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  Gilbert reached for the telephone just as Chief Kerney appeared in the doorway. “Chief,” he said, pulling his hand away from the receiver.

  “Sergeant,” Kerney replied with a smile. “I understand you’ve been assigned as my partner.”

  “I’ll try not to cramp your style,” Gilbert said, smiling back.

  “Do you have anything new on Carlos Ruiz?”

  “Nada. We don’t even know where he is.”

  “What about Enrique DeLeon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Fletcher met a man last night named Vicente Fuentes. He’s pretty sure Fuentes is a Mexican national. He said you have a snapshot of him that was taken at the O’Keeffe Museum benefit.”

  “Has Fletcher been playing detective again?” Gilbert asked, handing the photograph to Kerney.

  “It would seem so.” Kerney looked at the photograph and froze.

  “What is it?”

  “Enrique DeLeon,” he said, tossing the picture on the desktop. “Have this photo enlarged and cropped. Give it to every officer in the district. I want DeLeon located ASAP. Hit Rancho Caballo hard. Put an entire team on it.”

  Gilbert slid the NCIC hit on Bucky across the desk.

  Kerney scanned it. “What else do you have on Watson?”

  “He’s been funneling millions into Rancho Caballo through a company called Matador Properties, and getting it back in accelerated repayments.”

  “Put somebody on it to do a full probe,” Kerney said. “We need to know if Watson is linked to DeLeon.”

  “Sherman Cobb and Roger Springer are officers in Rancho Caballo.”

  “Dig into it,” Kerney said.

  “Is that all?” Gilbert asked as Kerney stood in the doorway.

  Kerney grinned. “Try not to piss off Roger Springer again for a while.”

  “Don’t make me wait for the other shoe to drop, Chief,” Gilbert said. “Give me the full skinny.”

  “I’ve been ordered to reprimand you.”

  Gilbert sighed. “What should I expect?”

  “Nothing. I refused to comply. What did you do to Springer, anyhow?”

  Gilbert laid out the specifics. “Springer’s reaction sealed it,” he concluded. “If he wasn’t screwing Amanda Talley on his uncle’s office carpet, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Very slick, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “Slightly over the edge, but slick nonetheless.”

  Gilbert smiled at the compliment. “I won’t do it again, promise. Any word from Belize on the Amanda Talley double?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Kerney replied. “The Belize authorities reported that Amanda Talley fell overboard from an excursion vessel and has presumably drowned. The body hasn’t been recovered.”

  “This could turn into a very interesting day.”

  “It already has.”

  “Chief, can I borrow your unit, if you’re not using it? Mine’s in the shop.”

  Kerney tossed him the keys. “While you’re out, check in on Fletcher occasionally, will you?”

  “Sure thing,” Gilbert said. “Thanks for going to bat for me.”

  “What got into you with Springer?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Maybe you can tell me about it over a beer when the case is wrapped up.”

  “I’d like that,” Gilbert said.

  • • •

  Kerney returned to the conference room and found a telephone message from Addie Randall, asking him to come to the Socorro hospital maternity ward to talk with her. He was about to call her back when Andy walked in looking very unhappy. He sat down, scratched his cheek, and scowled.

  “Well, do you have to fire me?” Kerney asked.

  “If the governor’s chief of staff had his way, you’d be out the door on your ass for refusing to reprimand Sergeant Martinez.”

  “Did you get raked over the coals?”

  “Big time. It’s not nice to upset the governor’s nephew. I told the chief of staff to put the request to terminate you and transfer Martinez in writing over Harper Springer’s signature. I also told him if I was ordered to do it, he could have my shield.”

  “You put it on the line, didn’t you?” Kerney said.

  Andy grunted. “It didn’t win me any popularity contests at the Roundhouse.”

  “But the troops will love it when the word gets out,” Kerney predicted. He looked at the message in his hand. “Can I use the helicopter for a quick trip to Socorro? I’ve got one last interview to conduct in the Gillespie murder case.”

  “Do it. Get out of my sight. Today, you’d be nothing but an albatross around my neck.”

  “You get so irritable when your butt gets chewed.”

  “I know it,” Andy said. “Don’t waste time in Socorro. I want these cases cleared before we both get the boot.”

  “Is that likely?” Kerney asked.

  “Politics is the art of the possible.”

  • • •

  The state police helicopters and all the fixed-wing aircraft were tied up on assignments until mid-morning. When he finally boarded a chopper, Kerney expected to reach Socorro in under an hour. Instead, he found himself stranded at the Los Lunas Airport, fifty miles north of his destination. A winter squall had moved across the central plateau, bringing sleet, freezing rain, and wind gusts of fifty knots an hour.

  By radio, Kerney asked for ground transportation, but all available units were out handling fender benders on the interstate.

  The morning passed as he waited in the chopper with the pilot and listened to the sleet and rain pelt against the metal skin of the aircraft. There were no public facilities at the airport, and nowhere to go; Santa Fe and Albuquerque were socked in under heavy fog.

  Every ten minutes the pilot checked by radio on weather updates. A young man with an easy, laid-back attitude, the kid had plucked two stranded hunters out of a remote canyon near the Colorado border before flying down to pick Kerney up for the trip to Socorro.

