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  “She’s in the kitchen. Follow me.”

  Stover led Kerney to a converted classroom off the great room, where Randell stood at a counter in front of a bank of kitchen cabinets. Tall, with curly golden hair, she turned when Stover called her name.

  “Who do we have here?” she asked, eyeing Kerney.

  “A police officer who is trying to find someone,” Stover replied.

  “Has someone we know gone missing?”

  “Debbie Calderwood,” Kerney said.

  Randell laughed. “Isn’t it odd that you can go for years without ever thinking about or seeing someone and then suddenly they repeatedly reappear in your life, one way or another? Debbie is hardly missing, at least not anymore.”

  “You’ve seen her or heard from her?”

  Randell nodded. “Less than a month ago, at the opera. I was standing in line at the bar before the performance getting drinks and Debbie was right in front of me. At first I didn’t recognize her, but it was Debbie.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “Of course. We talked.”

  “What did you talk about?” Kerney asked

  “We caught up briefly with each other. She’s living in Calgary, Canada, and is married to a man who runs a philanthropic foundation of one sort or another.”

  “Did she tell you her married name?”

  “No, we didn’t talk for very long.”

  “Was she with her husband?”

  “She didn’t say, and I didn’t see anyone with her. She did mention that it was her first trip back to New Mexico since she’d moved to Canada many years ago. From the way she was dressed and the jewelry she wore, she’s been living very well up there.”

  “Does the name George Spalding ring a bell?”

  “He was her high school boyfriend. In the Army at the time. She didn’t really talk about him much, especially after she got involved in the free speech movement.”

  “Did you exchange addresses?”

  Randell shook her head. “No. It was a rather awkward encounter. Even though we were college room-mates for a time, we weren’t that close, and Debbie didn’t seem interested in chatting.”

  “Would you be willing to work with a police sketch artist so we can create a likeness of Debbie?”

  “If it’s important,” Randell said.

  Kerney handed Randell his business card. “It is. Call my office in the morning and I’ll set up an appointment for you.”

  Randell slipped the card into a pocket of her slacks. “Why are you trying to find Debbie?”

  “In order to find someone else,” Kerney replied.

  A knock at the front door ended the conversation, but Kerney had learned far more than he’d hoped for. He thanked the women for their time, made his way past their arriving guests, and drove home, eager to call Sara and learn what she might have gleaned from George Spalding’s military records.

  In the living room with the dim light of a single table lamp turned down low, in a house almost always much too empty and quiet, Kerney phoned Sara.

  “I was hoping you’d call,” she said.

  “I wanted to apologize again,” Kerney said, “for being so pushy.”

  “There’s no need. What happened yesterday is over and done with, and I’ve got other things on my mind.”

  “Like what?

  “I’ve just been handed a major project, an important one, and it’s a mess.”

  “Can you talk about it?”

  “If members of Congress can, I guess I can too. A number of female soldiers from the enlisted and officer ranks have come forward with charges of sexual assaults that have gone unpunished or not yet been brought to courts-martial. They’re claiming shoddy, flawed investigations, unacceptable leniency for offenders, and inadequate victim services.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Worse,” Sara snapped angrily. “Many of them didn’t receive rape kit examinations or treatment for their wounds, evidence wasn’t gathered and collected, and their requests for base transfers to get away from their attackers have been routinely turned down by post commanders. Besides that, instead of receiving appropriate sexual trauma counseling, they’ve been ordered to take polygraph tests, and routinely sent back to work while still suffering from psychological and physical problems.”

  Kerney sat in the leather easy chair Sara had picked out for him at a local furniture store and put his feet on the ottoman. “How many victims are you talking about?”

  “Over ninety that we know about, but probably a hell of a lot more, worldwide. The post commanders are laying the blame on inadequately trained investigators and medical personnel. Pardon my French, but that’s bullshit. Some of these attacks were brutal, Kerney, and the victims frequently weren’t believed. You should read the case files; they’re gut-wrenching.”

  Kerney pulled off his boots and dropped them on the floor. “What is it you have to do?”

  “Let me quote. I’m to ‘Prepare a report on readiness to adequately and fully respond to sexual assault complaints, including an analysis of training needs, recommendations for changes to current investigative protocols and procedures, improvement in the coordination of services with Medical Corps personnel, and an estimate of staffing requirements needed to ensure the sufficiency of trained personnel, system-wide.’ ”

  “That’s a military mouthful,” Kerney said.

  “Don’t make me use my French again,” Sara said. “Instead of writing a report, we should be mounting a full-scale, widespread Internal Affairs operation into each and every one of these cases.”

  “You don’t sound too happy with the brass.”

  “I’m not. They tried to promote it as a plum assignment, sure to earn me another commendation. But all they really want to do is assuage the politicians and hope the furor dies down.”

  “You know that for a fact?” Kerney asked.

  “Come on, Kerney, you were an army officer. There are two kinds of orders: the ones that are written down and those that aren’t. In a private conversation, the scope of my assignment has been clearly limited.” Sara’s voice was clipped, filled with frustration.

