Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Read online

  When she finished, he shook his head and asked, “Why didn’t you report this directly to me then?”

  “I saw no need to bother you,” Carla replied. “As I said, I refused to speak to him.”

  “Yes, as you said,” Avery snapped.

  Olivas stiffened. “I’ll put it in writing.”

  “Did you help him, Carla?”

  “Why would I have done that? Besides, except for learning that Lucille Ward supposedly moved away from Belen, whereabouts still unknown, we’ve gotten nowhere since Clayton resigned.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Stop being such a dickhead, Paul.”

  Avery sighed. “All right, let’s drop it. We know Clayton is with Kerney and his wife in Deming. I want you there finding out what they’re looking for. I’m uneasy that they know something we don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  Olivas turned and left. For a moment Avery questioned his decision to take on the responsibilities of a supervisor. He could have said no. A call from Gabe Medina shook him out of his musing.

  “Compadre,” Medina said cheerfully. “My CI reports Kerney et al. will gather at the Mescalero Reservation for the weekend, starting late Friday afternoon.”

  “Shit,” Avery replied.

  “I know, I know,” Medina consoled. “It’s a sovereign nation, and you have no jurisdiction.”

  “Worse than that,” Avery muttered. “Apaches don’t like meddlesome gringos or non-native cops hovering around.”

  “Better circle the wagons in case they go on the warpath.”

  “Very funny. Can Ramirez get into Kerney’s house after everyone leaves on Friday?”

  “He has a house key and the owner’s permission,” Gabe replied. “That makes his entry legal. What do you want him to do?”

  “Just report back on what he sees in plain sight. Notes on a wall calendar or stuck on the fridge, maybe papers on top of a desk or a bedside table, phone numbers jotted on a desk pad—that sort of thing. Ask him to write down exactly what he sees but to leave everything as he found it.”

  “That stretches the boundaries,” Gabe warned.

  “No, it just makes him a nosy guy.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Come on,” Avery pleaded.

  “Come on, shit,” Gabe replied. “Kerney isn’t some lame civilian who thinks he knows everything about criminal law because he watches TV cop shows. If he gets one whiff of this, his lawyer will be all over your ass.”

  “You won’t do it?”

  “Hell, no. As your friend I won’t do it, and to cover my own ass with my department I won’t do it.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave you out of it,” Avery said. “Tell Ramirez to expect a call from me.”

  “Jesus, you’re serious.”

  “I’ve got a stalled investigation and the brass on my tail. You bet I’m serious.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell him. But I’m out of it from now on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Por nada,” Gabe Medina grunted as he disconnected.

  Avery gazed out the window. Maybe Gabe was right, but he had to push the envelope. Asking Ramirez to look around Kerney’s house wasn’t that big a deal, and it was worth a shot.

  Sara’s after-dinner computer searches had yielded some interesting information. She’d found birth records for both Jack and Jann Page, as well as their children, Loretta and Louis, but only a death certificate for Jann, who’d died in Silver City several years before. Their son, Louis, killed in combat in Vietnam, was buried at the Fort Bayard National Cemetery outside Silver City. The whereabouts of Jack Page, if he was still alive, were unknown. Born in 1929 on a ranch outside the small settlement of Hachita southwest of Deming, Page had enlisted in the navy during the Korean War. He’d been medically retired with the rank of petty officer third class after suffering burns to his hands and arms during a boiler explosion on a heavy cruiser off the North Korean coast.

  Page had received the Navy Commendation Medal for saving the life of a more seriously burned shipmate, and the Purple Heart for wounds suffered in a combat zone. Upon retirement he’d received a twenty percent permanent disability pension for his wounds. Electronically deposited monthly government checks had sat untouched in a dormant bank account for years, until the account was declared abandoned and the balance transferred to a state-administered unclaimed assets program. At that point, the federal government had stopped all payments.

  There was no record that Jack Page had died. Likewise, there was no record he’d been buried at the Fort Bayard, Santa Fe, or El Paso National Cemeteries or the recently opened state veterans’ cemetery north of Las Cruces.

