Hermit_s Peak kk-4 Page 4

  The meadow was fenced, and a locked gate and no trespassing signs barred their passage. Halfway in the meadow stood a new timber-frame house with a blue metal pitched roof. A child's bicycle leaned against the covered porch. No motor vehicles were present.

  A rectangular greenhouse had been erected at the far end of the meadow, a good distance from the house.

  Built with concrete blocks and rough-cut lumber, the roof joists were covered with thick translucent plastic panels.

  "They sure are tucked away in here," Dale said.

  "Are we going in?"

  "We haven't been invited," Kerney said.

  "How about I buy you lunch in Las Vegas?"

  "It's a little early to eat."

  "It won't be after I track down Nestor Barela and talk to him."

  "We're packing it in?"

  "As far as the trail riding goes." Kerney pointed to a dip in the tree line where the horizontal line of a mesa showed through.

  "If I'm oriented correctly, that's my property over there. The defile should be just a little to the south and east. We may have found a neighbor who just might know something about the poaching. I'll pay him a visit when he's home."

  "Then why go see Barela?"

  "Because he may know something the neighbor doesn't."

  "Makes sense," Dale said.

  "You really do think like a cop."

  "It's habit forming."

  Shoe sat in the back of the extended cab on a jump seat, panting quietly, as they made the short fifteen-mile trip to Las Vegas, New Mexico. The city, situated on the edge of the high plains with Hermit's Peak and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains looming in the background, had its boom days late in the last century when the arrival of the railroad turned it into a major transportation center.

  With almost a thousand historic buildings dating from early in the century and before. Las Vegas was staging a comeback. A number of the old buildings that ringed the plaza and spread down Bridge Street had been renovated, new businesses had opened, tourism had picked up, and newcomers were moving in.

  They stopped at the police department on a corner of the plaza. Kerney went in, introduced himself to the shift commander, flashed his credentials, and asked a few questions. The officer knew Barela, and Kerney got directions to Nestor's house.

  Barela lived just outside the city limits on land along the Gallinas River that he'd turned into a compound for his extended family. It consisted of four manufactured homes on concrete pads lined up in a row facing the highway.

  A wrought-iron portal arched over the driveway, with the words Los Barelas spelled out in cursive writing.

  Beneath the lettering was a fabricated cutout of a cowboy on horseback twirling a lasso. A fenced pasture dipped down to the river where a young man was cleaning out the inside of a four-horse trailer at the side of a barn.

  Six quarter horses in the pasture looked up at the sound of Dale's truck on the dirt driveway, swished their tails lazily, and went back to grazing. There were eight cars and trucks of various makes parked in front of the house, none of them more than two or three years old.

  The front door to a house swung open as they drew near, and a stocky man in his late thirties with reddish brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard walked off the porch to greet them.

  Kerney waved, got out after Dale slowed to a stop, and limped to meet the man halfway. His right knee, shattered by a bullet in a gunfight, ached from his time in the saddle.

  "I'm looking for Nestor Barela," he said.

  "Are you here about the horse we have for sale?" the man asked.

  "No, I'm here about the Fergurson lease."

  "We're not giving up that lease until it runs out."

  "When is that?" Kerney asked, knowing full well the lease expired at the end of the year.

  The man thought about answering, shrugged it off, and nodded at the house where an elderly man stood framed in a doorway.

  "Talk to my father. He's home."

  Kerney reached the porch step and smiled at a sinewy man somewhere in his late seventies. His legs were bowed from years in the saddle. The back of his hands carried the scars from a lifetime of hard physical work He had a full head of gray hair and sharp, dear brown eyes.

  "Mr. Barela?" Kerney asked.

  "Yes," Barela answered suspiciously.

  Kerney decided not to give too much away.

  "My name is Kevin Kerney." He nodded in the direction of the truck, where Dale waited.

  "My friend and I are interested in buying your grazing rights on the Fergurson land for the summer."

  Barela's expression soured further.

  "I'm not interested."

  "I'd be willing to pay a premium for it."

  "I don't keep it to make money," Nestor replied.

  "Mind telling me why you do keep it?" Kerney asked.

  "It hasn't been put in production for some time, as far as I can tell."

  "You've been on the land?"

  "Just for a quick look. I'd heard you weren't grazing it."

  "It's posted. Stay off."

  "I'd like to talk to the owner."

  "You can't. She's dead."

  "Do you think the land will come up for sale?"

  "Everything is for sale at the right price."

  "Are there woodcutters working in the area?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I saw a truck hauling logs out this morning."

  "That's normal. Since the Forest Service started limiting permits, some of the private land owners have been selling woodcutting rights."

  "Anyone in particular that you know of?"

  "Osborn and Patterson, I've been told."

  "Is anyone cutting wood on your leasehold?"

  "Nobody cuts wood on that property."

  "You're sure?"

  "I would know."

  "Who bought your ranch?"

  "An Englishwoman owns it. I never met her. She lives in Los Angeles.

  A local attorney handled the sale for her.

  You ask a lot of questions."

  Kerney smiled and shrugged off the comment.

  "I'd really like to find some land where I can summer over my cattle.

