Slow Kill Read online

  Even if Dean continued to stay dummied up, the lab results from California added heavy weight to the evidence against him. As for the other charges, Griffin’s testimony would go a long way toward securing multiple convictions.

  But that still left Claudia Spalding in her California mansion as free as a bird. Finding Coe Evans, the man Claudia Spalding had allegedly asked to help murder her husband, was critical if Ramona had any hope of turning that situation around. But Evans, who no longer worked at the horse rescue ranch, had dropped out of sight, whereabouts unknown.

  Ramona had detectives on the phones, talking to Evans’s former coworkers and old acquaintances, checking with utility and phone companies and the postal service, querying banks and credit card companies. So far, he remained off the radar screen.

  Locating Evans was just one of the tasks Ramona was juggling. Griffin had identified his framing subcontractor, Greg Lacy, as the man who’d left the ten pounds of grass in his garage. A detective sent out to Lacy’s house had reported no one at home. A neighbor confirmed Griffin’s statement that Lacy was camping somewhere down in the Gila National Forest.

  Ramona had questioned Griffin closely about why Lacy’s toolbox had been stored in his garage, and his response had sounded plausible. Many of the subs he hired used his garage and land to store tools and excess materials. They would often come to pick things up or drop things off even when he wasn’t home. Besides, his current building projects were just a few miles away from his house, which made it all the more convenient as a storage site.

  Still, Ramona hadn’t bought it. Was the grass really Lacy’s, or was it all a big lie on Griffin’s part? Until they found Lacy and talked to him, that question remained unanswered.

  Through her open office door, Ramona could hear her team at work. All of them were well into their second shifts, clacking away at keyboards, talking quietly on phones, stapling reports and shuffling papers, compiling information. Before she turned out the lights and called it a day, she would screen every bit of it.

  Two narcotics officers, with the assistance of a member of the Tri-County Drug Enforcement Task Force, were working to verify the identities of the users, dealers, and suppliers Griffin had named. Detective Matt Chacon was on the horn calling around to learn more about Greg Lacy’s personal life, business dealings, employees, and friends. Other team members were working up evidence sheets, doing field reports, writing narratives.

  Her phone rang and she picked up.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to arrest Griffin on harboring a fugitive charges?” Barry Foyt asked, his voice sputtering with anger.

  “Did you really want to let him completely off the hook?” Ramona replied calmly.

  “You blindsided me.”

  “No, I upheld my sworn duty,” Ramona said.

  “Don’t give me that technical bullshit. You were there when I struck the deal with Delgado.”

  “Nothing pertaining to dropping any future charges was agreed to, as I recall.”

  “I can recommend to the DA that we decline to prosecute.”

  “I’m sure Delgado and Griffin would appreciate that,” Ramona said, trying to bite back on the heavy sarcasm without success. “Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”

  “Griffin made bail thirty minutes ago.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Foyt grunted in reply and disconnected.

  The phone in Ramona’s hand brought to mind Ellie Lowrey. Earlier, she had left Lowrey a brief voice mail message summarizing the events of the day, particularly the news that Claudia Spalding might have tried to mastermind her husband’s murder with another lover long before Kim Dean took up the gauntlet and actually did it. Surely, that should have sparked Ellie’s interest enough to return her call.

  She shrugged Lowrey off for the moment, put the phone down, and turned her attention back to matters at hand, only to be interrupted by Matt Chacon, who swooped into the office waving a piece of paper.

  “This came in from Lacy’s credit card company,” he said as he settled into the straight-back office chair. “In the last four years, he’s taken five international trips, one to Haiti, two to Amsterdam, and two to Bangkok, all sex tourist destinations.”

  Ramona looked at the faxed report. “Okay, so he likes whores. What else have you learned about him?”

  “He’s a bachelor with no current girlfriend,” Matt replied. “Like Griffin, he lives alone and runs his business out of his house. Hires mostly locals and a few Mexicans, pays them decent wages, and has a good credit rating. He has several close friends, but according to Lacy’s foreman, Griffin isn’t one of them. Their relationship is strictly business.”