  Sara was waiting to hear from a contact in military intelligence about a deeper records check on Page at the Department of Veterans Affairs, the Social Security Administration, and the Department of Defense Finance and Accounting Service. That should tell her if Page was alive and, if so, where he could be found.

  Over breakfast at a restaurant chain that specialized in platters of bland, overcooked eggs and undercooked bacon, Sara, Kerney, and Clayton decided to expand their search to additional southern New Mexico counties. Loretta and her father, Jack Page, might not have strayed too far over the years. The expanded search would focus on county courthouse records for marriage licenses, district courts for divorce decrees, and county public health and social services offices for any records of treatment or assistance.

  Kerney and Sara would concentrate on the southwest corner of the state, and Clayton would cover Doña Ana and other several southeastern counties. It meant splitting up and traveling long distances, but they’d keep in touch by cell phone. If it turned into a washout, they’d regroup in Deming and take another tack, yet to be determined.

  Kerney’s phone rang as they were about to leave. He smiled and answered. “Patrick.”

  “Gramps and I think Juan is acting weird.”

  Kerney’s smile faded. “How so?”

  “Like nervous and asking questions. He wanted to know where we’ll be this weekend.”

  “And you told him?”

  “Yeah. Was that wrong?”

  “Not really, you’ll be followed there by the police anyway. Besides seeming nervous, how else was he acting?”

  “He was really hungover.”

  Kerney had never known Juan to show up at the ranch in such a condition. “You’re sure?”

  “Gramps says he knows a hungover cowboy when he sees one.”

  Kerney laughed. “I bet he does.”

  “Is there anything I should do?” Patrick asked.

  “If Juan shows up again before Friday, just behave normally. If there is something going on with him, it’s best he isn’t tipped off that we’re suspicious.”

  “You don’t seem surprised about Juan,” Patrick said.

  “I’m not. You did good.”

  “Thanks,” Patrick said with pleasure in his voice. “Got to go.”

  He disconnected before Kerney could turn his phone over to Sara for a quick hello.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Apparently Juan Ramirez has been recruited by the cops to spy on us,” he answered.

  “Seriously?” She laughed.

  “Yes. What’s so funny?”

  “Juan Ramirez is the best they could do?”

  “Apparently.” Kerney grinned as he gave the waitress his credit card. “There is a certain humor to it. I wonder what carrot and stick the cops are holding over poor Juan’s head.”

  “Will you fire him when you get back to the ranch?” Clayton asked.

  “On principle, I might have to.”

  Kerney’s phone rang before the waitress returned with his charge slip.

  “Upham wants you at state police headquarters at eleven this morning for another round of questioning,” Gary Dalquist announced.

  “I’m in Deming,” Kerney replied. “Tell h
im to reschedule.”

  “I know where you are, Kerney,” Dalquist said testily. “And we’re not rescheduling. Upham would love to tell the prosecutors and a jury you were uncooperative. They’d wrap that tidbit up as part of a telltale allusion to your guilt in their closing statement. I have a chartered plane en route to the Deming Municipal Airport. I’ll meet you when you land in Santa Fe.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t ask me what it will cost. You can afford it.”

  “I wasn’t going to. What’s Upham’s agenda?”

  “He wouldn’t budge when I asked. Expect him to try to throw you off.”

  “That’s what I’d do.”

  “Your plane will be on the ground in thirty minutes. The pilot told me he was an aviation officer for the state police when you were deputy chief. You two should have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Only if he thinks I’m innocent.”

  “He does. Safe travels.” Dalquist disconnected.

  Kerney smiled at Sara. “You’re on your own today. Upham wants me in his office at eleven. Gary’s sending a plane. I should be back by late afternoon, if not sooner.”

  “I’ll concentrate on Luna and Hidalgo Counties,” Sara replied.