  I've heard there is a high meadow north of the mesa. Would that serve?"

  "It's a small parcel on a bad road. You couldn't run more than five cows on it. A family from California bought it. The man used to teach college, or something like that."

  "I'm sorry I've taken so much of your time, Senor Barela."

  "Stay off the property," Nestor said.

  "It is still under my care." He closed the door in Kerney's face.

  Kerney made a quick stop at the state police office where he found the district commander on duty. Capt.

  Victor Garduno briefed him on the continuing search of the mesa.

  Additional skeletal remains had been found about a mile from the original crime scene, including parts of the spine, ribs, and an arm bone. But no skull.

  "We're still looking," Garduno said. A lean, big-shouldered man, the captain had a self-contained, confident manner.

  Kerney switched gears and gave Captain Garduno a brief rundown on his conversation with Nestor Barela, and his hunch that the wood could have been trucked out through the meadow.

  "I'd like to learn more about Nestor, his family, and the owner of the timber-frame cabin," he added.

  "Barela said the guy who built it moved here from California."

  "That won't be a problem," Captain Garduno said.

  "Can you get me crime statistics for the San Geronimo area?"

  Garduno wrote a note to himself.

  "Consider it done, Chief. Sergeant Gonzales has asked for a records search on missing women over the last ten years. You should have the report on your desk when you get back to your office."

  "Good deal. Has Melody Jordan reported in?"

  "She's back at headquarters, examining the bones.

  Sergeant Gonzales would like to remain the primary offic
er on the case.

  Chief."

  "Are you recommending him?"

  "He spent five years in criminal investigations before he made his sergeant stripes. I use him as an investigator whenever I can't get an agent assigned out of Santa Fe."

  "Can you get along without him for a while?"

  "A senior patrol officer can cover his duties."

  "Give him the green light."

  Kerney got back to the truck and Dale groused at him for taking so long, and complained of being hungry.

  Kerney bought lunch at a Mexican place on the plaza.

  Dale packed away the food while Kerney watched cars pull up in front of the Plaza Hotel. The hotel, a prominent city landmark, was a three-story brick structure with Gothic Revival columns, overhangs, and windows.

  Dale ate and listened while Kerney repeated the gist of his conversation with Nestor Barela.

  "So Barela wouldn't tell you squat," he said between bites.

  "That's pretty suspicious. But I don't think that old man cut and hauled that wood away by himself. Just eyeing him from the truck, he looked pretty much worn down to me."

  "Maybe it's a family affair." Kerney picked at his meal.

  "He has strong backs to help him. They could haul a lot of wood in that four-stall horse trailer that was parked down at the barn, without raising any suspicion."

  "I guess I just don't think like a cop." Dale wiped his chin with a paper napkin and dropped it on his empty plate.

  "I'm gonna have to bring Barbara and the girls up here for a vacation."

  "Any time," Kerney said, as he motioned for the check.

  "I'll fix up my cabin for you."

  Dale snickered.

  "I said vacation, Kerney. That means a nice hotel with clean sheets every day, dinners out, and with three women, shopping. Lots of shopping. Since I can't afford Santa Fe, I'll bring them here."

  "Sounds like a plan," Kerney said as he paid the bill and left the tip.

  "Are you ready? I've got some work to do."

  "More cop stuff?"

  "Yeah."

  Dale pushed his chair back and stood up.

  "What a yarn I have to tell when I get home. And it doesn't need a bit of exaggeration."

  "I'm glad you had a good time."

  "Did I ever."

  In the truck. Dale popped a George Strait tape into the cassette deck and cranked up the volume. Kerney groaned quietly. County and western was his least favorite music.

  Shoe crawled out of the backseat, sat on Kerney's lap, and stared at him with serious eyes. Either the dog didn't smell bad anymore, or Kerney was getting used to him.

  He was without a doubt the hairiest beast Kerney had ever owned.

  Kerney's apartment was a furnished one-bedroom guest cottage in the south capital neighborhood, within a short walk to the Santa Fe plaza.

  Although bland and boxy, it had a fireplace, reasonably decent furniture, and a small enclosed patio. Kerney liked the neighborhood with its old houses, narrow streets, and mature trees that gave a small-town feeling to the area. His landlord, Leo Dunn, was a retired cop who had built the cottage at the rear of his property solely for the rental income.

  Over the years, most of Leo's tenants were officers going through divorces or just starting out in law enforcement. Leo knew firsthand how poorly cops were paid, so he kept the rent reasonable.

  Kerney stopped at Leo's house, an older, pueblo-style single story with a long veranda, to introduce Shoe to his landlord. He got provisional permission to keep the dog as long as it didn't crap on the rug, chew up the furniture, or bother the neighbors.

  Before leaving for the office, Kerney got Shoe settled, and left the patio door open to the small backyard so the dog could do his business outside. Since Leo was around most of the time to keep an eye on things, a burglary was highly unlikely. On top of that, Kerney didn't really have much worth stealing.

  At the state police headquarters, a building complex that included the Department of Public Safety and the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy, Kerney found Melody Jordan in the laboratory.

  She looked up from the microscope and smiled when Kerney approached.

