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  He met her in the lobby. She was a cheery, perfectly dressed young woman with a big hairdo that framed her glossy face and cascaded down to her décolletage. She oozed with the desire to find the perfect Rancho Caballo home to meet his every need.

  Over dinner, the woman patted his hand and talked about the host of contractors who could build a house exactly to his specifications if there was nothing available that he liked.

  The food and service were excellent and the large number of dinner guests surprised Fletcher. He had expected far fewer people. He knew not a soul, nor did he want to. But it was clear that the rich had made Rancho Caballo a haven from the rigors of the outside world.

  The dining room had a California decor, with two walls of windows that looked out over the golf course, where the lights along the golf cart paths cast a glow over the fairways. A fireplace crackled with cedar and piñon logs, and a series of wrought-iron chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling. The paintings on the wall were mundane pastel watercolors that Fletcher’s trained eye had immediately dismissed as bogus hackwork.

  “Do you plan to sell your home in town?” Heather Griffin asked as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. Fletcher could see the wheels turning as she contemplated the possibility of two fat commissions.

  “Oh, I suppose my accountant will insist on it, if I decide to buy in Rancho Caballo,” he replied.

  “Rancho Caballo is blessed with many talented people,” Heather crooned. She named two prominent entertainers who owned vacation homes. “You would fit right in.”

  “An elite community in every way, I’m sure,” Fletcher said, eyeing a tableful of richly dressed young matrons wearing squash blossom necklaces, concho belts, and turquoise earrings. “The ambience must draw them here.”

  “Exactly,” Heather replied gaily.

  “I suppose it would be best to have one broker handle the sale of my house and the purchase of a new one.”

  “That’s the most efficient way,” Heather agreed as she leaned forward to give Fletcher her pitch.

  Half-listening, Fletcher nodded and smiled every so often to keep her talking. His visit to Rancho Caballo, which Kerney would most certainly reproach him for, had yielded nothing. He had hoped to come away with something useful. He eyed the young woman across the table and thought what a nice warm blaze it would make if all Santa Fe realtors were burned at the stake, the fires fueled by the catalogs, brochures, and marketing material they spewed out to attract potential buyers. Next summer’s annual city fiesta would be the perfect time to do it.

  After dinner, Fletcher made his excuses and said good night. He arrived in the lobby just as Bucky Watson entered with a male companion—one of the unidentified guests in the O’Keeffe benefit photographs.

  He approached Watson with a smile, hand outstretched. “My dear Bucky, how are you? It’s been so very long since I’ve seen you.”

  “I’m fine, Fletcher,” Bucky answered, shaking Hartley’s hand, a little perplexed by the cordiality. He knew the old queer didn’t like him.

  “Who is your friend?” Fletcher asked, turning to look squarely at the man for the first time. He was definitely Hispanic, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, with a fair complexion, blue eyes, and curly light brown hair.

  “Vicente Fuentes, meet Fletcher Hartley,” Bucky replied. “Fletcher is one of our living treasures.”

  “Ah,” DeLeon said. “I have heard of this custom. Your city honors elders who have contributed their talents to the community. It is an admirable idea.”

  “I’ve enjoyed the distinction,” Fletcher said. “Have you been with us long in Santa Fe, Señor Fuentes?”

  “I am only an occasional visitor,” DeLeon answered.

  “I believe you’ve met a friend of mine, Frank Bailey. At the O’Keeffe benefit last month.”

  “I don’t recall the name,” DeLeon said. “I’ve met so many people since I arrived, it is hard to keep everyone sorted in my mind.”

  “Of course. Perhaps I am mistaken,” Fletcher said.

  “Perhaps,” DeLeon replied. He touched Watson’s back in a signal to move on. “Good night, Mr. Hartley.”

  “Good night, Señor Fuentes.”

  Fletcher drove home in great anticipation of his next conversation with Kerney. He would reveal a tidbit that, he hoped, would be new and helpful information.

  • • •

  At a corner table in the clubhouse bar, Bucky Watson waited for DeLeon to speak. DeLeon expected to be treated with deference, and while Bucky privately resented the attitude, he knew better than to confront it. He took a sip of his drink and remained silent.

  Aside from the hostess behind the bar and an older couple about to leave, the room was empty. DeLeon watched the man hold the woman’s coat as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. When they walked out the door, he glanced over at Bucky.

  Bucky looked like an athlete, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and a trim waist, but his petulant face spoiled the image.

  After the hostess left to deliver drinks in the dining room, DeLeon finally spoke. “How much inventory do you have on hand?”

  Bucky did a quick calculation in his head. “A six-week supply of cocaine,” he answered. “Maybe a little less than that in heroin. Smack has been moving well lately.”

  “Send everything to Chicago immediately.”

  “That’s a lot of product to put on the road at one time.”

  DeLeon answered with an icy look.

  “I’ll have it shipped out by morning,” Bucky said, recovering quickly. It would mean calling in the crew to build special containers at the crating shop, packing the drugs in with some cheap art, forging lading bills, and putting two large trucks on the road. It was an all-night job.

  “When will I be resupplied?” Bucky asked.

