Everyone Dies Read online

  The only mention of Jack Potter was in Mary Beth’s diary on a bedside table. Several old entries written in a flowery hand expressed Mary Beth’s anger and disappointment with Potter.

  Ramona made a final sweep and told Matt to fill out the inventory sheet for the diary, laptop, grass, and drug paraphernalia.

  “That’s it?” Chacon asked.

  Glumly, Ramona nodded as she surveyed the front room. No matter how meager and dismal, the apartment represented a new life that two emotionally damaged people had attempted to build together. Now, all of that had been destroyed.

  As she closed the front door, she wondered—given the mistakes she’d made today—if the same now held true for her career.

  Some time back at Sara’s urging, Kerney had moved out of his cramped quarters and rented a place on Upper Canyon Road that was more than sufficient to accommodate both of them and the baby while their new home was under construction. It was a furnished guest house on an estate property owned by a mega-rich Wall Street stockbroker who rarely visited Santa Fe. Tucked against a hillside behind high adobe walls, the estate looked down on a small valley that once had been farmland but was now a wealthy residential neighborhood.

  On the opposite hillside, trophy homes were perched in full view of the road that circled the valley, so that all who passed by could see the fruits of the owners’ success. Only a very few of the homes on the valley floor were still owned by Hispanics, and those were mostly small and built on tiny plots of land where a half acre could sell for as much as a quarter-million dollars.

  On the rear patio of the guest house, Sara waited impatiently for Kerney’s return. He knew damn well she was scheduled to pick up her new car this afternoon from a Santa Fe dealership.

  She’d sold her old vehicle at Fort Leavenworth and bought a new one with her own money. Kerney had offered to pay for it. But Sara was unwilling to become dependent on any man, even one she loved and had married. She didn’t make a big salary as a lieutenant colonel, but she’d been raised by frugal ranching parents who’d taught her the value of living debt free. So she’d put aside money every month over the past several years to be able to pay cash when the time came to replace her car.

  Kerney, who had also been raised on a ranch, was much the same way about money and had only recently begun, with Sara’s encouragement, to spend some of the wealth he’d inherited from the estate of an old family friend.

  Sara thought about the qualities she shared with her husband. Both of them had been raised to value work, thrive on it, take pride in it. That figured into her reluctance to give up her military career for full-time motherhood, just as it kept Kerney unwilling to retire from police work.

  Could she really fault him for wanting to continue working at a job he loved? Or for responding to the demands of his job, when she would have done exactly the same thing?

  She called for a taxi and within twenty minutes was at the dealership signing the paperwork. The car, a small SUV, was the safest on the market, a perfect size for a small family, and it came with all the bells and whistles. It would serve her well either at the ranch or on the D.C. beltway.

  She drove the SUV home, hoping Kerney would be there so she could show it off to him. Instead, she found a dead rat under the portal by the front door. She stepped around it, went inside, and called the part-time estate manager who looked after the property.

  “A rat?” the woman said in surprise.

  “Yes,” Sara replied. “Does this happen often?”

  “No, it’s never happened before. I’ll have it removed.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sara said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Have there been any workmen or exterminators on the premises today?”

  “No one is scheduled to be there.”

  “Do you have poisoned bait traps put out?”

  “No,” the woman answered. “There’s never been a need for them.”

  Sara thanked the woman, hung up, and went back outside to look at the animal more closely. With a small stick she turned the rat over. Its limbs were rigid and splayed out from the torso, the mouth was open, and there were no visible wounds. An experienced military police officer who’d commanded a criminal investigation unit, Sara had seen her share of death, including a few suicides by poison. She had a strong hunch the rat hadn’t crawled onto the front portal to die.

  She called Tug Cheney, explained the situation, and asked him to come over.

  “Don’t touch it,” Cheney said. “I’ll be there soon. What’s going on? First the horse and now this.”

  “I think somebody doesn’t like us very much,” Sara said.