  The pilot cracked chewing gum, hummed to himself, and kept looking for a break in the cloud cover.

  “If the wind lets up and I see a hole, we can slip right through, Chief,” he promised.

  During his tour in Vietnam—maybe about the time this kid was born, if he stretched it a bit—Kerney had decided that chopper pilots were a totally insane breed of adrenaline junkies. Over the years, his opinion hadn’t changed.

  “You think so?” Kerney asked.

  The pilot nodded emphatically and rubbed his nose. “No sweat. A little less wind, a little more sky, and we can cut right through the squall. Most of these low-level disturbances come in pulses. I can usually find a window to get through. But I’ve got to get airborne to see it.”

  Kerney knew that seasoned chopper pilots, aside from being crazy, were highly competent. They had to be to survive in such unforgiving flying machines.

  “How long have you been a pilot?” he asked.

  “Six years. Three in the army and three with the state police.”

  Kerney latched his seat belt. “Find your window and get me to Socorro,” he said.

  “You got it, Chief,” the kid replied as he hit the starter switch.

  • • •

  After three abortive attempts and two hours in the air, Kerney arrived at the Socorro Airport a little green around the gills, where an obliging city cop waited to drive him to the hospital.

  At the hospital, he almost ran over Nita Lassiter on his way to the maternity ward. She looked tired and her eyes were red from crying.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Did Addie have her baby?”

  “A girl, early this morning. The adoption agency has guardianship. Addie signed the papers.” She searched Kerney’s face with her eyes. “Now, answer my question.”

  “Addie wants to see me.”

  “No,” Nita snapped. “I don’t want you to see her.”

  “It’s her decision.”

  “Please don’t do this.”


  Kerney looked down at her. “Addie can help you, Nita. Why don’t you let her?”

  “I don’t want her damaged any more than she has been.”

  “Did you tell Addie that you’re her mother?”

  Nita bit her lip and nodded.

  “How did she take it?”

  “She cried a lot. We both did. Then she got angry with me.”

  “Is she still angry?”

  “Drained. I’ve been forgiven. On a gut level, I think she already knew. I think she’s glad to have the truth finally come out.”

  “Only part of the truth has come out,” Kerney noted. “Addie is young and resilient. Don’t force her to live under another cloud.”

  “Let it be, Mr. Kerney. Please.”

  “In ten or twenty years, if the parole board ever releases you from prison, your chance to help Addie make a life for herself will be long gone. Are you willing to throw that away?”

  The thought hit Nita full force and her body stiffened. “You make it so hard,” she finally said, forcing a pinched smile.

  “It is hard,” Kerney replied. “But I think you’re up to it.”

  Nita searched Kerney’s face with a probing look. His eyes were sympathetic, his expression concerned. “Why do you care?”

  He smiled. “You make it hard not to.”

  “It makes my stomach hurt.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Only if you come with me for moral support.”

  “Of course,” Kerney said.

  In the hospital room Verdie Mae sat on the edge of the bed holding Addie’s hand. Her eyes flickered from Kerney to Nita as they entered, and she squeezed Addie’s hand before rising.

  Addie looked pale and drained. The ruffled high-collared nightgown gave her face a touch of innocence that Kerney could only hope the girl retained.

  Verdie Mae walked to Nita and touched her cheek. “Is everything all right?” she asked Nita with a quick glance in Kerney’s direction.

  “Everything’s fine,” Nita said, looking past Verdie Mae at Addie. “Give us a minute with Addie.”

  Verdie Mae held Nita’s gaze with an unspoken question in her eyes.

  Nita smiled tightly and nodded once.

  Verdie smiled back, relief showing on her face, and patted Nita reassuringly on the arm. “I’ll wait outside.”

  She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Hello, Addie,” Kerney said.

  “Hello,” Addie replied. “I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

  “I got here as soon as I could,” Kerney said.

  “When we talked before, you said you wanted to help me.”

  “I did say that,” Kerney replied, “and I meant it.”

  “Would it help Nita?” She switched her gaze to Nita. “I mean, would it help my mother?”

  “You know what your mother might be facing, don’t you?”

  “Maybe going to prison for a long time. You know what I think, Mr. Kerney?”

  “What’s that, Addie?”

  “I think rapists should be killed or castrated. Every one of them.”

  “The world would be a much better place without rapists,” Kerney said. “Did Paul Gillespie rape you?”

  “Yes.”

  Kerney held up a hand to stop Addie from continuing. “Before you say more, your mother has something to tell you.”

  Hesitantly, Nita approached Addie and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What is it?” Addie asked.

  “A long time ago, Paul Gillespie raped me. I got pregnant and had a baby,” Nita said. “Do you know what that means?”

  Addie’s expression turned to stunned repulsion. “Oh God, no.”

  “Yes,” Nita said. “It’s true.” She pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tightly.

  Kerney slipped out of the room. Fifteen minutes passed before Nita opened the door and gestured for him to come in. Both Nita and Addie were red faced and teary eyed.

  “You don’t have to talk to me now,” Kerney said.

  “I want to,” Addie answered flatly.