  “I’m off to Las Cruces,” Clayton noted. “That’s home ground for me. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  Kerney nodded. “I’ll give you a heads-up once Upham kicks me loose.” He stood and gave Sara a quick smooch. “Something’s got to give,” he added wistfully.

  “It will,” Clayton predicted, as he walked with Kerney and Sara to their parked cars, where three unmarked state police units waited, engines idling.

  The short, uneventful flight to Santa Fe left Kerney with his ears ringing from the nonstop chatter of the pilot, Steve Sather, who spent the entire time recounting stories of rescue missions into the high country, drug interdiction operations along the Mexican border, air surveillance on human trafficking convoys traveling the interstate, and the VIPs he’d shuttled around the state in airplanes during his twenty-five years on the job.

  It was better for Steve to talk than cry. In the past year, he’d lost his wife to cancer and his only child to a Taliban attack while serving in Afghanistan. Kerney deplaned thinking Steve’s heartbreak made his own troubles seem minor.

  Dalquist was waiting outside the small, Santa Fe—style terminal. On the curving exit road to the highway they passed the sprawling auto junkyard that gave arriving passengers a slightly different view of Santa Fe as a tourist mecca. In Kerney’s mind, the rusted, broken, and wrecked vehicles were tangible proof that despite the historical neighborhoods, the downtown plaza, the cultural institutions, and the stunning backdrop of the beautiful Sangre de Cristo Mountains, much of Santa Fe was like any other southwestern city.

  At the Department of Public Safety, Upham made them wait twenty minutes under the watchful eye of a uniformed officer. He appeared, lumbering down the hall wearing a wrinkled business suit that hung loosely on his heavy frame, a thin file folder clutched in his hand. He pointedly sniffed the air as he drew near. Kerney gave him a big smile.

  Upham grunted. “Let’s go.”

  In the same uninviting interrogation room, he recited all the necessary legal mumbo-jumbo, and stared in silence at Kerney from across the table for a good long minute.

  Kerney waited him out.

  “When you arrived at the Fergurson house to begin your stay as her guest, who was there to greet you?” Upham inquired.

  “No one,” Kerney replied. “Erma was on her property near Hermit’s Peak, and didn’t get back for another four days.”

  “Wasn’t that the large ranch outside of Las Vegas Fergurson willed to you?”

  “That question is irrelevant to this inquiry,” Dalquist sharply noted.

  Upham ignored him. “Did Fergurson give you permission to stay at her home in her absence until her return?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s no mention of it in her journals,” Upham noted.

  “She didn’t write in her journal every day,” Dalquist countered.

  “Erma was like family,” Kerney said. “Do you have a point to make, Upham?”

  Upham consulted his file. “What about Maxwell Colley, the graduate student who rented the apartment above the garage? Was he at home when you arrived?”

  “No, I didn’t meet him until several days later. He’d been out of town on a research trip.”

  So, for three or four days, you had the Fergurson residence all to yourself.”

  “That’s right.”

  Upham thumbed through some papers. “During that time, did you invite any old friends to stop by?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone come by?”

  “I wasn’t there every minute, so I can’t say. But while I was at Erma’s I was alone until Colley returned from his trip, although we saw very little of each other afterwards.”

  “You were alone at the house,” Upham echoed.

  “Do you have a point?” Dalquist asked.

  Upham leaned forward toward Kerney. “Did Kim Ward visit you at the Fergurson residence prior to the night of April twenty-fifth, 1973?”

  “No,” Kerney answered flatly.

  “Did anyone visit you prior to that date?”

  “No.”

  Upham smirked. “Fergurson’s renter, Maxwell Colley, says otherwise. He recalls a young woman coming to the residence looking for you prior to the night Kim Ward stayed with you. He is clear that it occurred before he was questioned by the police about your allegedly stolen pistol. Colley saw her enter the house and noticed your vehicle parked in the driveway. He remembers her staying for about an hour before driving away.”

  “Did he ID this woman?” Dalquist inquired.

  “His description as to height and weight matches Kim Ward’s.”