  She thought about calling Kerney then dropped the idea, deciding it would be best to wait until Cheney finished his examination.

  As a precaution, she locked all the doors and windows and took Kerney’s personal handgun from a box on the bedroom closet shelf. She sat on the living room sofa, checked the rounds in the .38, and laid the weapon on the end table.

  This was no time for someone to be threatening her or her family. Without hesitation, she would blow away anyone who came to do them harm.

  She patted her tummy and hummed quietly as she waited for Tug Cheney to arrive.

  With the information Bobby Trujillo had provided, Patrol Officer Russell Thorpe found it relatively easy to locate the subcontractors who’d worked on Kerney’s new house. By the end of his shift, he’d interviewed everybody who’d been involved with site preparation, earth moving, concrete pouring, and the rough-in plumbing and electrical work. He’d also checked every possible vehicle for a tread mark match. The sum total of his efforts resulted in excluding everybody he’d interviewed as a likely suspect in the case, which wasn’t a bad thing.

  At state police headquarters, Thorpe dropped off the evidence at the lab for analysis. On his way out the door the thought occurred to him that it might be wise to talk to the building suppliers. He called Trujillo on his cell phone, got the names and addresses of the companies that had delivered materials to the site, and set out to make the rounds.

  A bachelor with no one waiting for him at home, Thorpe didn’t mind putting out the extra effort. He wanted to show initiative and make an arrest in the case. Besides pleasing Kerney, it would earn him some points with Chief Baca, which might help when he had enough time on the job to apply for a transfer to criminal investigations.

  The suppliers consisted of an adobe manufacturer, a lumber company, and a ready-mix concrete outfit. The ready-mix plant and the lumberyard were nearby, so Thorpe checked there first and talked to the drivers, both of whom reported seeing no traffic on the ranch road or any suspicious activity at the job site. The adobe works was run by a tribal outfit on a pueblo outside of Espanola, a small city north of Santa Fe.

  The drive to the pueblo took Thorpe along a busy highway that eventually ran north to Taos and then on to Colorado. He passed by two Indian casinos, through some badlands where the roadside businesses looked junky and languishing, and got caught in stop-and-go traffic as the road funneled down to the main drag in Espanola, which seemed to offer nothing more than a combination of strip malls, gas stations, fast-food restaurants, and mom-and-pop businesses housed in dilapidated buildings.

  On the other hand, the pueblo outside of town had some charm. Located along the river in thick bosque with ancient cottonwoods lining the roadway, the main village was virtually hidden from the outside world.

  In a large fenced clearing away from the village, Thorpe found the yard where the adobes were made. It consisted of a metal building and long rows of freshly made mud and straw adobe bricks that were drying in the sun. Bales of straw and mounds of clay were strategically located next to several large, motor-driven mixing tanks used to stir the ingredients to the right consistency. Hundreds of empty wooden forms were lined up ready to be used in the next production run, and a fully loaded flatbed truck was parked in front of the office.

  Inside the building he introdu
ced himself to a middle-aged man who didn’t look happy to see a state cop in uniform on tribal land.

  “What do you want?” the man asked suspiciously. His face was covered in a film of adobe dust and his large hands were calloused and rough looking.

  “I’m investigating a crime in Santa Fe County,” Thorpe said, “and I need to talk to your driver.”

  “I’m the manager and the driver,” the man said. “What crime?”

  “You delivered to a construction site where a horse was killed sometime yesterday.” Thorpe gave him the location and the contractor’s name.

  “I wasn’t at that site yesterday. Trujillo’s next order isn’t due for another week.”

  “When were you out there?” Thorpe asked.

  “Five, maybe six days ago.”

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  The man shrugged. “Not really.”

  “What did you see?” Thorpe asked.

