Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Read online

  “That’s correct,” Kerney said.

  Dalquist beamed. “You’ll sign a statement to that effect, and we’ll confirm it with the people you spoke with at the center. A first-rate Silver City attorney I know will act as Clayton’s counsel and handle the details. I’m sure she’ll be able to get the case dismissed, which removes any question of Clayton losing his police officer certification.”

  “That’s a relief,” Kerney said.

  “You bet it is,” Clayton added, cracking a smile.

  Dalquist gave Kerney a pointed look. “As for you, we’ll enter a not-guilty plea and delay a court appearance for as long as possible.”

  “When will that be?” Kerney inquired.

  “After we’ve proved you innocent of murder,” Dalquist answered. “Now for the negatives we must deal with. You’re still the prime suspect and the last person known to have seen Kim alive. The documented evidence the prosecution will use to prove your guilt includes Erma Fergurson’s journal entries, residue evidence gathered at the burial site, the police report you filed about your stolen pistol, and the photograph of you and Kim Ward outside the Las Cruces bar the night Todd Marks was arrested.”

  “What does the photograph prove?”

  “That you lied in your statements to the police.”

  “I didn’t remember being there,” Kerney rebutted.

  “Do you hear how that sounds?” Dalquist gently challenged.

  Kerney nodded grudgingly. “Yeah.”

  Dalquist took the papers back from Kerney and put them away. “Let’s move on. With Marks dead, and Kim’s mother too ill to be of any use to us, our best hope to clear your name before trial rests with Kim’s girlhood friend, Loretta Page, assuming she knows anything at all of value.”

  Kerney’s expression darkened. “A long shot at best.”

  Dalquist shrugged. “We don’t know that yet, which is why finding her is important.” He opened a second file. “We do know that she lived for a time with Kim’s mother, after Kim had left home. And it’s possible Loretta was pregnant, although we’re not certain. Beyond that, we have nothing current about her or her family.”

  He ran his finger down the page. “Until six months ago, when her half-brother, Earl Matson Page, surfaced masquerading as Louis Page and removed his adoptive father, Jack Page, from the veterans center at Fort Bayard.”

  “We also know,” Sara said, “that two years after Earl stole the five million in drug money, Jack Page and his daughter, Loretta, disappeared.”

  “Where did they disappear from?” Kerney asked.

  “Duncan, Arizona,” Dalquist replied, looking up from the file. “Although we can’t pinpoint their current location, the anecdotal information we’ve gathered suggests they live somewhere outside ­Silver City, perhaps in or near the Gila National Forest.”

  “How was Jack Page’s veterans center bill paid?” Kerney asked.

  “Fort Bayard has refused to give us any payment for services information,” Sara replied. “Since we could find no claims for federal or state insurance reimbursement, the best guess is cash or cashier’s check.”

  “Do we even know if Loretta Page lives with her father and half-brother?” Kerney asked.

  “We do not,” Dalquist replied. “But on to a different matter. Tomorrow you’ll be discharged and go home with Dean and Barbara, who’ve agreed to look after you, Patrick, and the ranch. With Ramirez gone, Dean and Patrick will handle the ranch chores.”

  Dean grinned and nodded at Kerney. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Also, a registered nurse will be on call, should her services be needed,” Dalquist added.

  “We’ll take good care of you,” Barbara said.

  Kerney turned to Sara. “This was all figured out in advance, wasn’t it?”

  Sara nodded. “Clayton can’t work this alone, and you’re in no shape to help. Now that the feds know about Earl Page, we must move fast. I doubt my lie about losing Page’s trail will keep them at bay for long. They’re probably out looking for him right now.”

  Kerney clenched his teeth and shook his head. “Just let it go. I’ll take my chances at trial. I don’t want anybody taking any more risks. Don’t do—”

  “All three of us will be working on this from Silver City,” Dalquist calmly interrupted. “I’ve hired a wilderness guide to help us narrow the scope of our search.”

  “We’re giving it a week,” Clayton said. “We’ll regroup after that, if necessary.”