  "Great timing. Chief. I was about to ask dispatch to track you down."

  "What have you got?"

  "Several facts that may help. The body was dismembered while clothed.

  I found minute fibers embedded in the bones-denim and wool. We might be able to match that fabric scrap you found with the maker. And we may get lucky with the wool fibers."

  "Do you have any hunches?"

  "The victim wore high-end apparel. Chief. Not the kind of do thing bought at discount stores. But we'll have to wait for our fiber expert to confirm it."

  Melody swung her stool to face Kerney.

  "More good news: We may not need the skull to make an ID. The left humerus shows a severe old break, about a third of the way down. It isn't the kind of injury that would go unattended."

  "That is good news. Have the bones told you anything else?"

  "Tentatively. Remember, we have to factor in the weathering of the bones, but I'd give the victim's age between twenty and thirty years, based on the microscopic examination of the fibula we found."

  "The victim's race?"

  "Probably Anglo or Hispanic, based on the size of the pubic bone. Find the skull and I can narrow it down further.

  If you do, I'll have a facial reconstruction made."

  "What's next?"

  "I want to see if I can match up the saw marks to various types of hand or power tools. That will take some time. I'll also do an X-ray examination to see if I can discover any foreign or metallic objects. I still don't have a due how the woman was killed."

  "You do good work, Ms. Jordan." Kerney turned away and started for the door.

  "Thanks." Melody pushed her hair away from her forehead and stood.

  "Was that a mustang you were riding on the mesa?"

  Kerney paused at the door and looked back.

  "You know your horses."

  "Do you ride a lot?" The thousand-watt smile Dale had noticed on the mesa lit up Melody's face.

  "Not as much as I'd like. I don't have the time."

  "I have two quarter horses, a mare and a gelding. I stable them at a friend's place. I think you'd like the gelding.

  I've been looking for somebody who can give him a good workout. He needs a firm hand. Interested?"

  Kerney pushed back the appealing thought of a day in the saddle accompanied by an attractive woman, and chose his words carefully.

  "I don't see how I can fit it into my schedule. Thanks again for the good work."

  Melody's smile faded. She returned to the stool, low y ered her head over the microscope, and spoke without looking up.

  "I'll have a follow-up report for you as soon as possible."

  Kerney waited a beat for Melody to say more. She kept her eye glued to the microscope, picked up a pendl, and started writing. He left thinking there were a lot of drawbacks to being a boss.

  Sgt Gabe Gonzales arrived at the district office after dark to find a pile of paperwork waiting for him. He thumbed through it quickly. It contained a note from his captain assigning him full-time to the murder investigation, a preliminary report of Melody Jordan's examination of the skeletal remains, a copy of the most recent crime statistics for the San Geronimo area that had been faxed to Chief Kerney, and a list of missing persons reports on women who had disappeared in northern New Mexico during the past ten years. Clipped to the paperwork was a note indicating that investigative reports on the targeted missing women had been received from various law enforcement agencies and could be accessed by computer.

  Gabe read Melody Jordan's report first before scanning the computer files on the ten women reported missing from northern New Mexico. He found no medical information on a woman with an old fracture to the upper left arm. It didn't surprise him: that kind of detail usually didn't surface in a preliminary missing persons r
eport.

  He scrolled the computer files again. Eight of the missing women were residents of the state, and two were tourists passing through. Only three fell within the age range Melody had established. He would work those three as a short list before moving on to the others.

  If nothing promising materialized, he'd access the National Crime Information Center data bank on missing persons and see what popped up.

  He checked the time and grimaced. Since his divorce last year, getting home at a reasonable hour had become important to Gabe. He had one child from the marriage, Orlando, who lived with him, attended the local university, and worked part-time.

  Both were busy, but when Gabe worked the day shift he liked to get home early and fix dinner for the two of them.

  Tonight that wasn't going to happen.

  He called home, got the answering machine, left Orlando a message, and started organizing his field notes for his report. It would take a good two hours to do the write-up, make fresh crime scene sketches, and mount the photographs on exhibit forms. Deputy Chief Kerney expected the report on his desk first thing in the morning, and Gabe wanted to make sure it got there complete and on time.

  He sat back in his chair, rubbed the back of his neck, and thought about Kerney. He was an outsider who had been quickly elevated to deputy chief, but his reputation as an investigator was outstanding. In short order, Kerney had personally cleared two major cases, a multimillion-dollar Santa Fe art theft and the murder of a small-town cop. But he was also an old friend of the state police chief, Andy Baca, which kept the issue of cronyism alive among the department gossips.

  Gabe decided not to waste his time worrying about whether or not Kerney was a good boss. That question would be answered as Gabe learned more about how the chief operated. He picked up the crime statistics report for San Geronimo that Kerney had requested.

  During the last year there had been two incidents of cattle theft, two reports of illegal wood harvesting, and three acts of vandalism to cabins, along with eight burglaries to summer homes.

  Gabe got out the two prior-year statistical reports and paged through the property crimes information. Up until last year, San Geronimo had been virtually crime free. He made a note to check with the county sheriff for an update on recent criminal activity in San Geronimo.

  If the rising crime trend had continued into the new year, that would be very interesting information.