  “I had three deliveries to make that day so I got out there real early. A vehicle passed me coming down the ranch road. I figured it was one of the crew off to get something he needed for the job. But when I got to the site there wasn’t anybody around. I unloaded where Trujillo wanted the bricks and left before Bobby and his crew showed up. That’s all I saw.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A van. One of those big, older models, maybe an eighty-two or eighty-three. A blue GMC with a crumpled front fender on the driver’s side. I got a good look at it because he had to slow way down to get past me on the road.”

  Thorpe was impressed. The man had a good eye. “Did you see any passengers?”

  The man shook his head. “Nope, at least not in the front. The rear windows had curtains.”

  “Who was driving?” Thorpe asked.

  “A man.”

  “Anglo? Hispanic?”

  “I didn’t pay any attention to his face.”

  “Can you give me the exact date you were there?”

  The man looked through his invoices and read off the date.

  “Thanks for your help,” Thorpe said.

  “Did you stop at the tribal office before you came here?” the man asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, you should have. This is sovereign land. You’ve got no jurisdiction to be here without permission.”

  Thorpe threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry about that.”

  The man looked Thorpe up and down. “Dumb rookie mistake.”

  “Excuse me?” Thorpe said, taken aback.

  “I said you made a dumb, rookie mistake. I spent ten years as a tribal police officer, and met a lot of young state cops who thought they could go anywhere they wanted. Had to throw a few of them off the pueblo a time or two. Would have done the same to you, if I was still in uniform.”

  “I can understand your point of view,” Thorpe said, unwilling to apologize twice. He reached for his pocket notebook. “I’ll need your name for my report.”

  “Donald Naranjo,” the man answered as he handed Thorpe a business card. “You can call me here at the office if you’ve got more questions. Good luck with the case. Anybody who puts a good horse down for no reason needs his butt seriously kicked before he gets locked up.”

  “Maybe so,” Thorpe said. “Thanks for your help.”

  Naranjo gave him a tight smile in reply.

  Thorpe left, vowing to bone up on tribal jurisdictions. That issue aside, just maybe he had his first lead. He’d talk to Bobby Trujillo in the morning to see if anyone driving a blue van had been working at the job site. If not, he’d have to look for the vehicle, which could set back his investigation a good bit.

  But either way, he still had a start.

  Tug Cheney looked at the dead rat. “Most likely it was poisoned,” he said. With a gloved hand he picked it up by the tail and put it in a box. “I won’t know for sure until I cut it open.”

  “Can you tell me anything else?” Sara asked.

  “I’m no expert on rodents,” Tug replied. “But I do know rats are nocturnal. They feed at night and usually sleep during the day, so I doubt it crawled onto your front porch by itself. You’re sure there hasn’t been a pest exterminator out here recently?”

  “That’s what I was told by the estate manager,” Sara replied.

  “Let’s look for a burrow,” Tug said, eyeing Sara’s bulging stomach. “If I remember correctly, rats have a fairly limited territory. Are you up for it?”

  “Of course,” Sara said. “I’m pregnant, not disabled. What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Any kind of mound where the earth has been disturbed. It might look like a prairie dog hole, or be a smaller burrow system under a tree or shrub.”

  Tug viewed the lush landscaping surrounding the estate. Whoever owned the property didn’t give a hoot about water conservation. Non-native annuals filled flowerbeds bordering the main house and driveway, a large swath of thirsty blue grass ran down to the adobe wall, and mature fruit trees and several big Navajo willow trees that required intensive irrigation shaded open patios around the huge, rambling structure.

  “I’ve got to tell you,” Cheney said, “this doesn’t look like a good rat habitat to me. They prefer open, native grassland and more arid, sandy places.”

  They walked the property several times and found no evidence of burrows. Back at the guesthouse, Tug took a small address book out of his truck and flipped through the pages. “I know a retired wildlife biologist here in town,” he said. “Maybe he can tell us something about the rat.”

  On his cell phone, Tug spoke to the biologist, a man named Byron Stoll. He described the situation and the dead rodent. The information intrigued Stoll, who agreed to come and take a look for himself.

