Slow Kill Read online

  Chapter 11

  By choice, Kerney spent very little time in Albuquerque, driving down from Santa Fe only for necessary business or to catch a plane at the airport. But after leaving Jerry Grant he lingered at a diner over a cup of hot tea and called the half-dozen Calderwoods listed in the local phone book. He made contact with four people who professed no knowledge of, or kinship to, the long-lost Debbie, and left messages for the others.

  To make sure he hadn’t missed anyone, he called the phone company and asked for any unlisted numbers under the Calderwood name. There were none. He closed the dog-eared, grease-stained directory he’d borrowed from a waitress, drank his tea, and looked around the diner. By the front cashier station a row of booths lined one wall. Perpendicular to the booths was a serving station in front of swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Behind a long counter with padded stools a waitress refilled a trucker ’s coffee cup.

  Kerney liked diners, not for the food but because they made great people-watching places. An elderly couple at one of the nearby tables carefully examined their menus and discussed whether they should order the early-bird dinner special. The woman wore loose-fitting slacks and a summer blouse, the man jeans and a short-sleeved shirt topped off by a ball cap adorned with tourist pins from the places he’d visited.

  In one of the booths along the wall, a young couple in shorts, T-shirts, and hiking boots sat next to each other studying a map. By the look of their tanned legs, arms, and faces, Kerney figured them to be college students doing some high country backpacking on summer break.

  He picked up the phone directory again and turned to the business listings on the off-chance the name Calderwood would appear. There was a Calderwood Farm Equipment Company on North Second Street. He called and got a recording announcing the business was closed for the day. Since it wasn’t far, Kerney decided to swing by and take a look at the place.

  He avoided rush hour on the interstate and found his way to Second Street, an area of seedy commercial buildings, warehouses, and low-end used car lots that paralleled the train tracks a block away. Calderwood Farm Equipment sat across the street from a city vehicle maintenance yard. Tractors, horse trailers, field cultivators, and large metal water tanks filled the lot behind a chain-link fence. The gate was open and a late model cream-colored Cadillac sat in front of a building that had once been a heavy equipment garage, the tall bay doors now replaced with showroom windows.

  The entrance was locked and the man who answered Kerney’s knock wore a dress shirt, tie, and slacks that were badly wrinkled around the crotch from too much sitting. Chunky with a fold of loose skin under his chin, the man flashed Kerney a broad smile.

  “I don’t suppose you’re interested in that sweet 480-horsepower tractor out on the lot,” he said jovially after inspecting Kerney’s credentials.

  “I’m looking for Calderwood,” Kerney said.

  “You’re about twenty years too late. I bought him out but kept the company name.”

  “Can you point me in his direction?” Kerney asked.

  “He died two years after I took over the business. I guess retirement didn’t suit him.”

  “Did he have a wife, children?”

  The man’s expression darkened. “Don’t get me started on his wife. When I bought the company I couldn’t afford to purchase the property, so Calderwood gave me a two-year option on the building. His wife wouldn’t renew it after he died. Said she needed the rental income. I’ve been paying for her tour ship cruises and European vacations ever since.”

  “How can I find Mrs. Calderwood?”

  “She got remarried ten years ago to a retired university professor. Now she’s Mrs. Kessler. She lives on Twelfth Street, not too far from here.”

  “Does she have any children?” Kerney asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Can you give me her address?”

  “Sure, if you tell me what this is all about.”

  “I’m looking for a missing person named Debbie Calderwood. Does that name ring a bell?”

  The man shook his head. “You know, I worked for Calderwood for five years before he sold me the business. Never once did I meet any of his relatives or get invited over to his house. Both he and his wife were the most private people you could ever know. They never talked about anything personal. I can’t tell you a darn thing about that family.”