  “No wants or warrants?”

  Chacon shook his head. “He’s got a clean sheet, a good reputation with other contractors who use him, and requires all his employees to undergo periodic drug screening. I think Griffin made a bogus accusation.”

  “What kind of vehicles does Lacy own?” Ramona asked.

  “Just one, according to motor vehicles: a late model, midsize, four-wheel-drive pickup truck.”

  Ramona pushed back her chair and stood. “Let’s go.”

  “Where to?” Matt asked.

  “Griffin lied. The toolbox that held the grass fits a full-size truck bed. He just made bail on the harboring charge. We’ve got to find him before he runs.”

  To keep himself informed of activities in the field, Kerney often listened to radio traffic while working. He was in his office about to call Alice Spalding and Penelope Parker when a be-on-the-lookout advisory for Mitch Griffin went out, followed by a secure channel broadcast from Ramona Pino alerting dispatch that she and Detective Chacon were on their way to Griffin’s house.

  Kerney was certain that Pino and Chacon didn’t know what he’d put into play with Griffin. Did they have fresh information they’d gathered from some other source? Or were they just looking to find him for another round of questioning?

  He had half a notion to call Pino for an update, or order her back to headquarters. He passed on both ideas. He thought about tagging along to get a firsthand look at the action, and decided against it, although it certainly wouldn’t be out of character. Instead, he dialed a cell phone number and told the man who answered that Pino and Chacon might be coming his way.

  He sat back, wondering what he might have to deal with when Pino and Chacon returned. Because he didn’t run his department by flying a desk in an office, Kerney had built a reputation as a hands-on chief. When time allowed, he liked to get out into the field and watch his officers in action. It reduced the bureaucratic filter between himself and his people.

  Occasionally he’d work a patrol or detective shift, pull duty on the Plaza during a major community event, oversee a crime scene investigation, or assist at a DWI checkpoint on a holiday weekend.

  He thought back to the event that had established his reputation. During his second week on the job, he’d been driving back to headquarters after a meeting with city hall honchos when a lowered, raked, two-tone ’57 Chevy traveling at a high rate of speed cut him off in heavy traffic on Cerrillos Road. Driving an unmarked unit and wearing civvies because his uniforms weren’t ready, he’d given chase. He forced the driver into a parking lot and put the young Hispanic male facedown on the pavement.

  When he approached to do a pat down for weapons, the kid told him he was a city undercover narcotics officer on assignment with the Tri-Country Drug Enforcement Task Force. He carried no credentials, and was dressed like a gangbanger in baggy jeans, an oversized baseball shirt, and expensive athletic shoes.

  Kerney questioned the kid, who rattled off the name of his supervisor and said he was on his way to a drug buy at a city park. Unconvinced, Kerney asked dispatch to send a patrol supervisor to his location ASAP, and left the young man spread-eagled with his hands clasped at the back of his head in full view of traffic on Cerrillos Road.

  A patrol supervisor rolled up within minutes. T
he sergeant took one look at the kid on the pavement, killed his emergency lights, and approached Kerney, trying hard not to smile.

  “Chief,” the sergeant said, “I see you’ve met Officer Aragon. What was he doing?”

  “Speeding, reckless driving, and public endangerment,” Kerney said.

  “Okay,” the sergeant said slowly in a voice loud enough for Aragon to hear. “Then I think I’d better pretend to arrest him, otherwise we might blow his cover. He’s an undercover narcotics officer, you know.”

  Kerney tried to keep a straight face. “So he said.” He watched the sergeant cuff Aragon, pull him upright, and put him in the backseat of his unit. After a brief exchange of words, the sergeant closed the door and returned.

  “Thanks for your help,” Kerney said, trying not to look sheepish.

  “Sure thing, Chief,” the sergeant said cautiously. “You do know that only uniformed officers in marked units are authorized under state law to enforce the motor vehicle code and write traffic citations.”