  Kerney sighed. “Is Grace in on this?”

  Clayton smiled. “Everybody is. Grace, Wendell, Hannah, and my mother as well. You’re outvoted.”

  Kerney shook his head. “I surrender.”

  Dalquist’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, answered, and listened for a minute before thanking the caller, disconnecting, and breaking into a big smile.

  “What is it?” Kerney asked.

  “Better that I show you.” Dalquist pulled his tablet out, powered it up, found the Internet page he’d been directed to by the caller, and handed it to Kerney. A breaking news story from the Santa Fe New Mexican read:

  MAN USED BY POLICE TO SEARCH

  FORMER CHIEF’S HOUSE

  New Mexico State Police declined to comment on an informant’s allegation that an agent pressured him to search former Santa Fe Police Chief Kevin Kerney’s house. Currently under indictment for the murder of Kim Ward, a college girlfriend, who disappeared in 1973, Kerney is hospitalized in Albuquerque recovering from gunshot wounds sustained in what is now being called the “Shoot-out at Barranco Canyon.” The incident left two people dead; a Grant County deputy sheriff killed by Todd Marks, Kim Ward’s husband, and Marks himself, who was shot by a state police sniper. The informant, Juan Ramirez, a part-time caretaker at the Kerney ranch, claims he was promised the release of his nephew from juvenile detention if he agreed to cooperate, but that he did so reluctantly. The boy is still in detention. More in tomorrow’s edition.

  “Don’t you just love good news?” Dalquist asked with a chuckle as the tablet got passed around.

  CHAPTER 22

  On a bright, windy morning, Earl Matson Page, who made it a point to use only his last name, made his weekly trip to Silver City to pick up mail and run a few errands. In the post office box among the usual stuff was an envelope addressed to Jack from one of his pals at the Fort Bayard Veterans Center, postmarked five days before.

  Page tore it open and read:

  Jack,

  Some cops came by looking for Louis about a stolen vehicle or some such thing. Wanted to know how to find him. I didn’t tell them squat. Thought you’d like to know. Hope you’re doing okay. Come see me.

  Bud

  There was no date on the letter, no telling if it had been written and sealed up for any length of time before the postmark.

  Page forgot about the errands, threw the mail on the passenger seat of his truck, and tore out of town in a hurry. When he’d hatched a plan to steal five million dollars in DEA-confiscated drug money allocated to recruit an informant close to a major Colombian drug lord, he’d discussed his scheme with Loretta. To get away clean, he needed a new identity, an escape route from Medellín to the Panamanian border, and someone trustworthy waiting with transportation to get him home. It had to be her.

  Loretta loved the idea of being part of a five-million-dollar caper. It would give them all the money they needed to be together forever. She suggested using Louis’s identity. They traveled to Juárez, and with Louis’s birth certificate had a forged passport and driver’s license within a day. They celebrated in a luxury room at the best hotel in El Paso.

  It was also her idea to charter a boat in Panama. They got quotes. Paying in advance for a bare-bones charter and Loretta’s airfare would eat up most of Earl’s savings. Nothing fancy would have to do. He cleaned out his account and gave her the cash.

  They studied maps and decided to rendezvous just over the Colombian border at a small fishing village. Earl wou
ld call to wish her a happy birthday. That would be her cue to be offshore in two weeks.

  It went off without a hitch, except for some bodies Earl left behind in the jungle to ensure no trace of his escape would be found. He figured Loretta didn’t need to know about that.

  When they arrived home, Earl immediately set about making the family as invisible as possible. He promised Jack a full partnership in the scheme if he let his bank account fall dormant so that he couldn’t be traced. Page would cover all expenses with the stolen drug money, including Jack’s lost income.

  The chance to ranch again was a no-brainer for Jack. He’d lost his small ranch to drought and a rare parasite that killed most of his livestock, and he was tired of getting by on day wages from area ranchers and his puny benefit checks. Besides, he was getting too old to make a hand.

  Safe and sound back in New Mexico, Page hid the money in waterproof containers under the foundation of a cabin he’d inherited from his biological father, Sam Matson.