  Kerney left with an address for Mrs. Kessler and drove to Twelfth Street. Until 1880, Albuquerque had been a small, predominantly Spanish settlement near the Rio Grande River. Within a year after the arrival of the railroad two miles east of the village, a new town sprang up that soon overshadowed the old Plaza as a center of commerce and business.

  Over time, the old and new towns began to merge as the city grew. Anglo merchants, bankers, doctors, and lawyers bought up lots near what was to become downtown Albuquerque, and built grand homes for their families. Those houses still stood in a lovely old residential neighborhood that included Twelfth Street.

  The Kessler residence was a Victorian classic with a steeply pitched roof running front to back and exposed timbering on the upper story. It had a Palladian window centered in a wall projection that jutted out above a narrow gabled porch supported by heavy square-cut posts.

  Kerney climbed the broad porch stairs and turned the crank of the mechanical doorbell attached to the paneled oak front door. The tinny, weak trill of it made him crank the bell again a bit harder.

  A few minutes passed before the door opened to reveal a small, lean, elderly woman with sharp features magnified by a peevish expression.

  Kerney held out his badge case. “Mrs. Kessler, I’m with the Santa Fe Police Department.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Mrs. Kessler said, without a hint of humor. “Whatever do you want?”

  “I’d like you to tell me what you know about Debbie Calderwood.”

  Kessler’s slate-gray eyes registered no expression, but she wrinkled her nose a bit at the mention of Debbie’s name. “Debbie?” she said. “I haven’t seen or heard from her in over thirty years.”

  “Is she related to you?” Kerney asked.

  Kessler bared her tiny teeth in a tight, polite smile. “Why are you asking me about her?”

  “I’m attempting to locate her,” Kerney replied.

  “Well, I’m certainly not someone who can help you,” Kessler said, her voice tinged with displeasure.

  “Learning about Debbie’s family could be very helpful. I’d appreciate hearing whatever you can tell me.”

  Kessler stayed silent for a long moment, so Kerney prodded her a bit. “This is an official police investigation, Mrs. Kessler.”

  “Debbie was my first husband’s niece,” Kessler said tonelessly. “Her parents relocated to Arkansas after she finished high school. She stayed behind to go to college and moved into a dormitory on campus. Then she got caught up in all that antiwar, free speech movement that was going on at the time, and started using drugs.”

  “You didn’t approve of her behavior?”

  “No, we didn’t. Her parents laid the blame for her poor judgment on our doorstep, said we hadn’t looked out for her enough. It caused a rift between my husband and his brother that never healed.”

  Mrs. Kessler obviously wasn’t one to forgive and forget. Kerney played into it. “That must have been very unpleasant for you and your husband.”

  “Indeed, it was. We tried to help Debbie as much as we could. We gave her things to furnish her dorm room, had her over for Sunday dinners, even paid to have her car fixed when it broke down. All it got us was criticism from her parents, especially after Debbie dropped out of college and ran away.”

  “Did she ever correspond with you after she left Albuquerque?”

  “Not a word of thanks or anything else,” Kessler said emphatically.

  “Young people can be so thoughtless,” Kerney said. It earned him a surprised look of approval. “Did she maintain contact with her parents?”

  �
�I don’t know,” Kessler said as her expression cooled. “After Debbie left, we had nothing more to do with them other than a polite exchange of Christmas cards each year.”

  “Are they still living in Arkansas?”

  “They’re both deceased.”

  “Does Debbie have any siblings?”

  “She was an only child.”

  “What about a boyfriend?” Kerney asked.

  “If she had one, we never met him,” Kessler answered.

  “Does the name George Spalding mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever talk about boys?”

  “Not with us,” Kessler said. “She wasn’t close to us in that way.”

  “What about girlfriends, or her college roommate?”

  She made a bitter face. “In truth, except for the help we provided, Debbie wanted very little to do with us. We were much too conventional and uptight, as she so often liked to remind us.”

  “You never met any of her friends?”