  “I do know that,” Kerney said flatly. “What did Officer Aragon have to say for himself?”

  “Except for being worried that he started out on the wrong foot with the new chief, Officer Aragon said he doesn’t mind that you busted him. He thinks it will give him credibility with the gang-bangers he’s infiltrated.”

  “Tell him I was glad to be of help,” Kerney said, “and to slow it down.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll give him the word.” The sergeant eyed Kerney cautiously. “Technically, I should record this incident in my log and dailies.”

  “Write it up, Sergeant,” Kerney replied. “There’s no reason for both of us to be rule breakers.”

  The sergeant smiled with relief.

  “Don’t embellish the story too much, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant’s smile changed to a grin. “There’s no need for that, Chief.”

  As Kerney expected, news of the incident had spread like wildfire throughout the department, creating a lot of amused head shaking among the troops about their new chief.

  Kerney returned his thoughts to Sergeant Pino. It was quite likely she’d come looking for him with blood in her eye if she happened to encounter DEA Special Agent Evan Winslow.

  He called Penelope Parker, hedged a bit on the details, and told her he had some indication that George Spalding might not have died in Vietnam.

  “Oh, Alice will be so happy to hear that,” Parker replied, a pleased lilt to her voice. “Will you be coming out here to do more investigating?”

  “I doubt it,” Kerney said. “I need to know where George is buried.”

  “At the Fort Bayard National Cemetery in New Mexico,” Parker said. “At least what could be found of him.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The bodies had basically been incinerated in the crash. Identification was made primarily by dog tags, remnants of uniforms, and dental records.”

  “Who supplied the dental records? The military or the family?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were all the victims’ identities verified?” Kerney asked.

  “You’re asking me for information I don’t have,” Parker replied. “Remember, this happened long before my time. I do know that after the divorce, Alice wanted George’s remains disinterred so that a DNA test could be made. She wanted to use the latest technology to prove that he was still alive. But Clifford stopped it by getting a judge to rule that both parents would have to agree to the exhumation.”

  “Who was the judge?”

  “I don’t remember his name, but he was located in Silver City, New Mexico, near the cemetery where George was buried. I typed all the original correspondence. Alice’s lawyer should have the particulars.”

  “I’ll need those,” Kerney said. “Would Alice be willing to resubmit a request to disinter the body and also provide a DNA sample for comparison purposes? A simple cotton swab for saliva inside her mouth should be all that’s required.”

  “I’m sure she’ll want to cooperate.”

  “Give me her lawyer’s name and phone number and I’ll get the ball rolling.”

  “How quickly do you plan to act?” Parker asked, after reading off the information.

  “I’d like to move fast and get the skeletal remains tested and compared to Alice’s DNA as soon as possible,” Kerney replied. “We can use a private lab in Albuquerque to do the analysis. How soon can you get Alice in for a mouth swab?”

  “Her doctor makes house calls,” Parker said, excitement rising in her voice. “I’ll see if he can come out right away. Otherwise, I’ll make an appointment and take her to his office as soon as possible.”

  “Tell him exactly what the swab is for and ask him to handle it like evidence. He’s to wear gloves and seal the swab in a clear plastic bag. Have him send it to me by overnight air express.”

  “Should I tell Captain Chase about this?” Parker asked, after Kerney gave her his mailing address. “He called a day ago asking if I’ve spoken to you again.”

  “Please don’t tell him anything.”

  “You make it sound like a conspiracy,” Parker whispered delightedly.

  Kerney sidestepped the remark. “You’ll get a call later today from a New Mexico judge who will want to verify Alice’s willingness to have the body exhumed. Make sure she’s prepared to give consent.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “If you have a fax machine at the house, give me the number and I’ll send you an exhumation request form. Fax it back as soon as Alice signs it.”

  “What are you planning to do to the body?”

