Under the Color of Law Read online

  "Are you still thinking it's just a good-old-boy club and I'm having paranoid delusions?"

  Sara put the notebook aside and curled her feet up on the couch. "Not at all. These are policy-level intelligence specialists who advise important decision-makers. I think you've cornered an angry mountain lion that's about to bite your head off."

  "How do we crack it?"

  "Are you really that naive? Missions like this have been blessed by the White House, cabinet secretaries, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and every cooperating spy-craft shop, including the military."

  "I can't walk away from this, Sara. People have been murdered, possibly by agents of the government. That can't be tolerated in a free society."

  Sara's eyes stayed on Kerney's face. "It violates what I believe in also, dammit. But you can't solve every homicide. Nobody can, nobody does. That only happens in the movies, or in bad pulp fiction. This time the stakes are off the chart."

  "So, I'm out of my league. Is that what you're saying?"

  "Put your ego away, Kerney. I want a life for us and our baby. Maybe I'm being selfish, but that's what's important to me right now."

  "That matters to me just as much," Kerney said.

  "Then act like it. I called Andy after I checked in. He thinks you've taken it as far as you can go. You're over the line."

  "Maybe so, but it seems to be working. I've made some people very nervous."

  "Congratulations," Sara said. "I can use that as part of my eulogy for you, and I'll tell your child what a hero you were. Can't you ever just back off?"

  "All I'm doing is listening and watching, Sara. There's not much risk to that."

  "People get killed all the time because of what they know," Sara said.

  "I'll be careful not to let that happen."

  Sara swung off the couch, turned on her heel, went to the window, and stood with her back to Kerney. She thought about his hard-nosed bullheadedness, and the image of Jim Meehan's face floated through her mind. Meehan would have raped and killed her in the ruins of an old Mexican hacienda, if Kerney hadn't crossed the line, beaten a drug dealer's henchman almost senseless, and shown up in time to stop the action.

  "You're a stubborn man, Kerney," she said.

  "I know that."

  Sara turned, squared her shoulders, and put on a determined look. "Okay, there's work to be done. From what I've read, there are two big gaps in your investigation: no follow-up with Randall Stewart's widow, and no contact with Proctor Straley or his daughter."

  "That's right," Kerney said, unwilling to say anything that sounded like an excuse.

  "What else has been left hanging?"

  "There's a remote surveillance video camera on a utility pole across from the Terrell residence. The FBI had denied any knowledge of it. I have an idea where the tapes might be, but I'm not certain. If I can pinpoint the location of the tapes, I might be able to ID the killer."

  "Okay, that's three things that need doing," Sara said on her way into the bedroom. She came out with a blanket and a pillow and tossed them on the couch.

  "In the morning we talk to Mrs. Stewart, pay a visit to Proctor Straley, and locate the videotapes."

  "We?" Kerney said.

  "That's what I said. Someone has to keep an eye on you. You get the bed, Kerney. I'll sleep on the couch."

  "That's not the best way for us to spend a night together in a four-hundred-dollar hotel suite."

  Sara pointed at the open bedroom door. "Go. I've got a little more digging I want to do and I need to use the laptop."

  Kerney got to his feet. Sara stepped up and gave him a quick kiss.

  "I'll be sick in the morning. It's not a pretty sight."

  "You're not well?"

  "Morning sickness, Kerney, that's all."

  "You didn't tell me."

  "I figured you'd find out about it firsthand this weekend. Go to bed, you look exhausted."

  Sara ushered Kerney into the bedroom, gave him another kiss, closed the door, and started surfing the Internet looking for Proctor Straley.

  ***

  When Applewhite arrived at the Santa Fe Airport without Charlie Perry, Sal Molina stayed put while Bobby Sloan tailed her. Later in the night Ingram showed and Molina followed him to the federal courthouse. He parked next to the pink-colored stone Scottish Rite Temple, where he had a clear view of the back entrance, and waited.