  “She often brought someone with her when she came to get a free meal. But the only one we saw more than once was her roommate, Helen. She at least had been brought up well enough to say thank you and offer to help with the dishes.”

  “What else can you tell me about her?”

  “She was from Santa Fe. She was studying art history. My husband liked to tease her about doing something more practical.”

  “Have you seen Helen since those years?” Kerney asked.

  “Once, in Santa Fe, when I was there for the day with a friend. She was working in an art gallery on Canyon Road. Somehow she recognized me and asked for news of Debbie. They’d lost touch with each other. Of course, I could tell her nothing.”

  “When was that?”

  “At least ten years ago.”

  “Do you remember where you saw her?”

  “No, but I do recall we had lunch right next door to the gallery.”

  Kessler named the restaurant. It was one of the oldest and finest restaurants in the city.

  “Thank you,” Kerney said.

  “Why are you trying to find Debbie?”

  “It’s a police matter.”

  Mrs. Kessler nodded as though it was of no importance and closed the front door.

  On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney couldn’t shake the image of the rigid, unforgiving Mrs. Kessler from his mind. Surviving a Sunday meal at the Kessler home must have been pure agony for Debbie.

  Although he tried to seem impassive, Kim Dean knew that his fear showed through. Whenever an inmate looked at him, he averted his eyes. His face felt like a frozen death mask, his upper lip was wet with sweat, and he was constantly swallowing, rubbing his nose, or fidgeting with his hands.

  A big Hispanic guy with tattoos on his arms and the back of his neck kept eyeing him, as did a black Cuban who grabbed his crotch and smiled wickedly every time Dean glanced in his direction.

  He sat by himself at a table in the communal area of the living pod and stared at the wall-mounted television tuned to a Spanish language station no one else was watching. Clusters of inmates were playing cards or talking in tight-knit little groups.

  All the metal tables, fabricated with attached benches, were secured to the floor, as were the beds in the cells, the sinks—everything that ordinarily could be disassembled or dislodged was bolted, welded, or fastened down. The stairs to the upper-level cells, the security grates covering a high row of frosted windows, and the bars on the cell and pod doors were gleaming steel.

  Four young, tough-looking inmates—kids really—stood in front of the lower tier of a semicircular wall of cells singing rap in low voices, flashing gangbanger signs, and laughing. Two older inmates who were mopping floors and cleaning tabletops moved slowly across the room.

  The guy wielding the mop, a small, stoop-shouldered man who looked like a character from a Dickens novel, appeared to be perfectly content with his task. In fact, everyone in the pod seemed completely at ease, like it was no big deal to be locked up. It only served to make Dean more apprehensive.

  He kept glancing at the glassed-in guard station and the locked pod door, hoping someone would come to fetch him to meet with his new lawyer, Scott Ingram.

  Ingram had called hours ago to say he’d spoken with Howard Stubbs, the inexperienced lawyer Dean had fired, and would be out to see him as soon as he’d received and reviewed the arrest affidavits, warrants, and charges, and talked to the district attorney.

  He was about to return to his cell, which Dean figured was the safest place to be if he never fell asleep, when a guard appeared and motioned him to approach the pod door.

  “Is my lawyer here?” Dean asked.

  The guard nodded as the door slid open. After being patted down and cuffed, he was walked down the main corridor and deposited in an interview room where Scott Ingram waited. Neither man spoke until the cuffs came off and the guard left the room.

  “You took your time getting here,” Dean snapped.

  Ingram smiled indulgently at Dean. “I’m sure you wanted me to be well prepared before we talked.”

  “Are you a good criminal defense attorney?”

  “I’m very good at what I do,” Ingram said.

  “Has anyone tried to contact you on my behalf?” Dean asked.

  Ingram looked down his hawkish nose as he sat at the table. “Do you mean Claudia Spalding?”

  Surprised, Dean nodded. “How do you know her name?”

