Serpent Gate Page 20

  “You lost an officer?”

  “Several hours ago. Gunned down at a south capitol residence. I can’t tell you more than that right now.”

  “What a damn shame.” Toby shook his head.

  “Tell me about your contract with Matador.”

  “It brings in a good third of my gross annual billings. I’ve had the contract for five years.”

  “Does the contract cover all his properties?”

  “Just about. He lives in Rancho Caballo, and the subdivision provides security, so we don’t cover his home.”

  “How many separate buildings do you patrol?”

  “Forty-six, but it’s more than just patrol work. At the apartment complexes I provide twenty-four-hour security. And I staff the larger retail outlets with round-the-clock personnel.”

  “How many properties does Watson own?”

  “A bunch of them,” Toby said. “I’ve got two contracts with Watson, one for his Matador Properties and one for his Magia Corporation.”

  “What do you cover for Magia?”

  “Shopping malls, mini-malls, strip malls, discount malls, warehouses, self-storage units—that sort of stuff.”

  “Is there anything you don’t cover?”

  “Well, not really.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Bucky owns an art-crating business in an old Victorian house. He said it didn’t need any security.”

  “He told you about it?”

  “No, I asked him. We patrol a nightclub and restaurant across the street for another company. My night man who works that sector saw Bucky at the house a couple of times and told me about it. I asked Watson if he wanted to add the building to the contract, and he said no. But I have my man keep an eye on the place, anyway.”

  “Have you gotten any reports of unusual activity at the shop?”

  “Nope.”

  “How long has your man worked for you?”

  “Over four years. He’s an ex–correctional officer from the state pen.”

  “Reliable?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is he on duty now?”

  “He sure is.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Max Olguin.”

  “Can you have him meet me outside the nightclub?”

  “Can do.” Toby wrote down the address and gave it to Kerney. “I’ll have him there in ten minutes.”

  • • •

  Max Olguin opened the passenger door to Kerney’s unit and got in. The bench seat sagged under his bulk. An overweight man somewhere in his late thirties, with a chubby face and a crew cut, Olguin shook Kerney’s outstretched hand.

  “I’m Kevin Kerney.”

  “I know,” Max said. “I used to see you at the pen when you were still with the city police.”

  “It wasn’t my favorite place to visit.”

  “Or work at,” Max added. “They ought to send the staff home, seal the perimeter, give each convict a loaded assault rifle, and let them have at it. Those sons of bitches would be killing each other within minutes. That would solve prison overcrowding, big time.”

  “Until the courts filled them up again,” Kerney noted.

  Max grunted in agreement. “But still, it would give us a break from the scumbags for a while. Toby said you needed to talk to me.”

  “I understand you keep an eye on the art-crating business.”

  “Yeah. It’s not official or anything. I check it when I patrol the nightclub. Just a visual from my car.”

  “Have you noticed anything suspicious or unusual?”

  “Not really. A couple of times I got a little concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “Trucks in the alley late at night.”

  “Was there any activity around the trucks?”

  “Yeah. Guys loading and unloading crates. Watson’s car was always there, so I figured everything was cool.”

  “You know Watson’s car?”

  “Sure do. I give it special attention, so it doesn’t get broken into or stolen. The boss says it doesn’t hurt to keep the clients happy with a little extra service.”

  “Describe the trucks to me.”

  “One time they unloaded a panel truck and a minivan, and another time they were loading a ten-ton Ford.”

  “Did you ever get a look at the cargo?”

  “Nope. I just saw them carrying crates. All different sizes.”

  “Have you seen Watson at the crating shop recently?”

  “Last night I saw his car parked outside on the street.”

  “Did you see Watson?”

  “No, just his car and two other vehicles parked in front of the building. The inside lights were on, so I figured Watson was there and had some of his people working.”

  “What other kind of vehicles were parked there?”

  “A pickup and a subcompact. I’ve seen both before.”

  “No large trucks?”

  “Nope. But trucks could have come and gone before I came back on my next round.”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  “Sure thing,” Max said, easing his bulk out of the unit.

  Kerney sat in the unit mulling over what Max had told him. He had a strong hunch Bucky wasn’t shipping only fine art. He needed to find a way to prove it without conducting an illegal search.

  He waited until Olguin drove away, got a flashlight from the glove box, walked across the street, and stood in front of the Victorian house. It had a deep porch supported by white-painted columns with two large windows flanking the front entrance. He walked around the building. A concrete loading dock jutted out from the rear entrance with steps on one side and a ramp on the other. A power line ran from a pole to an electric meter mounted on the corner of the building. The junction box below the meter caught Kerney’s attention. A circuit had been added to the house, and a conduit ran from the box into the ground. Kerney wondered if the building had a basement.

  At the front, he inspected the latticework grill that bordered the porch. A side section was hinged to provide access. He crawled under the porch and found a wooden insert covering a hole cut in the rock foundation, wide enough for a man to crawl through.

  He pulled the insert loose, set it aside, and swept the darkness with the beam of the flashlight. About a quarter of the crawl space was sectioned off by walls that disappeared below grade. The electrical conduit at the back of the house ran straight into it.