  “That’s not an identification,” Dalquist said. “Did Colley see this woman with my client?”

  “No, but it’s helpful information nonetheless, and your client has just lied to me.”

  Kerney shook his head. “I saw nobody.”

  Dalquist put his forefinger to his lips to silence Kerney. “I need access to Maxwell Colley.”

  Upham kept his gaze fixed on Kerney. “Dr. Colley is a professor emeritus of geology at Adams State University in Alamosa, Colorado.” He handed Dalquist a business card. “Here’s his contact information.”

  Dalquist glanced at the card and pocketed it without comment.

  Upham leaned closer to Kerney. “If you weren’t in the house, and your car was in the driveway, where were you when this young woman came to see you?”

  “Don’t answer,” Dalquist said.

  “I could have been hiking,” Kerney replied. “I often took a trail from Erma’s up to the Organ Mountains. It was a good way to clear my head.”

  Upham shifted back in his chair. “Why would she wait an hour to see you, if you were off hiking?”

  Kerney shrugged and held Upham’s gaze.

  “Who do you think it could have been waiting to see you?”

  Kerney shrugged again.

  “On to other matters, then,” Upham said, breaking eye contact and selecting another piece of paper from his file, this time an eight-by-ten photograph. “Were you at the Stallion Bar on Main Street in Las Cruces on the night of April twenty-third, 1973, when a fight broke out between soldiers from White Sands Missile Range and some local cowboys?”

  “I don’t recall that.”

  Upham handed Kerney the photograph. “This was taken by a staff photographer for the daily newspaper showing the arrest of some of the brawlers. We think one of the onlooking spectators in the photo is you.”

  Dalquist snapped the photograph from Kerney’s hand. “Don’t answer.”

  “One of the cowboys arrested that night was Todd Marks,” Upham added with a wicked smile. “Didn’t you tell me you never saw him after he and his future wife dropped out of school to join the rodeo circuit?”

/>   “You have his prior statements,” Dalquist interjected quickly, studying the photograph. “I see no one here with the slightest resemblance to my client.”

  “We believe with computer enhancement you will.” Upham turned to Kerney. “Are you in the photograph, Mr. Kerney?”

  Dalquist waved Kerney off from replying. “I’ll require a copy of this photograph as part of discovery,” he said, handing it to Upham.

  “Of course.” Upham put the photograph in his file, stood, and looked down at Kerney. “How’s your private investigation going?”

  Kerney rose. “I’m pleased with our progress.” He stepped around Upham and walked out the door.

  Dalquist held his questions until they reached the parking lot. With Cerrillos Road traffic resonating in the background, he asked Kerney if he’d witnessed the brawl at the Stallion Bar.

  “I don’t remember being there,” Kerney replied.

  “Do you remember a woman coming to see you at Erma’s house, as Maxwell Colley has alleged to the police?”

  Kerney shook his head.

  “Was it Kim Ward?”

  “As far as I can recall, I had no visitors, male or female, until Kim showed up the night she disappeared.”

  “Did you see Todd Marks or Kim at the bar?”

  “I know I did some bar-hopping in town at night, but I can’t recall seeing either of them.”

  “Why is that, Kevin?”

  “Because for three days I was staggeringly drunk. I was angry, depressed, and lonely. Emotionally numb from ’Nam, the army, and the crash that killed my parents. I walked out of the army a civilian, with nobody waiting for me and no place to go, except Erma’s. When I got there, I fell apart. She sobered me up and saved me.”

  Dalquist sighed. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  Kerney smiled and patted Dalquist on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, that’s the whole story.”

  He got in the passenger seat of Dalquist’s BMW. On the drive to the airport he called Sara and Clayton and filled them in. They reported no progress locating Loretta.

  CHAPTER 14

  When Clayton learned Upham had a newspaper photograph that purportedly placed Kerney in Todd Marks’s presence a night or two before Kim Ward’s arrival at Erma’s house, he went looking for Dewey Bullard.