  He turned on the tape recorder and started the session. Addie answered Kerney’s questions in a lifeless voice.

  After it was over, Kerney left feeling as deadened as Addie had sounded during the interview.

  • • •

  A four-foot wall enclosed the front yard of the two-story house across from Fletcher’s residence. Mature pine trees fanned thick branches over the wall into the lane. Where the lane ended stood a six-foot cedar fence. An old garage sat perpendicular to the house, close to the property line. There were no lights on inside the two-story house.

  Carlos knew no one was home. Using his cellular phone, he’d called the residence every five minutes since arriving at the stakeout and putting the team in place.

  He stood shivering in a dark recess between the fence and the garage. From his vantage point he could see the locations of two of his men. One was crouched behind the wall under a tree directly across from Fletcher Hartley’s house. The other was in a prone position behind some large landscape boulders near the guest quarters. The third member of the team was at the back of the house, ready to climb the garden wall and storm the patio door as soon as Carlos gave the signal.

  Each member of the team wore a radio headset with an attached microphone, a black hood, and a black police-style tactical-duty outfit.

  Headlights came into view on the street and slowed to enter the entrance to the narrow lane. He watched through binoculars as the car turned into Fletcher’s driveway, and read the license plate. It was Kerney’s police car.

  “He has arrived,” he whispered in Spanish into his headset. “Wait for my command.”

  • • •

  “This is the third time today you’ve checked up on me, Gilbert,” Fletcher said. “I’m starting to feel that I’m under house arrest.”

  “Has everything been quiet?” Gilbert asked, following Fletcher into the kitchen.

  “I’m completely bored.” Fletcher stood at the counter and poured coffee into two cups. “There have been no strangers at the door, no mysterious phone calls, and the only traffic in the lane has been police cars driving back and forth every hour or so.” He carried the cups to the table and joined Gilbert. “This is all rather silly.”

  “Probably,” Gilbert said.

  “Then why all the fuss?”

  “Just a precaution,” Gilbert answered.

  “Piffle,” Fletcher said.

  “Piffle? Do you think you’re Nero Wolfe?”

  Before Fletcher could answer, the sound of shattering glass from the back of the house brought Gilbert to his feet. He heard wood splintering at the front door. He pulled Fletcher out of his chair, put the cordless kitchen phone in Fletcher’s hand, and pointed to the garage passageway.

  “Go,” he ordered. “Crawl under your car and hide. Call 911, give them the address, and say a crime is in progress and an officer needs assistance. Do it now.”

  He pushed a panicked Fletcher toward the passageway, doused the kitchen lights, and drew his weapon. Another cracking sound against the front door shattered the silence. He dropped into a low crouch, crept into the dining room, and killed the lights. He could feel cold air coursing along the floor from the front hallway.

  Gilbert figured there were two, maybe three people inside, converging on him. The only possible escape would be through the garage, if it wasn’t covered by somebody on the outside.

  He retreated to the kitchen, removed the cups, and quietly dropped the massive table on its side. He rotated it until the top could be used as a shield, and pulled it by the legs as he inched backward to the passageway.

  He crouched down, took a quick glance above the barricade, and saw the hallway lights go out. He counted five seconds and took another look. He could see the shapes of two men in the dining room, one with his back pressed against the wall, the other bent low.
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  Gilbert’s options were limited. He could either make a stand or back off. Risking a break could put Fletcher in danger. He pulled his spare clip from the magazine holder. If he could take these two out, maybe he could protect Fletcher until help arrived.

  He fixed the position of the two men in his mind’s eye and stretched out on his back with his head up and the nine-millimeter clutched in both hands between his legs. He took one deep breath and kicked hard at the table to upend it. The shooters opened up on full automatic, rounds tearing into the wall and pantry inches above Gilbert’s head. He double-fired repeatedly at the two targets until his clip emptied.

  He ejected the spent magazine and loaded the spare. As he readied to pull off more rounds, he realized the shooting had stopped. He looked at the target zones; there were two downed bodies. He fanned his weapon back and forth, ready to fire again if either moved. Nothing happened. He slithered around, keeping the targets in sight. Then he flipped quickly onto his stomach, belly-crawled to the bodies, and checked them. Both were dead.

  He hurried into the garage and found Fletcher hiding under his car, shaking like a leaf. “Did you call?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Stay put. Where’s the remote for the garage door opener?”

  “On the visor in my car.”

  “Where are your car keys?”

  “In the house.”

  “Dammit.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “There may be more people outside.” Gilbert climbed on the hood of Fletcher’s car, popped off the light cover to the opener, and unscrewed the bulb. “Crawl to the front of the car and hide behind the tire. Make yourself as small as possible.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Do you have a gun in your glove box?” Gilbert asked as he jumped off the hood of the car.

  “No, I don’t own a gun.”

  “Too bad.” In a crouch, he worked his way around the vehicle, opened both car doors, grabbed the remote door opener, and turned off the interior light.

  “What are you doing?” Fletcher hissed.

  “Trying to buy us some time.” From the driver’s side with the doors open, Gilbert had a clear shot if someone stormed through the passageway door, and a good field of fire into the driveway once he opened the overhead door.