicate that he sent some samples to a buyer to prove he was selling legitimate goods. Besides, why would Gutierrez have any inventory left if the deal had been consummated? It wouldn't make sense."

  "I'm way overdue for a leave."

  Kerney shook his head. "Don't even think about it. You've got a career to protect." Her expression turned serious.

  "You shouldn't go in alone."

  "There's no risk."

  "I'll query Interpol and see what they can tell us." Sara chewed on her lip reflectively before continuing.

  "I've got an investigator in Juarez, Eddie Tapia, working an WOL case. He knows the area like the back of his hand."

&
nbsp; "That would help. Can you contact him?"

  "I should hear from him by midmorning."

  "I can't wait that long. When he calls, give him my description and ask him to keep an eye out for me."

  "He knows who you are," Sara replied.

  "He was on your tail for two days." Kerney laughed, stood up, and tested his knee. It almost buckled on him. He started for the door, a grimace of pain on his face.

  "Where are you going?"

  "It's late and I'm leaving." Sara motioned for him to stay.

  "You can sleep in the spare bedroom." The invitation was appealing for a lot of reasons, but he kept moving.

  "I don't want to impose."

  "Don't be silly. You look like you won't make it ten feet without collapsing. The spare bedroom is made up and the hall bathroom is right next to it. You won't disturb me a bit."

  "Okay, you talked me into it. I'll get my gear." He was almost dragging his right leg as he went out the front door.

  Michael McGarrity

  Tularosa — Michael McGarrity *** Unable to sleep, Kerney flipped the covers back, sat up, and painfully lifted his leg over the side of the bed. His thigh and calf muscles were cramping badly, the result of too much time behind the wheel frozen in one position, no exercise, and the persistent strain on the leg from his unnatural gait. He turned on the lamp and stared at the leg with loathing; it hadn't hurt this much in over two years. Hobbling to the hall bathroom as quietly as he could, he sat on the toilet seat, ran hot water in the sink, soaked a towel in water that scalded his hands, and wrapped it on the leg, gently rubbing the warmth into the muscle. When the heat dissipated, he wrung out the towel, ran more hot water, and repeated the process. He was starting a third application when a tapping at the closed door came and he heard Sara's voice.

  "Are you all right?"

  "More or less," he answered.

  "Can I come in?"

  "I guess." Sara slipped inside the small bathroom, misted with condensation. On the toilet seat, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, Kerney held his calf with both hands, a steaming towel against the skin, a look of pure suffering on his face. Kerney's rebuilt knee had an abnormal bulge. The scar on his belly seemed to cut his torso in half.

  "Would a heat pad and some ointment help?" Sara asked.

  "Very much."

  "I'll get them. Go stretch out on the bed." She left quickly.

  In the bedroom, Sara put a heating pad on his lower leg and rubbed ointment on his thigh. As she kneaded the muscles, her eyes drifted to the scar, but she said nothing. After switching the pad to the thigh, she worked on his calf before ordering him to roll over on his stomach. She rubbed more ointment on his leg and, using the heating pad and her strong hands, eased the tightness.

  After a long time she stopped, and the room was silent except for their breathing. Kerney couldn't see her. He started to turn over and felt her hand pressing between his shoulder blades.

  "How do you feel?" she asked.

  "Much better," he said.

  "How much better?"

  "A lot."

  "Good," she said softly. The light went out, and he felt her weight on the bed. Her fingers traveled down his back and tugged at his shorts as she stretched out beside him.

  Chapter 9

  Frustrated, Eddie worked the streets of Juarez near the bridge to El Paso, trying to locate Lieutenant Kerney. After a failed attempt to reach Captain Brannon by phone the previous day, Eddie had continued his search for Yardman. When he made contact with the captain at midmorning, she had told him to drop Yardman, find Lieutenant Kerney, and back him up. Still in his humpback disguise, Eddie questioned street vendors, cops, cab drivers, and merchants along the boulevard, asking about a tall gringo cowboy with a limp. He kept his cover story simple-the gringo had ripped him off. It got him a lot of sympathy but no leads. Captain Brannon hadn't given Eddie much to work with. She had told him that Kerney was trying to get a line on the major smugglers in Juarez. That meant Kerney could be anywhere in the city, if he was in the city at all. Just about everything could be bought or sold on the Juarez black market, and you didn't have to cross the border to conduct business.

  With no clear direction from Captain Brannon, Eddie felt as if he were spitting into the wind. Early in the afternoon, he gave up trying to find Kerney directly and started buying information about big-time smugglers, hoping he would get lucky and intercept the lieutenant. All it bought him was repeated pportunities to get thrown out of fancy clubs, trendy restaurants, and xpensive casinos. Eddie settled on the steps in front of the hacienda across from the Little Turtle, wondering how he could wangle his way inside without getting kicked out on his ass. He knew the Little Turtle was a front for drug distribution, and it had been mentioned frequently on the streets as an after-hours playground for the criminal elite in the city. It was worth a try to see if he could get in. While he waited for the fat cop, Dominguez, to put in an appearance, Eddie made almost twenty dollars.