  Almost inaccessible, with no road and only a faint, unmarked trail for access, the cabin and one square mile of land abutted wilderness to the north and east, and a patchwork quilt of private and state-owned land to the west and south.

  Starting out, he used some of the cash to buy a new truck, along with several handguns and rifles, and rent a grader to build an all-weather road to the cabin. When it was finished, he installed a locked gate and spent months fencing the section with No Trespassing signs posted every hundred feet. Only then did he turn his attention to making the off-the-grid cabin livable.

  He designed and built a water catchment system, installed solar panels with heavy-duty battery packs for electricity, and put in indoor plumbing using gray water for outside irrigation. His infrequent trips to town consisted of library visits to study how-to books, post office stops to pick up mail and technical manuals he’d ordered, and shopping for necessary equipment, food, and supplies. For nearly two years he lived in virtual isolation, venturing away from the homestead once a month to visit Jack and Loretta, across the state line in Duncan. Although he tried to argue Loretta out of visiting, she’d occasionally appear at the cabin unannounced and interrupt his day. He couldn’t keep her away.

  At the entrance to the ranch road, Page punched his access number into the keypad that opened the solar-powered gate, and then gunned his truck toward home. Over the years, his one section had grown to ten sections of combined private and leased state land totaling sixty-four hundred acres.

  He’d been careful with the drug money, building it back up slowly to four times the original five million through conservative investments, profits from the cow-calf operation, and income from a highly regarded quarter horse breeding program, all operated as part of a corporate entity.

  The original cabin had blossomed into a family compound and ranching operation, with Jack ensconced in his own comfortable quarters a mile away from the main house, where Page and Loretta lived as man and wife. Additionally, there was permanent housing for a ranch manager, a large horse barn, and a modular garage for repairing ranch equipment. Nearby were several large corrals, loading pens, and a practice track for the ponies.

  The entire perimeter of the headquarters’ compound, including the airstrip and metal hangar for Page’s four-passenger turboprop aircraft, was protected by a state-of-the-art electronic surveillance system.

  As the land holdings and ranching operations had grown, he’d been able to hide in plain sight by requiring all employees, contractors, and service providers to sign binding confidentiality agreements not to disclose anything about him, Loretta, Jack, or the ranch with outsiders.

  Furthermore, he insisted that his employees, who were hired through an out-of-state recruitment firm, be single and undergo extensive background checks. Page didn’t want anyone working for him who had personal or family connections in New Mexico or Arizona. Local contractors and service providers were heavily screened by private investigators to ensure they could be trusted to be discreet.

  As business prospered, rumors grew about the eccentric millionaire who lived on a remote showcase ranch. Gossip was Page owned a cosmetic company, was heir to a fast-food chain, or had made his money in a Silicon Valley tech company. Nobody had yet fingered him as a rogue DEA agent who’d built his little empire with stolen narco money.

  He paid very well, and most staff honored their employment contracts. Those who stuck with him for five years or more got a bonus. The money was so good, nobody quibbled about the company rules.

  Over the years, only three employees broke trust, and Page killed them. Other than those anomalies, there were no other hiccups.

  Jack’s house was timber-frame, just like the main residence. Smaller in size, it had exposed beams and tresses, and a pitched roof that defined an open living space where Jack could stretch out in his adjustable easy chair in front of a mammoth TV and binge on his favorite movies, shows, and sporting events. There were satellite dishes on both houses for television and Internet access.

  Page found Jack in the kitchen, standing behind his walker, heating canned soup on the stove. Behind him, the kitchen table was set for lunch along with a bottle of his favorite pilsner and a slice of buttered toast.

  Although over ninety, Jack could still see to his own needs. He’d shrunk a bit, and his cowboy days were over, but he wasn’t ready again to take up residency in a nursing home, and probably never would be.

  “Want some?” Jack asked. He hated the ponytail and beard on the boy. Not fitting for a man his age, despite it being a disguise. His adoptive son even drove an old pickup and dressed like a hardscrabble farmer when he ran his errands, which was not an unusual sight in a town that had its fair share of eccentrics, vagrants, and old hippies. Jack understood the need for caution. Secrets and lies had a way of falling apart if you didn’t tend to them.

