Everyone Dies kk-8 Page 6

  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.”

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

  “I don’t know,” Larranaga replied. “But I will tell you this: I’ve got growing reservations about this big love affair cop shops have with special weapons and tactics units. This whole thing with the combat boots, military-style fatigues, automatic weapons, and all that high-tech stuff is getting to be a bit much. You’re supposed to police the community, not act like some sort of quasi-militia.”

  “SWAT has a role to play in policing,” Kerney replied.

  “Sometimes,” Larranaga said. “But not when a poor, unbalanced sucker who’s scared shitless is hiding in the woods because his deranged girlfriend has blown things all out of proportion.”

  “Are you going to sacrifice my people to make your point?”

  “Do you disagree with my analysis of the situation?” Larranaga shot back.

  “No.”

  Larranaga stood up. “Then make damn sure all the facts are available to present to the grand jury. The only defense you’ve got is to provide conclusive proof above and beyond the officers’ statements that they were forced to stop the action when they came under fire. You’d better hope and pray the evidence is there. I want the reports on my desk by morning.”

  “What are you going to tell the media?” Kerney asked.

  “For now, nothing,” Larranaga said. “I’ll announce my decision tomorrow after I’ve read your reports.”

  Larranaga flipped up the collar of his suit jacket and left, running through the rain to his car. Through the open trailer door Kerney saw Otero and Molina sitting in a nearby unit. He gestured for them to join him and spent a few minutes discussing Pino’s report, Larranaga’s reaction, and laying out exactly what he wanted to see on his desk no later than six o’clock in the morning.

  Molina opened his mouth to speak, and Larry Otero cut him off.

  “I’ll take responsibility for authorizing SWAT,” he said grimly.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Kerney answered sharply, as he moved toward the door. “This is my kitchen, and I’ll take the heat.”

  Chapter 4

  I t took Kerney a minute to realize that the new vehicle parked next to his truck outside the guesthouse belonged to Sara. Stirred by the uneasy realization that he’d spaced out their appointment to take delivery of the car, he hurried inside to apologize. He shucked off his wet windbreaker, hung it on the hall closet doorknob, and called her name as he walked into the living room.

  Sara answered from the kitchen. She sat at the table eating her dinner, a bowl of pasta with asparagus in a cream sauce. Kerney’s. 38 sat next to the place mat by her right hand.

  He lowered himself into a chair, eying the handgun. “Sorry I couldn’t get back in time to take you to pick up your car.”

  “I managed.” Sara stood, moved to the stove, and spooned out a bowl of pasta. She seemed calm, not at all upset with him.

  “You didn’t have to make my dinner.”

  “Yes, I did. I need to practice cooking for two, at least for a little while. Besides, I was hungry.”

  He took the bowl from Sara’s hand and reached for a fork. “What’s up with the pistola?”

  “We had a dead rat delivered to our front door this afternoon,” Sara replied, returning to her chair, “by person or persons unknown.”

  Kerney set aside the fork. “And?”

  Sara laid the story out, including the call from Tug Cheney confirming that the rat, according to Byron Stoll’s toxicology test, had been poisoned with strychnine.

  “It’s commonly used in rodenticides sold over the counter,” Sara added calmly.

  “Rodenticides?”

  “That what Tug Cheney calls them,” Sara answered, stabbing the last asparagus spear. She chewed it slowly. “Anyway, the pistola is a precaution until we find out who is playing this unpleasant little game.”

  “I’ll deal with it,” Kerney said.

  Sara shook her head, and pushed aside her empty bowl. “Don’t go getting all macho on me, Kerney. I’ve already started the ball rolling. I spoke to both the city and the county animal control supervisors this afternoon and asked about any recent calls regarding dead rats.”

  She got up and fetched a notepad next to the kitchen telephone. “Two days ago, a rat was removed from in front of a house off Hyde Park Road, just outside the city limits. The woman who requested the service was afraid of contracting Hantavirus. She didn’t realize that the disease was spread to humans only by deer mice droppings, not from rats. An animal control officer removed the rat and disposed of it. In his report he noted the animal appeared to have been poisoned. The woman found it in the driveway next to her car.”

  “Was it a kangaroo rat?” Kerney asked between forkfuls of pasta.

  “The officer thought so, but wasn’t sure,” Sara replied, returning to the table. “Requests to remove dead rats aren’t all that common.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “Dora Manning.”

  “That name sounds familiar,” Kerney said.

  “I tried phoning her several times and got no answer.”