  “You won’t be, for a time.”

  “I’ve got people who expect product waiting out there.”

  “They can wait,” DeLeon said, thinking how tiresome Bucky could be.

  “They may start moving to other suppliers.”

  “Or they’ll cut back on bulk sales and raise their prices. When can more of my funds be moved into Rancho Caballo?”

  “We can wash an additional nine million right away,” Bucky answered.

  “Do Springer and Cobb continue to believe it is your money they are using?”

  Bucky snickered. “Yeah. They don’t seem to care where it comes from, as long as they get their slice.”

  “Excellent. There is a shopping mall south of the city that is about to come on the market. When it does, offer the asking price and secure the largest mortgage possible. I’ll transfer funds to cover the down payment and closing costs.”

  Bucky masked his surprise. If DeLeon was right about the mall, no one else in the city knew anything about it. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Have the police returned to question you further about the art theft?”

  “No,” Bucky replied. “Roger Springer will ask the governor to intervene if the cops get too nosy.”

  “Since you had nothing to do with the theft, you should have no worries.”

  “I’d love to know who pulled it off. It was a slick piece of work.”

  “So it seems,” Enrique said. “What have you learned about it?”

  “The police are operating on the assumption that Amanda Talley was somehow involved in the heist. I introduced you to her at the O’Keeffe benefit. The cops think she may have been murdered.”

  “How interesting. Is this information reliable?”

  “It comes right from the governor’s chief of security, a state police captain.”

  “Police make such excellent informants. The gentleman you introduced me to in the lobby. Tell me about him.”

  “Fletcher? He’s local color. He’s a very successful artist, collected on a national level.”

  “Does he own property in Rancho Caballo?”

  “Not as far as I know. He lives near the Round
house, in one of the older neighborhoods. He was probably someone’s dinner guest.”

  “I did not like the degree of interest he showed in me. Who are his friends?”

  Bucky chuckled. “Every queen, queer, transvestite, and transsexual in Santa Fe. The latest Fletcher story I heard is that he has a gay cop living with him.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know who it is. But knowing Fletcher, he’s probably young and good looking.”

  “He sounds harmless,” DeLeon noted, glancing at his wristwatch.

  Bucky took the cue, stood up, and smiled at his boss. “I’ll stay in touch,” he said.

  “Make sure that you do.”

  Bucky left the bar feeling miffed. Working for DeLeon had made him a rich man, but he didn’t have to like the son of a bitch’s condescending attitude.

  • • •

  After learning a bit more about Amanda Talley, Gilbert Martinez believed his hunch about Roger Springer and his after-hours trysts with women at the governor’s office deserved to be tested. Although it was fairly late, lights burned inside Roger Springer’s house. Gilbert was pleased; he had timed the visit to catch Springer away from the office and off guard, if possible.

  He stopped his unit next to a BMW in the driveway, and exterior floodlights controlled by motion sensors immediately switched on.

  Average in size by neighborhood standards, the house was situated off Gonzales Road in the foothills, with Santa Fe aglow below it, spreading haphazardly across the valley floor.

  A round structure low to the ground, the home seemed anchored to the hillside. The curved walls had large windows and doors separated by buttresses, and all the rooms appeared to open onto a semicircular patio. Gilbert found his way to double glass doors that allowed him to see into a sunken living room. A fireplace glowed in the center of the room, and a wine bottle and two glasses were on a coffee table in front of a couch.

  No one was in sight, so he knocked and waited, his attention drawn back to the cityscape below. He could remember a time when except for the highway strip into town, Santa Fe stopped at the private college on St. Michaels Drive. Now the profusion of city lights ran for miles past the college and washed out the night sky.

  He looked through the double glass doors just as Roger Springer yanked one open. Wearing a terry-cloth robe and a waspish expression, Springer ran a hand through his rumpled hair and gave Gilbert an irritated look.

  “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “I have a few questions, Mr. Springer. May I come in?”

  “At this hour?”

  “Only for a minute.”

  Springer nodded brusquely and stood aside. Gilbert stepped into a wide arched foyer that opened onto the living room. Recessed lights along the back wall of the living room accentuated an arrangement of paintings and lithographs above a stereo sound system on a low, built-in bookcase.

  “What questions do you have?” Springer asked as he closed the door. He made no gesture for Gilbert to move into the living room.

  “I understand you’re a friend of Amanda Talley.”

  “I know Amanda.”

  “You were with her at the O’Keeffe benefit, I believe.”

  “I was hardly with her, Sergeant.”

  “But you saw her there,” Gilbert countered.

  “We had a drink together with several other people.”

  “Was Bucky Watson one of them?”

  “I believe so.”

  “There was another man with the group. He may have been Hispanic or Mexican. Do you remember meeting him?”

  “I can’t say that I do.”

  Gilbert held out a photograph. “Please look at the man at the extreme left of the picture with his head partially turned away, and tell me if you know him.”

  Roger leaned forward and looked. “I don’t know him.”

  “He may own a house in Rancho Caballo.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Gilbert put the photograph away. “I understand that some time back you lost a key to the governor’s private elevator and had to have it replaced. Did you ever find the key?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t loan the key to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever date Amanda Talley?”