  The temple confused tourists who thought it had to be either a church or a museum. Although it was a Santa Fe landmark, Molina knew very little about it. A guild or some sort of Freemason society owned it, and supposedly an old dead guy was buried beneath the front steps.

  Time dragged for Molina. To keep awake he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, hummed songs to himself, and kept the window open to let cold air circulate through the minivan. Ingram finally emerged. But instead of going to his vehicle he walked toward the plaza.

  Molina put his hand on the door latch and hesitated. There wasn't a person other than Ingram on the sidewalk and traffic was nonexistent. Ingram turned the corner. Molina hurried on foot to the end of the block and slowed his pace when he saw Ingram making his way down the sidewalk.

  He stayed well back. Ingram led him into the historic La Fonda Hotel, which touted itself as the inn at the end of the Old Santa Fe Trail. Ingram peeled off into the bar adjacent to the reception area. Molina kept moving, counting one bartender, a waitress, and three customers as he passed by. He walked down a corridor, through the entrance to the parking garage, and took up a position outside the hotel that gave him a view of the two main entrances. The wind was biting cold and the temperature way below freezing. That suited Molina; he wasn't sleepy anymore.

  Tim Ingram sat at the end of the bar, slugged down a single malt, and ordered up another. The television was off, the bar almost empty, and the silence deafening. It was too damn quiet and genteel. He needed a raucous dive that would force him to stop thinking. He rubbed his head and twisted his trunk in an attempt to loosen up the muscles in his back. He'd failed to call in a report on Sara Brannon, hadn't put her hotel room under electronic surveillance, and hadn't told anyone that his cover had been partially penetrated. That still needed to be done. But not until he could think of an untraceable, safe way to warn off Lieutenant Colonel Brannon. She deserved that much consideration.

  He decided on a plan, asked the bartender for a phone book, and paged through it until he found what he wanted. Ingram left the La Fonda Hotel. Molina paralleled him from one street over to the courthouse. He got to the minivan just in time to see Ingram's vehicle with the broken license-plate lights cruising away from downtown toward St. Francis Drive. He hauled ass through a red light to

  keep Ingram in range.

  Traffic lights showed green down the quiet thoroughfare that led to the Interstate, and Molina grouchily wondered if Ingram was heading back to Albuquerque. He didn't relish the prospect of making the drive.

  Ingram turned off on St. Michael's Drive and stopped at a twenty-four-hour-a-day franchise copy service and print shop. Molina took some blank property receipt forms off his clipboard, went inside, ran them through a self-serve copier, and watched Ingram fill out a form and hand it to the clerk. The clerk fed it into a fax machine and rang up the charges. Ingram paid the clerk, shredded the paper, and walked out. Molina waited until Ingram left the parking lot. The vehicle tracking monitor and Global Positioning System would give him a fix on his travel direction.

  He went to the clerk and flashed his shield. "Did you see who that fax was sent to?" he asked.

  "We're not supposed to look," the kid said, wide eyed.

  "Did you look?"

  The kid, no more than eighteen, shook his head. "No."

  "Can you call the fax number up on the machine?"

  "I guess so."

  "Well, do it," Molina said.

  The kid came back with the number. Molina dropped a five dollar bill on the counter, went to the minivan, and got a fix on In gram's
direction from the state police agent manning the tracking devices. He was heading back downtown.

  Molina cross-checked the phone number in the city directory. It didn't show, but the next number down listed a downtown hotel.

  Molina hung a turn onto the street, called the hotel night clerk, and identified himself.

  "You just received a fax. Who was it for?"

  "Colonel Sara Brannon. It's being delivered now."

  Lights ran red up and down St. Francis Drive. Molina busted through them and picked up Ingram passing by the last downtown turnoff. He slowed and watched Ingram pull into the parking lot of Applewhite's hotel on the north side of town.

  He found Sloan staked out in the Blazer, eased the minivan up next to him, and opened his window.

  "I was just gonna give you a call, LT," Sloan said.

  "Do you know a Colonel Sara Brannon?" Molina asked. "Isn't the chief married to an army officer? I think that's her name.