  Within ten minutes, Stoll arrived on a motorcycle. “Can’t say I’ve heard of many kangaroo rats in Santa Fe,” he said, pulling off his helmet and shaking Sara’s hand.

  A slightly built man in his sixties, Stoll had a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed matching mustache and beard. He went straight for the box containing the dead rat and opened the lid.

  “This is a D. merriami, commonly known as the Merriam Kangaroo Rat,” he said.

  “How can you tell?” Sara asked, looking over Stoll’s shoulder.

  “Four toes per hind foot,” Stoll answered. “The Ord rat has five, although that extra toe is sometimes hard to see because it’s so tiny. But this is clearly a Merriam.”

  Stoll looked at Tug and Sara. “This animal shouldn’t even be here.”

  “What do you mean?” Tug asked.

  “There are three species of native New Mexico kangaroo rats. The Ord, Merriam, and the Bannertail. The Bannertail is easy to spot because the last one-third of its tail is white. When you called, I would have bet you had a dead Bannertail on your hands, because they have a preference for places where grass is readily available. But the Merriam is only found from about Albuquerque southward in the Rio Grande Valley, and over by Santa Rosa, along the Pecos River Valley.”

  “Which definitely means it was brought here,” Sara said.

  “Without a doubt,” Stoll said.

  “Maybe it was a pet that was turned loose by its owner,” Tug said.

  “That could be,” Stoll replied. “They’re relatively gentle and easily handled.”

  “I’d like to know specifically what killed it,” Sara said, turning to Tug.

  “It was undoubtedly poisoned,” Stoll said.

  “Where can we have it tested?” Sara asked.

  “There’s a lab in Albuquerque,” Tug replied.

  “No need for that,” Stoll replied, smiling at Sara. “I’ve got a small lab at home. I’ll run some toxicology tests after dinner and give Tug a call.”

  “I think it should be handled by a police lab,” Sara said.

  Stoll laughed. “It would still come to me in any case. I do contract work for a number of law enforcement agencies. Don’t worry, I’ll enter it into evidence and preserve
the chain of custody.”

  “That will work,” Sara said.

  Stoll strapped the box with the rat on a rack over the rear wheel of his motorcycle, waved goodbye, and roared off.

  “Call me after you hear from Mr. Stoll,” Sara said as she walked Tug to his truck.

  “I will,” he said. “I think you and Kerney need to be cautious for a while.”

  Sara smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m armed and dangerous.”

  Drenching rain beat down on the roof of the mobile command trailer as Kerney and the district attorney, Sid Larranaga, listened to Ramona Pino give her report. The thunderstorm had blown in just as the crime scene techs were finishing up at the shooting site, and the search-and-rescue team was carrying Larsen’s body down the mountain trail, accompanied by detectives and Kerney’s Internal Affairs commander.

  “That’s all you got from the house search?” Larranaga asked when Detective Pino stopped talking.

  “Yes, sir,” Ramona replied, pushing a strand of wet hair away from her face. She’d gotten soaked running from her unit to the command trailer, which only made her feel more miserable about the situation.

  “I’m taking this to the grand jury,” Larranaga said, running a hand over the lapel of his suit jacket. He glanced hard at Kerney and nodded toward the door.

  “You’re excused, Detective,” Kerney said. He waited for Pino to leave before addressing Larranaga. “That’s a premature call to make, Sid. Why not wait until you hear what my Internal Affairs commander has to say?”

  Larranaga snorted and shifted his bulk in the chair. “It was stupid to call out SWAT and you know it. Even if your IA commander agrees with that assessment, the public is going to want an independent review made on this case. I’m charging the officers who shot Larsen with involuntary manslaughter. This was a lawful act, incautiously done, that resulted in the death of what clearly appears to be an innocent man. The grand jury can decide if it was justified or not.”

  “Is that the way you intend to present it?” Kerney asked.