  His mouth full, Kerney nodded in approval before speaking. “Was the rat tested before it was destroyed?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Sara went to the sink and rinsed out her bowl. “I think we should pay a visit to Ms. Manning’s house after you finish your dinner.”

  “Why should we do that?”

  “I got the phone company to give me the names and numbers of Manning’s immediate neighbors, and one of them hasn’t seen her for a day.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I asked questions.”

  “No, I mean find the neighbors.”

  “You’re not the only member of this family with law enforcement experience. I commanded a military police unit, remember? The phone company was very cooperative. Anyway, I spoke to a neighbor. Manning is an older woman who lives alone. Her car is at the house but the neighbor hasn’t seen her outside since yesterday evening, and she always lets him or his wife know when she’s going out of town.”

  Sara held out her key ring. “Come on, I’ll let you drive my new SUV.” She eased the. 38 into her purse.

  Kerney dropped the fork in the bowl. “Okay, let’s go. Good chow, by the way.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?” Kerney asked, as he followed suit and rinsed out his bowl in the sink.

  “Perhaps a tiny bit,” Sara said with a smile. “You can tell me about your afternoon in the car.”

  “It’s a big mess, that’s for sure,” Kerney said.

  Throughout the day, the bald-headed man had listened carefully to radio traffic on his police scanner, waiting for the call that would send animal control to Kerney’s house to remove the dead rat.

  He’d left it there fully expecting Kerney’s wife to ask animal control to collect it and then think no more about it. But it hadn’t played out that way. Perhaps she’d called Kerney by phone instead, or simply thrown the rat into the trash. Either way, the man was not disconcerted. He’d prepared his plan with those contingencies in mind.

  When Kerney reported by radio that he was leaving Tesuque and going home, the man drove to the church at the bottom of Upper Canyon Road and parked. Within ten minutes of his arrival, Kerney passed by.

  He drummed his fingers on the shoe box that contained another dead rat. Soon it would be dark enough to leave it, without being detected, for Kerney to find, accompanied by a note that would fully clarify the chief’s predicament.

  After nightfall, he drove to the end of Upper Canyon Road and walked down the hill to Kerney’s house. The new car was missing from the driveway and there were no lights on inside. He stayed in the shadows, moved quietly to the portal, placed the rat on the floor, tacked the note to the door, and hurried away.

  Soldier’s slaughter and the discovery of the poisoned rat made Kerney apprehensive. But he stayed focused on the Larsen shooting during the drive to Manning’s ho
use. Likewise, Sara avoided the subject, limiting her comments to some questions about the SWAT screw-up. It was as if they’d silently agreed to postpone any speculation about the day’s events until they had a better understanding of them.

  He could sense that Sara’s worry matched his own, but she didn’t appear rattled by it. He expected as much from her. Before their marriage, she’d won a meritorious promotion to her current rank for leading a covert mission in Korea that had successfully thwarted an assassination plot against the secretary of state.

  Beyond that, Kerney had witnessed firsthand Sara’s coolness under fire, when a military intelligence agent had tried to bushwhack them in order to cover up an illicit government spy operation.

  The Manning house was in a foothills subdivision off Hyde Park Road, which climbed into the high mountains of the national forest and ended at the ski basin. Kerney followed a long, looping street with several culde-sacs that ran around a hillside. The storm had cleared out, and thick stands of pine blocked the weak glow of the moon. With no street lamps and only a few house lights showing, the neighborhood was masked in shades of darkness.

  Sara consulted her notes and guided Kerney to the right address. He drove by slowly without stopping. A car sat in the driveway in front of the unlit house.

  “Based on what I learned today,” Sara said, turning off the map light, “this is definitely not the natural habitat of D. merriami.”

  “Of the what?”

  “The Merriam Kangaroo Rat, or either of the other two native species, for that matter. Stop next door.”

  Kerney swung into the driveway. Lights were on inside the house. Sara rang the doorbell and an older man answered.

  “Mr. Saul?” Sara asked. “I spoke to you earlier today about Dora Manning.”

  “Oh, yes,” Saul answered, nodding his head. “I went to Dora’s house after you called, but she wasn’t home. You have us quite worried about her. She never leaves town without telling me and my wife she’ll be gone. We always pick up her mail for her.”

  “Does she often travel without her car?” Sara asked.

  Saul nodded. “She doesn’t like to drive in Albuquerque, so she takes a taxi downtown and rides the shuttle bus to the airport. Perhaps she had an emergency. Her older sister in California isn’t in good health.”