  Kerney crawled in for a better look. A three-sided stud-and-plywood enclosure butted up against the foundation. It was sloppy, substandard construction, and Kerney had no doubt it had been built without a permit.

  Outside, Kerney dusted himself off. He wanted to know what was in the basement. If his hunch about the permit was right, it might be possible to find out without risking an illegal break-in.

  • • •

  Alex Castillo, a customs narcotics agent called up from Albuquerque, held a Vietnamese potbellied pig in his arms and eyed the state cop.

  “What’s the pig’s name?” Kerney asked.

  “Mabel.”

  “Does she have a good sense of smell?”

  Castillo grimaced. It was four o’clock in the morning and he wasn’t in a mood for pig jokes. Every cop who met Mabel for the first time turned into a stand-up comic.

  “If the narcotics are there, Mabel will tell me,” Castillo replied. He scratched the pig behind the ears. Mabel snorted.

  “Can she detect drug residue?”

  “Mabel has a great nose, Chief. Bury it, bag it, sweep it up—it doesn’t matter to Mabel. She’ll sniff it out. Where do you want her?”

  “Under the porch in the crawl space to the house.”

  “Do you have a search warrant?” Castillo asked.

  “I have reason to believe there are controlled substances stored inside.”

  Castillo shook his head in disagreement. “Anything we find will be considered an illegal search and seizure.”

  “I plan to find the stash legal
ly,” Kerney said.

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Whatever I do won’t involve you or Mabel.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” Castillo said as he dropped to his knees. “Give me your flashlight, Chief.”

  Kerney handed it over, and Castillo tugged gently at Mabel’s leash before disappearing under the porch. The pig lowered her snout and waddled willingly along.

  Kerney spent an anxious five minutes waiting for Castillo to reappear. Mabel came out first. She snorted once and gave herself a good shake.

  “Bingo,” Castillo said as he crawled out. He stood up, reached into a pocket, and fed Mabel a treat. “Mabel tells me you’ve got a lot of product in there.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She gets real excited when she sniffs out a big stash.”

  “That’s not possible. You and Mabel were never here,” Kerney said with a smile.

  “I like your style, Chief,” Alex said. “Good luck catching the bad guys.”

  • • •

  At the office, Kerney called the city building code supervisor, woke him up, and asked to meet him in person as soon as possible. Morris Wadley grudgingly agreed, and Kerney drove the predawn empty streets to a small residential subdivision that bordered Cerrillos Road. Built soon after World War II, it was a respectable middle-class neighborhood of pueblo-style, flat-roofed houses on good-size lots. Like most post-war developments, many of the homes had been expanded with second stories and additions as the baby boom swept the country.

  Wadley opened the door dressed in a robe and slippers. A pale, short fellow with baby-fine blond hair, he had sleep-filled eyes and a prominent vein in his forehead that caught Kerney’s attention.

  In a dining area off the living room, Kerney joined Wadley at the table.

  “You said on the phone that you needed some information immediately,” Wadley said through a yawn.

  “And perhaps your help,” Kerney added. “I want to take a look inside a building without violating anybody’s constitutional rights.”

  “Is the building under construction or being renovated?”

  “No, but I believe a basement has been added without benefit of a permit. Does your office accept anonymous complaints from citizens?”

  “All the time. Most neighbors don’t like to get in squabbles with each other. Let’s say some guy is building a carport without a permit. We’ll get a call and go check it out.”

  “What about commercial remodeling and renovation?”

  “We inspect every commercial project in the city.”

  “Do you have unrestricted access to the site?”

  “You bet we do. The city ordinance gives code enforcement inspectors the authority to enter any structure for the purposes of determining compliance with building standards. It’s part of the health, safety, and welfare laws.”

  “What if you’re denied entry?”

  “That happens a couple of times a year,” Wadley replied. “I usually refer the problem to the city attorney and let the lawyers fight it out. In the end, we always get inside.”

  “Have you ever asked for police assistance to enter a property?”

  “Once, I had to. State statutes allow it. Any structure under construction or being remodeled must pass an inspection. Police officers can be called upon to render assistance.”

  “What if the construction or remodeling was completed sometime in the past?”

  Wadley smiled for the first time. “That doesn’t matter. We can still inspect, if it’s brought to our attention.”

  “What kind of inspection do you do?” Kerney probed.

  “We go through the skin, down to the studs, into the footings if we have to—you name it. We can check the composition of the concrete pour, the wiring, plumbing, heating, the rafters—whatever. We can even order a structure to be demolished if it’s deemed unsafe for occupation. That’s especially important in times of a natural disaster or catastrophe.”

  “Would you be willing to use a state police officer to assist in gaining entry to a building?”

  “You want to take a look around, do you?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t use your people. What building do you want to take a look at?”

  Kerney filled Wadley in on the building’s location.

  Wadley nodded. “That structure is in the Guadalupe Historic District. I know exactly where it is. I don’t remember any review hearing for a building permit.”

  “You’d remember?”