  “Yes, we dated for a while, two years ago, soon after she came to town.”

  “But not recently?”

  “I said it was two years ago.”

  “I’m a little confused about your answer. Last month you were seen in the governor’s suite after hours with Amanda Talley.”

  “I may have run into Amanda at my uncle’s office one evening, Sergeant, but that’s all there was to it.”

  “Why would Ms. Talley be in the governor’s office after hours?”

  “Do you suspect Amanda, Sergeant?”

  “What was your business there that night?”

  “I believe I left a legal brief for the governor’s chief of staff to review.”

  “You didn’t rendezvous with Amanda at the governor’s office that evening?”

  “Are you suggesting a romantic interlude of a sexual nature? Isn’t that how you referred to it in my office? I did not. As I told you, our relationship has been over for a long time.”

  “Several of Ms. Talley’s closest friends suggest otherwise. They report that you and Amanda continue to meet privately upon occasion.”

  Springer blinked. “If you’ve spoken with Amanda, I’m sure you know that’s simply not true.”

  “We haven’t been able to reach her yet. She’s out of the country.”

  “Isn’t it premature to make accusations you can’t substantiate?”

  “We found some pubic hairs on the carpet in the governor’s office. Right in front of his desk.”

  “Did you?”

  Gilbert reached out, plucked a loose hair off the collar of Springer’s bathrobe, and inspected it. “From two different individuals,” he lied.

  Springer paled considerably as he watched Gilbert place the hair between the pages of his notebook and close the cover.

  “You just violated my constitutional rights,” Springer said. “You have no authority to collect physical evidence without a search warrant.”

  “Physical evidence?” Gilbert replied innocently. “You’re not a suspect, Mr. Springer. Didn’t I make that clear? I don’t think you have any reason to be concerned.”

  “It’s time for you to leave, Sergeant.”

  Outside, Gilbert took a deep breath. A piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, although it probably didn’t matter much, since he couldn’t actually prove Roger Springer had jumped Amanda Talley’s bones on the governor’s carpet.

  The whole thing had been a bluff, and the ploy could cost him, big time. Gilbert was sure the brass would hear about it in the morning, and the thought that he might get bounced off the investigation and stuck in some cubbyhole, sorting evidence inventories for the rest of his career, didn’t sit well.

  Gilbert doubted he would get much sleep when he got home.

  • • •

  The doctors had given Robert painkillers. He woke up to Kerney’s gentle shaking with a small groan. His beard had been shaved off, and there were bruises on his mouth and chin. His lip was split and two upper front teeth were missing.

  Without the beard, Robert’s face had an unused quality to it, except for his eyes, which looked very old. His left arm was suspended in a cast, and his torso had been wrapped to immobilize a broken rib.

  He looked at Kerney and said nothing. It made Kerney wonder if Robert was hearing voices in his head. Finally, Robert licked his lower lip and coughed.

  “How are you, Robert?” Kerney asked.

  “Un poco de agua, por favor,” Robert said.

  With great care, Kerney tilted Robert’s head off the pillow and placed the straw protruding from the plastic water jug between Robert’s lips.

  Robert took several small sips and then pulled the straw from his lips. “It h
urts to use my mouth,” he said.

  “You don’t have to talk now, if you don’t want to.”

  “You understand Spanish, Kerney,” Robert said.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “El Malo.”

  Kerney knew the term. It meant “the evil one,” a colloquialism for the devil.

  “How did he do this to you?”

  Robert blinked and looked confused. “My head feels better.”

  “I hope it stays that way.”

  “El Malo never stays with me. He’s just un hatajo de mentiras.”

  “He lies to you?”

  Robert smirked. “He says I’m not crazy.”

  “That must be good to hear.”

  “It’s a lie.” Robert paused for a moment. “Once I dreamed I was Jesus Christ. You know what I did in the dream?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I killed myself.” Robert giggled. “Isn’t that funny?”

  “That was some dream.”

  “El Malo makes me dream shit like that. It’s bad luck to dream you’re Jesus.”

  “Who beat you up, Robert?”

  “I was naguitas, Kerney. A real sissy. I didn’t even throw one punch. Not one.”

  “Maybe you didn’t have the chance.”

  “You’re supposed to fight back. That’s the rule.”

  “Even tofe botos like you can get tricked,” Kerney ventured.

  Robert considered Kerney’s statement. “You got fucked up pretty bad, shot and everything. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you scared when it happened?”

  “Terrified. Who beat you up, Robert?”

  “That fucker Ordway said you sent him some smokes to give to me.”

  “Ordway did this?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kerney stayed with Robert until he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  • • •

  On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney made contact with the state cop who lived in Mountainair, and asked about Ordway’s whereabouts. The officer reported Ordway had cleaned out his trailer, loaded up a small U-Haul, and left town.

  Tired to the bone, Kerney turned down the squawk box volume and popped a Wynton Marsalis tape into the cassette deck. Some deep-down, throaty blues would carry him home. Or not exactly home, as Andy had so correctly pointed out.