  “Not hungry,” Page answered. “You got a letter from your buddy at Fort Bayard.”

  “What does it say?”

  Page read Jack the note.

  Jack stopped stirring the soup. “Cops looking for you? That’s not good. What for?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Jack snapped as he turned the heat off under the pot. “All Bud knew was my son Louis was coming to fetch me home.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Damn right I am.” With a steady hand, he poured soup into a bowl. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Page put the bowl of soup on the table for him. If Jack hadn’t fallen off his horse, fractured his leg, and demanded to rehab at the Fort Bayard Veterans Center, this wouldn’t be happening. He loved the old man, who’d been more than a father to him, and there was no cause to fault him. “It’s worrisome, but not a problem. I’ll look into it.”

  Jack snorted. “I told you the time would come when somebody started snooping around. Nothing stays hid forever.”

  Page helped Jack slide into his chair and moved the walker to one side, close at hand. “Rest easy. I’ll handle it.”

  “I’ll give old Bud a call after I finish my lunch.”

  “Wait until I bring you a new cell phone to use,” Page replied.

  “Nothing wrong with my old one.”

  “Where is it?”

  Jack motioned at the kitchen cabinet drawer, where he also kept his wallet and keys.

  Page retrieved the phone and stuck it in his jeans back pocket.

  “Nothing wrong with it,” Jack grumbled again.

  “It’s time to replace all the cell phones anyway,” Page said. He kept a dozen prepaid throwaways in his office with brand-new numbers, and changed out the old ones monthly.

  Jack slurped some soup. “Fine with me. I hardly ever use the damn thing.”

  “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Jack nodded as he bit into his toast.

  Page drove to the horse barn, where he had his ranch office, too distracted by Bud Elkins’s troublesome note to enjoy the ponies loitering in
the pasture or the sweep of high wilderness mountains that filled the skyline.

  His air-conditioned office couldn’t completely eliminate the unmistakable, pungent smell of horses, but he didn’t mind. Through the walls he could hear the occasional snorts and stomps of ponies still in their stalls. It was one of his favorite indoor places on the ranch.

  Because he used the office to conduct business with stock haulers, beef buyers, repairmen, and others, he displayed nothing personal, just some framed prints on the walls by well-known contemporary cowboy artists and a small bronze sculpture of a saddled pony on his desk.

  He opened a wall safe, grabbed two fully charged cell phones, and used one to call the Fort Bayard Veterans Center. He asked for Bud Elkins, and was put through to his room, but the telephone went unanswered.

  He sat back in his desk chair, wondering what the fuck was going on. Cops trying to find him for what? He’d always known that if anyone seriously started looking for him, chances were good he’d be found. To make the search more difficult, the ranch and all his assets and investments were managed through an offshore trust, which reduced, but didn’t eliminate, the risk of discovery.

  Page sighed in frustration. What were his crimes, for chrissake? Walking out on a job he’d come to hate? Stealing millions from a Colombian drug cartel? Killing some bad hombres in the jungle who wanted to kill him during his trek to Panama to meet Loretta? Silencing some untrustworthy blabbermouths? Putting thousands of dollars every year into the local economy?

  He drummed his fingers on the desktop. First he needed to know if there was a palpable threat. He knew Kevin Kerney was looking for Loretta. She’d told him why when they saw the news that the retired police chief had been arrested for Kim Ward’s murder. But the gunfight in Barranco Canyon where Kerney had been seriously wounded diminished the threat. Wouldn’t the cops assume Marks was guilty of Kim’s death?

  Since the shoot-out, he hadn’t been paying close attention to the news. He opened the laptop, went to the electronic edition of the Silver City newspaper, and scrolled through the articles. In the weekly police notes column, he found the risks had escalated. Arrest warrants for impersonating police officers at the Fort Bayard Veterans Center had been issued for Kevin Kerney and his son, Clayton Istee.