  “Because Stubbs told me about the phone call he made at your request, and I’ve learned that the DA is sitting on a pending murder arrest warrant for her, waiting for the receipt of more information from California.”

  “Dammit,” Dean said.

  “Have you talked to anyone about the charges since your arraignment?” Ingram asked.

  Dean sat down across from Ingram. “Nobody.”

  “That’s good. But time may be running out on you to enter into a plea agreement.”

  “I don’t want that. I want you to find a way to get me out of here, now.” He bit a hangnail off his thumb and spit it out.

  “I’ve already informally approached the judge on your behalf in that matter. Any official request I make to ask him to reconsider setting bail will be rejected. You’re to be held without bond.”

  “Can’t you do something? Tell him I’ll surrender my passport, sign over the equity in my house and business to a bondsman. Plus my cash. I can put together almost a million dollars.”

  “I don’t think if you had three million in cash and assets the judge would let you out.”

  “Do something, dammit.”

  Ingram sighed sympathetically and leaned forward. “Getting you out of jail isn’t an option. In fact, as I see it, you don’t have many options.”

  “What are they?” Dean asked.

  “As things stand right now, you can cooperate with the prosecution and get the murder charge reduced and most of the other charges dropped. But if the cops develop sufficient probable cause to get an arrest warrant for Claudia Spalding, you may wind up on the short end of the stick.”

  “How so?”

  “She may decide to testify against you. That means the DA will have her, instead of you, in his pocket. He’ll go after you full-bore, using Spalding as his star witness. He won’t even think about negotiating with you. He’ll try you on all the state charges. Once that’s done, the DEA can step in and file against you in federal court.”

  “That’s double jeopardy.”

  Ingram shook his head. “No it isn’t, Mr. Dean. The criminal codes in this country are complex, and the federal government has drug laws on the books that aren’t duplicated by state statutes.”

  “Claudia wouldn’t do that to me,” Dean said.

  Ingram raised an eyebrow. “Has she been in touch with you to offer aid?”

  Dean shook his head. “I want you to call her.”

  “I tried that under the pretext of asking her to make a sworn statement on your behalf.
I spoke to one of her employees, who told me she refused to take my call. That should tell you something, Mr. Dean.”

  “Shit!”

  “It could get worse,” Ingram said. “From what I’ve learned, Claudia Spalding has the financial wherewithal to hire a team of the best defense lawyers, private investigators, and expert witnesses money can buy. I’m sure if she’s arrested, a motion to separate her case from yours will be filed and most likely granted. That will put us in an adversarial relationship with her. Are you prepared to go that route?”

  “Can’t you do anything to keep that from happening?” Dean asked.

  “Certainly I can argue against it, if that’s really what you want. But I don’t see how it serves any purpose. Actually, I’ll use the very same tactic on your behalf, if you’re willing to cooperate.”

  Dean started nibbling at another hangnail. “So where does that leave me?”

  “We can go to trial and I’ll mount the best defense possible. We can dispute the circumstantial evidence, bring in psychologists to testify that Spalding manipulated and used you, call on medical doctors and pharmacologists to challenge the cause of death findings, file motions to have witness statements excluded, pound away at any evidence collection screwups, and do everything possible to place the preponderance of blame on Mrs. Spalding.”

  Dean peeled the hangnail free and picked it off his tongue. “Can we win?”

  “You never know. But whatever the outcome, you’ll most likely still be in jail—maybe even prison—while you’re awaiting trial on the other charges. Plus, by then you’ll have to ask for a public defender to represent you.”

  “Why not you? I can pay your fee.”

  “Now you can,” Ingram replied. “But you won’t be able to hire a private attorney in the future if the DEA and local cops can trace the money you made on drug trafficking back to your business and personal accounts. If they succeed, your assets will be frozen, confiscated, and disposed of. And believe me, they’re doing everything possible to make sure that happens.”

  Dean sagged in his chair, head lowered, eyelids fluttering. “This wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”