  “Does this mean you’ve hit the glass ceiling?” he asked hopefully.

  “I’m not resigning my commission, Cowboy, if that’s what you’re asking. I want to pin eagles on my collar at the very least before I retire to civilian life.”

  “And after that, you’ll want your first star.”

  “Probably. But let’s not wind our way down that road again. How are you?”

  “Ready to see my family,” Kerney said. “Will you have time for me?”

  “I’ve got a handpicked team assigned to assist me. I’ll make the time. Don’t worry about that. Have our horses arrived from California?”

  “Not yet. They’ll be here next week while I’m with you and Patrick. Riley Burke will look after them until I’m back.”

  “I’m ready for a long horseback ride with you under a big sky or a full moon.”

  “A night ride sounds romantic,” Kerney said.

  “I get to ride Comeuppance.”

  “Why do fast women always seem to like fast horses?”

  Sara laughed. “You ponder that, Kerney. I’ll see you Friday night.”

  “See you then.”

  Kerney hung up, went to the kitchen, and fixed a light meal. Although he’d wanted to, he hadn’t asked about the George Spalding investigation. It could wait. Worried about Sara’s predicament, knowing he could do nothing about it, he sat and ate his dinner without enthusiasm.

  Chapter 13

  Ramona Pino often chuckled at television cop shows that were riddled with cliches and misconceptions about police work, dreamed up by writers who, for the most part, obviously didn’t know jack shit about the job. She especially got a kick out of a show that featured a shrink who hung around a police station giving instant psychological insights into suspects and a bombshell babe prosecutor who ran around tidying up flawed police investigation
s.

  She didn’t know any shrinks or prosecutors who did things like that. In the real world, cops did most of the theorizing about suspects and virtually all of the hard grunt work necessary to bring a case to trial.

  But this Friday morning, Ramona’s job was bringing her an unexpected bonus that had a bit of California glamor to it. She was being sent to work with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department to wrap up the Spalding homicide case. Her airplane ticket and a per diem check were in her purse. She sat in Chief Kerney’s office with all of her case materials crammed into a soft canvas flight bag at her feet.

  “When do you leave?” Kerney asked.

  “This afternoon,” Ramona said. “Sergeant Lowrey has offered to put me up.”

  “I think the two of you will hit it off.”

  “We already have, Chief. She’s meeting me at the Santa Barbara airport.”

  Kerney scribbled phone numbers of where he could be reached in Virginia on the back of a business card and gave it to Ramona. “I’ll be at Quantico for the next two weeks, and I want you to do something for me while you’re in California.”

  Ramona put the card in her purse. “I’ll be glad to keep you informed, Chief.”

  “It’s not just that,” Kerney said with a smile. “Although I’d appreciate updates. I want you to take a very close look at Spalding’s will and his corporate and personal financial records.”

  “According to the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department, they found nothing in Spalding’s will that strengthens our case,” Ramona said.

  “This is for a completely different matter,” Kerney said. “Clifford Spalding had a son by his first wife, a boy named George, who ostensibly died while serving in Vietnam. I believe he faked his death, is still alive, and that his father knew the truth and covered it up for over thirty years.”

  “Why?” Ramona asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kerney said as he slid a manila folder across the desk to Ramona. “But it could have something to do with money.”

  Ramona opened the folder, which contained a copy of Kerney’s case notes. “I’m not an accountant, Chief. Wouldn’t it be better to use auditors for this kind of assignment?”

  Kerney nodded. “It would, if I wanted a full-scale financial investigation. All I’d like you to do is find out if Spalding or his company had any financial dealings with four people: Debbie Calderwood, who was George Spalding’s teenage girlfriend; Dick Chase, a Santa Barbara police captain; Ed Ramsey, the former police chief; and Jude Forester, a young detective in the department.”

  “Cops on the pad?” Ramona asked.

  “Possibly. I think you’ll understand my reasoning after you’ve read the file.”

  “So much for sneaking in a day at the beach in sunny California,” Ramona said with a smile.

  Kerney laughed. “Is your bathing suit packed?”

  Ramona grinned, nodded, and got to her feet. “That was wishful thinking on my part, I guess.”

  “Go swimming, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ramona turned on her heel and left the office.

  Kerney lowered his gaze to the desktop, where there were letters to be signed, memos to be read, agendas of meetings to attend, and messages to be returned before he could leave for Virginia.

  Kerney put his book aside as the plane taxied for takeoff at the Albuquerque airport. The afternoon summer sky was an unusually low gray blanket of formless clouds that dissolved at the base of the foothills, allowing sunlight to pour down on the mountains east of the city.

  Once the plane was airborne, he tried to return to his book, a biography of Benjamin Franklin, but his thoughts were already in Arlington with Sara and Patrick. He had a vivid memory of the Cape Cod-style house where his wife and son would be waiting, and the events that put them there.

  He remembered the long cross-country drive in Sara’s SUV with Patrick tucked safely in his infant seat, their arrival in Arlington, and the scramble to find housing within a reasonable distance of the Pentagon.