  “We’ll take a bone sample from the skeleton and have it compared to Alice’s DNA. Also, I’ll ask for fresh X-rays of the teeth.”

  “Who will do the examination?” Parker asked.

  “A forensic anthropologist,” Kerney replied.

  “How long will this take to accomplish?”

  “Disinterring the body can be done quickly,” Kerney said. “Using a private lab for the testing will cut the turnaround time significantly. We should have results and some answers within a matter of a few weeks, if not sooner.”

  “I’d better go get Alice ready for all of this,” Parker said.

  “Thank you, Ms. Parker.”

  “Please, it’s Penelope,” Parker replied with a girlish, teasing tone. “Although I must say I like a gentleman with good manners.”

  Kerney laughed politely, got the fax number, disconnected, and called Alice Spalding’s lawyer.

  Ramona Pino and Matt Chacon rolled up to Griffin’s house to find the front door ajar and nobody home. They did a quick visual room check, and found clothes missing from the master bedroom closet and a laptop computer gone from a desk in the home office.

  Ramona stood in the middle of the living room and gazed out the open front door. “Okay, he’s running,” she said. “But why? What for? And where?”

  Chacon wandered around the room pulling furniture away from the walls, kicking over scatter rugs, pummeling the pillows on the eight-foot-long couch. “Drugs,” he said. “It’s gotta be drugs.”

  Ramona walked to the telephone, punched in the code to connect to the number of the last incoming call, listened to a clerk answer at a local building supplier, and disconnected. “He’s dealing pharmaceuticals and weed,” she said. “What else?”

  “Harder stuff,” Chacon suggested, “or maybe a heavy volume of grass.”

  “Ten pounds isn’t exactly lightweight.” Ramona listened to the messages on the answering machine. One from a slightly pissed-off homeowner, demanding to know why Griffin hadn’t yet fixed the tile caulking on the kitchen backsplash, caught her attention.

  “But let’s assume,” she said, “he has a really big stash warehoused somewhere. Do we know where Griffin is building houses? Supposedly, it’s nearby.”

  Chacon shook his head. “There are new houses going up all around La Cienega.”

  Ramona played back the message again
, wrote down the irate homeowner’s number, called, and got a busy tone. “Think upscale houses,” she said as she flipped through a phone book. The homeowner wasn’t listed.

  “Willow Creek Estates,” Chacon said, “near the interstate.”

  Ramona dropped the phone in the cradle. “No listing.” She pawed through a file drawer in the desk and pulled out a copy of the construction contract for the homeowner. “The guy who called Griffin lives on La Jara Way.”

  “Which means scrub willow in Spanish,” Chacon said.

  Ramona headed for the door. “Let’s take a tour of Willow Creek Estates.”

  The subdivision covered a lot of territory and was so new none of their maps included it. They divided it up into halves, and cruised the paved streets. Once a ranch owned by a former governor, it was slowly being transformed into a gated residential community. There were large faux adobe houses on five- and ten-acre lots. Some were nestled along a tree windbreak that shielded the highway from view, while others were tucked out of sight behind low hills. Occupied homes were scattered here and there between houses in various stages of construction. All of them were typical Santa Fe style, with flat roofs, enclosed courtyards, portals, earth-tone stucco finishes, two or more fireplaces, and attached garages. Although not as expensive as the more exclusive foothills houses favored by the very rich, Ramona figured they had to be selling in the mid-to-high six-figure range.

  She topped out on a hill and saw four unmarked vehicles, all with emergency lights flashing, parked in front of an unfinished house covered in a plaster scratch coat. Griffin’s pickup truck stood next to a small construction trailer. Men wearing Windbreakers were going in and out of the house and trailer.

  By radio, she gave Matt Chacon the word, gave dispatch her twenty, and asked what was up at her location.

  “We have no reported activity in your area,” dispatch replied.

  “Well, get ready for some.” Ramona hit her emergency lights and drove toward the house. The man who stopped her at the driveway had a DEA ID attached to a lanyard around his neck.