  What's up?"

  Molina dialed Kerney's home phone. It rang unanswered. "Ingram just faxed her a message at a downtown hotel. I'm going there now. If he moves, switch off and follow him. I'll come back and baby-sit Applewhite."

  "Ten-four. Why would the chief's wife be staying at a hotel?"

  "Maybe they checked in together."

  "Must be nice," Sloan said. "I can't even afford to buy my wife dinner at one of those places."

  ***

  Applewhite opened her door. Wrapped in a hotel robe, she stared up at Ingram from under heavy eyebrows. Indentations from a pillow ran across her cheek. Her sleepy face showed no signs of softness. She looked damn ugly without any makeup.

  Ingram sucked breath mints. He told Applewhite about Sara Brannon's arrival on the scene, where she was, and her subsequent activities.

  "Not good," Applewhite said. "How did you get made?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Do you have listeners in place at the hotel?"

  "They're setting up now. Give it thirty minutes."

  "Why is it taking so long?"

  "Everybody was tasked. I had to free up some people."

  "Did you bring hard copies?"

  Ingram dropped a file on the dresser. "This is what she's done so far. It's all Internet surfing. I think we should go at this cautiously."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "Find a way to have Brannon's weekend cut short. Let's get her back to Leavenworth and take her out of the picture."

  "I'll run the idea by the ambassador," Applewhite said.

  "Did you know that bitch made light colonel?" A spiteful, jealous expression on Elaine's face almost made Ingram flinch.

  "Yeah, I know," he said, stepping to the door. He couldn't resist pushing Applewhite's buttons. "And she was decorated with the Distinguished Service Medal. I heard they wanted to give her the Silver Star, but that would have meant admitting that she'd been in a hostile action with North Korean troops. Isn't that something?"

  "She's an ass-kissing bitch," Applewhite said. "That's what got her the DSM and the promotion."

  ***

  Sara fell asleep on the couch. She woke up to a knock, saw that a piece of paper had been slipped under the door, and looked through the peephole, expecting to see a bellhop waiting for a tip. Instead, she saw a man holding up an SFPD shield. Kerney wandered out of the bedroom groggy eyed and in his underwear as she picked up the piece of paper and unlatched the door.

  Molina held up his clipboard with an attached piece of paper that read:

  YOUR ROOM IS BUGGED. MEET ME IN THE LOBBY.

  Sara nodded, closed the door, and glanced at the paper. It was a handwritten fax message to her that read: Go BACK To Your post. A five-digit number followed the message. They dressed and hurried to meet Molina.

  "Who wants you to go back to your post?" Kerney asked as they walked down the corridor to the elevators.

  "And why?"

  "I don't know," Sara replied in a troubled voice.

  The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor to reveal Molina pacing impatiently. The night manager behind the guest check-in counter looked on with unabashed interest.

  "How did you locate us?" Kerney asked Molina.

  "Ingram faxed your wife a message," Sal said, holding up an office key.

  "I've got a place where we can talk. What did the message say, Chief?"

  Sara answered. "Basically, it said get out of town."

  Molina took them into the general manager's office and slipped a minicassette into his pocket tape recorder. "This was just picked up from Agent Applewhite's room," he said.

  "I recorded it off my handheld radio, so the sound quality isn't great, but you can still make it out."

  Sara and Kerney listened to the tape of Ingram's conversation with Applewhite.

  Molina glanced over Ingram's fax message. When the tape ended Sal asked, "What do the numbers in the fax message mean?"

  "Each West Point graduate is assigned what's known as a Cullen number," Sara said. "It's named for the general who began chronicling biographies of every graduate in 1850. The numbers are assigned alphabetically and in sequence starting from the first graduate through the most recent class. Everyone has a unique number. I'm betting this one is Tim's. He wanted to make sure I'd know who sent the message."

  "So that you'd take it seriously," Kerney added. "He also gave Applewhite a suggestion on how to ease you out of the picture."