  Sara had thought an apartment would be best, so they toured an area of Arlington known as Crystal City, with high-rise apartments, condominiums, hotels, and malls with trendy stores strung out along a busy thoroughfare.

  Many of the apartment and condo rentals had magnificent views that looked across the river and took in the Washington Monument, the long grassy mall, and the Capitol in the distance. Kerney had liked none of them; they were boxy and the rents were totally preposterous.

  One evening they left their hotel room with Patrick snug and happy in his carriage and took a walk through a nearby residential neighborhood.

  “I don’t know why you’re so dead-set against an apartment,” Sara said as they walked the quiet, hilly streets of older homes with green grass lawns and big trees that towered over them. “Besides, you won’t be spending much time there.”

  “Marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, plush carpeting, cedar closets, and city views aside,” Kerney said, “I just wouldn’t be happy back in Santa Fe thinking of you and Patrick living in some high-rise box.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said teasingly, “this is all about you. Unfortunately, my basic housing allowance won’t cover anything but a rental.”

  “How many real houses have you lived in since you graduated from West Point?” Kerney asked.

  “Except for the brief times I’m in Santa Fe, not one,” Sara said as she bent down to give Patrick a quick look, who gurgled in response at the sight of her.

  They sauntered around a corner and climbed a small rise where the homes and lots were larger, except for one vacant house at the bottom of the far side of the hill. It was a small brick house with a shingled pitched roof containing a row of second-story gabled windows. The front door, accented with pilasters, was reached by three steps. First-floor casement windows were lined up neatly on either side of the entrance. A FOR SALE sign in the front yard advertised “Immediate Possession.”

  “That looks nice,” Kerney said.

  Sara gave it a wistful glance. “It’s probably way out of the range of what I can afford.”

  “If it’s sound, not overpriced, and meets with your approval, I think we should buy it.”

  Sara looked at the house with heightened interest and then back at Kerney.

  “We can afford it, you know,” Kerney said over his shoulder as he went to inspect the backyard. It had a thick carpet of grass, several large shade trees, and one long, raised flowerbed. “It’s fenced. Perfect for Patrick.”

  “I’ll only be assigned to the Pentagon for three years at the most,” Sara said, not yet willing to get enthusiastic. “What if the house needs repair or renovation? That could be expensive.”

  “Think of it as an investment,” Kerney said when he returned. “We’ll put a chunk of money down, pay the mortgage out of my inheritance income, and you can use your military housing allowance to gussie up the place if need be.”

  Sara’s eyes danced. “Are you serious?”

  “It would make me happy. Patrick would have a backyard to play in, you’d have a place with some peace and quiet, and I wouldn’t feel trapped inside a glass and steel high-rise when I come to visit.”

  Sara laughed.

  “What?”

  “So it is really all about you,” she said.

  Kerney grinned. “Only partially.”

  The next day, they toured the house with the Realtor, who told them it had just come on the market and would sell quickly. They found it charming, in good condition, and because of its small size reasonably priced for the neighborhood. A similar property in the south capital district of Santa Fe would cost about the same.

  Kerney made an offer to the owners through the Realtor, who saw no reason for it to be refused. He gave the man an earnest money check, and together with Sara signed a binder requiring the owners to accept their offer by 5 P.M.

  Outside of the house, Sara stood with Patrick on her hip, cradled a
t her side in a protective arm. She smiled up at Kerney. “Amazing.”

  Her time in New Mexico had deepened the small line of freckles across her nose, lightened her strawberry blond hair, and given her a bit of a high-desert tan. Her green eyes never looked more lovely.

  “What’s amazing?” Kerney asked.

  Sara laughed. “You are. I’m a very lucky woman.”

  Kerney pulled her close and kissed her. “No, I’m the lucky one,” he said seriously.

  Nothing pleased Jefferson Warren more than representing clients who were tough-minded, clear-headed, and readily understood that the application of law was institutionalized warfare between citizens and the state, bound by legal rules, court opinions, precedent, and statutes.

  Warren liked fighters, and Claudia Spalding was scrappy, focused, and unruffled. He’d had such clients before upon occasion, but never one like Claudia, who seemed to possess an icy inner core coated by a refined but readily apparent sexuality. She aroused him in a strange, exciting way.

  As always, Warren’s first questions had been the most important ones. Had she made any statements to the police? Confessed to the crime? Talked about her case to inmates, jail staff, prosecutors—anybody?

  “Of course not,” Spalding answered, as though the questions were absurd. “I’ve only spoken to the attorney who represented me at the arraignment.”

  Warren waited for more; in fact, he expected it. Some clients rushed to proclaim their innocence, while others, stung by the reality of jail, feverishly questioned him about what could be done to gain their freedom. Some clients even wanted to confess to him, and were shocked when he stopped them quickly and told them he was a lawyer, not a priest.

  Claudia Spalding fit none of those profiles. She sat with her back straight, clear-eyed and poised, her slender, elegant hands folded on the table, and looked at him comfortably during the long silence.

  “You have no questions for me?” Warren finally asked, amazed at her composure.

  “Do you have a plan?” she asked, without a hint of dismay.