  “You bet I would. The code is strict when it comes to historic preservation. We’re constantly battling owners who want the rules bent for old structures. We stay on top of those projects. Have to.”

  “I believe the passageway to the basement may be concealed.”

  “That sounds interesting,” Wadley said with a smile. “I may do this inspection myself. If it’s there, I’ll find it. You still haven’t told me what you’re looking for.”

  “Faulty wiring,” Kerney answered with a grin.

  Wadley laughed. “When do you want to meet?”

  “The business opens at nine o’clock. I’ll have a patrol officer standing by to assist you. He’ll be fully briefed.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  • • •

  Kerney checked with his personnel before going to talk to Andy. Two agents were keeping tabs on Bucky Watson. As soon as Watson had settled into his Rancho Caballo house for the night, one agent had taken up a position at the gated entrance road, while the second kept close surveillance on Watson’s house with night-vision goggles. Watson hadn’t moved.

  At the art-crating shop, a patrol officer watched the premises from a discreet distance. Everything was quiet.

  Kerney briefed Andy on the scheme.

  “How many men do you want to use?” Andy asked.

  “Just three,” Kerney replied. “Two agents stationed out of sight, and a uniformed officer to accompany Wadley into the premises.”

  “Narcotics agents?” Andy asked.

  “No. I don’t want the slightest hint to crop up that we expected to find drugs.”

  “This Wadley guy; he’s willing to say the complaint was anonymous?”

  “If everything goes right, he won’t have to say anything.”

  “But if he’s called as a witness in court, we can kiss the case against Watson good-bye.”

  “Do you have a better way to squeeze Bucky?”

  “What about the money-laundering angle?”

  “Joe Valdez is working on it, but it could take time.”

  “What if all you find in the basement is some drug residue?”

  “My friend Mabel the pig assures me there’s more than residue inside. I’ll set up a meeting with Watson, tell him I need to ask him about Amanda Talley, and time it to coincide with the building inspection at the shop. If all goes well, I’ll arrest him as soon as the drugs are uncovered.”

  “You have a lot of faith in Mabel.”

  “She’s got a great nose.”

  Joe Valdez, looking decidedly rumpled and glassy-eyed from his all-night stint at work, appeared in the doorway. “Got a minute?” he asked.

  “Sure, Joe,” Andy said. “What have you got?”

  “I’ve located the insurance agent who handles Bucky Watson’s commercial accounts. He’s faxing me a list of all the Matador holdings insured by his company.”

  “Good work,” Kerney said.

  Joe nodded his thanks. “This agent also insures Bucky’s Rancho Caballo homes. Just as a matter of interest, I asked him if he insured any other Rancho Caballo homeowners. He carries one other policy in the subdivision, for a client Bucky referred to him. It’s a Mexican corporation called Tortuga International.”

  “Tortuga?” Kerney said. The word meant “turtle” in Spanish, and DeLeon’s Juárez casino was called the Little Turtle.

  “That’s right,” Joe replied. “Anyway, I asked a buddy
who works at the corporation commission to go in early and do a search on Tortuga. It’s a real estate holding company with an office in the southern part of the state. The CEO’s name is Vicente Fuentes, aka Enrique DeLeon.”

  “Do you have an address for the property?” Kerney asked.

  “I wrote everything down,” Valdez said, handing Kerney a piece of paper.

  “That’s damn good work, Joe,” Kerney said.

  “I just asked the right question, Chief. By the way, Watson controls two corporations: Matador and Magia. I’d like to follow up to see if there’s any connection to Tortuga. It may take me a while.”

  “Hit it as hard as you can,” Andy said, “and keep Chief Kerney informed.”

  “Okay,” Joe said as he cracked a tired smile and left the room.

  Andy got out of his chair, walked to the front of the desk, and perched against it. “I’m assuming you have everyone briefed and ready to go.”

  “They’re on station,” Kerney answered, unwinding from his chair. His knee felt stiff and cranky. He stretched it out to ease the muscles.

  “Well, then, have at it,” Andy said as he plucked the piece of paper with DeLeon’s Rancho Caballo address from Kerney’s hand. “I’ll put a surveillance team on DeLeon’s house.”

  “Remember, DeLeon’s got diplomatic immunity.”

  “Yeah, but Vicente Fuentes doesn’t. I’ll think of a way to get us inside.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Cut the sarcasm, Kerney.”

  • • •

  Senior Patrol Officer Clyde Piatt knew exactly who was inside the art-crating shop. Using the onboard computer in his unit, he’d run a record check on the vehicles as soon as each of the two men drove up, parked, and went into the house.

  It was amazing what could be learned from a license plate number these days. The registered owners were Skip Cornell and Kiko Segura, and his screen even displayed driver’s license photos, which allowed Piatt to confirm their identities.

  There were no wants, warrants, or rap sheets on either man, but that didn’t mean shit.

  A seventeen-year veteran of the force, Piatt had come to appreciate the new technology. It sometimes made it possible to know in advance whom you would be dealing with. Clyde thought that was fucking marvelous. The more you knew, the less the danger, if you stayed prepared for the unexpected.