  "Exactly. Something nasty is in the works and Ingram isn't happy about it. He risked a lot to warn me."

  "How did he get onto you so fast?"

  "I think I know," Molina said. He looked totally sleep deprived. "Perry never showed at the airport, so Sloan took Applewhite. I waited until Ingram arrived and followed him. He went directly to the federal courthouse, where he stayed for a good three hours."

  "Did you keep a surveillance log?" Sara asked.

  "I can give you exact times," Molina said, consulting his notepad. He read off a chronology of Ingram's movements in hours and minutes.

  "He tapped into my laptop," Sara said.

  "Either through Carnivore or SWAMI," Kerney said, swinging his attention to Molina. "This is the second trip someone's made to the federal courthouse."

  "Yeah, Perry last night," Molina said with a weary smile. "But it feels like it happened a week ago."

  "That's where the tapes are," Kerney said. "How reliable is your informant?"

  "Jake? He's a retired sheriff's captain."

  "Perfect. That makes him a rock-solid source. See what more you can squeeze out of him. Get specific information about what's inside that room. Concentrate on communication equipment, radio and television monitors, computers--any kind of hardware that's used for electronic surveillance."

  Molina took notes. "He might not budge."

  "Find a way to push him."

  "Anything else?"

  "Get background information on his law-enforcement career. I'll need to be able to show that he has expert knowledge of undercover operations and equipment."

  "Are you going for a search warrant?"

  "You bet I am. That room may hold exactly what's needed to break this investigation wide open. Where's Sloan?"

  "Following Ingram back to Albuquerque."

  "Someone has to keep an eye on Applewhite while you're busy with Jake. Have Deputy Chief Otero backstop you. He's filled in on the operation. If Charlie Perry makes an appearance, Larry covers him."

  "How long do you want us to go with this, Chief?"

  Kerney looked at his watch. It was four in the morning. "We pull the plug in twelve hours, as originally planned. Can you hang in there?"

  "Ten-four, Chief. Where will you be in case we need to make contact?"

  "Sara and I will be paying some early visits to a couple of people. I'll keep in touch with you by cell phone."

  Chapter 13

  Sara's early-morning cranky stomach slowed them down. She drank a special herbal tea she'd brought along and waved off Kerney's sug
gestion to proceed without her. His attempts to comfort her were likewise rebuffed. She dressed while Kerney booked the hotel suite for the remainder of the weekend. She emerged from the bedroom looking shaky and pale. Kerney wondered how she could do a five-mile run every weekday morning before her classes at Fort Leavenworth.

  On the streets school buses collected small groups of waiting students at intersections, slowing up impatient drivers who zipped around the buses as soon as the red warning lights stopped flashing. They waited behind a bus and Sara said, "Before Lieutenant Molina showed up, I did some Internet surfing on Trade Source. Proctor Straley was one of the original investors. He netted fifty million dollars after the company went public, and still holds a sizable block of shares."

  The school bus moved. Kerney let cars go around before passing. "That tangles the web a bit," he said.

  "What if the information Phyllis Terrell passed on to Father Mitchell came from her father and not the ambassador?"

  "I've given that some thought," Sara said. "If Straley is involved in the cover-up, Ingram will have warned him by now about our interest in his Trade Source connection."

  "If Straley's guarded when meet with him, or not the grieving father, that could tell he's been alerted."

  "Not necessarily," Sara said. "Straley's a heavyweight corporate player. He's dealt with hostile take-overs, angry shareholders, and a Justice Department antitrust probe. I bet he knows how to hold a good poker hand."

  On the valley road to the Stewart residence an SLJV filled with school-aged teenagers sped by. Sara looked at the hillside houses and the sweet mountain views. Cloudlike wisps of snow floated off higher peaks. Soft morning light sparkled against the tree cover.

  "Nice neighborhood," she said.

  "Why don't we rent something up here until we build?"

  "Are you serious?"

  "Don't be such a penny-pincher, Kerney. Spend some of those riches you've inherited."