  The hacienda was a high-class whorehouse catering to a well-heeled clientele. Glumly, Eddie decided it was about the only interesting bit of information he had gathered during his search for Kerney. The day had been a complete bust. At the end of the plaza, Eddie saw Dominguez strolling casually among the cars parked along the sidewalk, chewing on a toothpick. Halfway down the block, Dominguez spied him and hurried over. Eddie waved, reached for some pesos, and had them ready for Dominguez when he arrived. The money disappeared into a pocket and a smile crossed Dominguez's face.

  "Senor De Leon wishes to speak with you, my little friend," he announced.

  "Por que?" Eddie inquired.

  "A small matter. Come with me." Dominguez waddled officiously toward the Little Turtle, and Eddie followed. At the entrance, Dominguez told him to wait and went inside. After a few minutes, he reappeared, looking quite pleased, rubbed Eddie's hump, and told him to go in. Eddie stood in the open doorway. The Little Turtle was a long, deep, and softly lit hall with ornate chandeliers suspended over gaming tables. Dark mahogany dining tables circled the periphery of the gambling area, and an elaborate mezzanine with a polished staircase and railing jutted out over the room. A long antique bar with a full-length mirror behind it was under the mezzanine at the back of the hall.

  The afternoon clientele was a prosperous group. Businessmen in suits sat at the bar, while artist types held court in the mezzanine, crowded together around small cafe tables. Several young couples were seated near the bar, enjoying drinks and appetizers. The gaming tables were busy. Most of the gamblers were middle-class, male, and fairly young. For a fleeting minute, Eddie wanted Isabel at his side, wearing her prettiest dress. They would have dinner, dance to some music, play a game or two at the tables and meet new people.

  "Jorobado," a voice said, pulling Eddie away from his thoughts. "I am glad Dominguez found you."

  The man looking down at him was in his midthirties, with a fair complexion, brown curly hair nicely trimmed, and prominent blue eyes. His nose was narrow and his strong jaw ended at a square chin. A purely Hispanic face, Eddie thought, without a drop of Indian blood.

  "Senor?" Eddie replied deferentially. It had to be De Leon Eddie thought. The unbuttoned sport coat was silk, the trousers hand-tailored, and the linen shirt was open at the collar to display an expensive gold chain around De Leon throat. He wore a Rolex Oyster watch on his left wrist and a large diamond ring on his right hand. The man smiled casually.

  "Dominguez tells me that one of my employees was rude to you. More than rude. You are owed an apology. Come." Eddie didn't move.

  "It was a small matter, senor, easily forgotten. It is of no consequence." De Leon turned back.

  "But it is, my friend. Tradition is very important to me. No one who works here may insult a jorobado. It could bring misfortune. Duffy must be taught a lesson."

  "Who, senor?"

  "The gringo," De Leon explained.

  "Come." Eddie followed him through a door by the bar into the old cantina. The
former saloon had been gutted to create a large modern kitchen, an employee dressing room, and two small partitioned sleeping quarters at the front of the building on either side of the door to the street.

  Duffy was in one of the partitioned areas, asleep on a cot, his face buried in a pillow, his leg chained to the bed frame. The cot was bolted to the floor. De Leon shook Duffy roughly to wake him. The man rolled over, opened his eyes, and sat up quickly. He had the look of an addict who had gone too long without a fix: sunken cheeks under the beard and bleary eyes that blinked rapidly.

  "Mr. De Leon the gringo said in English, scurrying to his feet. "What is it?" The leg chain clanged against the metal frame of the cot as he got up. De Leon pointed to Eddie.

  "You were rude to the hunchback. Apologize to him immediately. Wait one minute." He switched back to Spanish and asked Eddie if he understood English.

  "A little bit," Eddie answered haltingly in English.

  "Go ahead," De Leon ordered Duffy.

  "What did I do?" Duffy asked.

  "It is a tradition in my country to treat hunchbacks with courtesy. You spoke harshly, and attacked him for no reason. Apologize," De Leon demanded.

  "He was outside the cantina," Duffy explained, whining. "I just told him to get out of the way."

  "Apologize," De Leon repeated.

  "Sorry," Duffy mumbled to Eddie. De Leon slapped Duffy hard across the face.

  "Be more respectful, Duffy," De Leon said sarcastically.

  "He cannot possibly believe you if I do not. Humbly ask his forgiveness." There was ice in De Leon voice. Duffy did as he was told, his eyes searing into Eddie's.

  "I hope that gave you some small satisfaction," De Leon commented, as he walked Eddie back into the Little Turtle.

  "You were most kind to do it, senor." De Leon brushed aside the comment.

  "I have a dilemma about you. I would invite you to stay as an entertainment for my customers, if you were not quite so threadbare. You can see the Little Turtle is neither a clip joint nor a bordello." He put his hand into his pocket.

  "Let me give you something for your trouble." Eddie wavered for a moment before responding, searching for the right gambit. If he could stay, it might get him closer to finding Kerney.