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  “Mind opening the rear door?” Rogoff asked the Anglo man, stopping six paces away, out of striking distance.

  Nick smiled. “Not at all.” He pulled on the latch and swung the door up.

  As the cop switched his gaze to the van, Nick shot him twice through the pocket of his windbreaker, the rounds punching into Rogoff’s bulletproof vest.

  Slammed back by the impact, Rogoff pulled at his sidearm.

  Nick put a bullet in the cop’s forehead before he could free the weapon.

  • • •

  Palazzi studied the road map while Emilio pushed the van to its maximum down the highway. Facundo was in the backseat clutching an M16 loaded with a thirty-round banana clip. They had to get off the highway before a wolf pack of cops swarmed all over them. The best possible plan was to cut through the old mining towns of Hillsboro and Kingston, climb the mountain road through the Black Range, and swing down to Silver City. There they could lose the van, steal a car, and make a straight run to the border. After that, if they punched it hard, they could be in Mexico in an hour.

  The problem was the dead woman. They had to lose the body before switching vehicles. Emory Pass at the top of the mountain range west of Kingston looked like a good place to stop. A ten-minute hike off the road should do it, Nick thought. With any luck, it could be years before the remains were found, if ever.

  “Take the next exit,” Nick ordered Emilio.

  4

  At the state police headquarters on the old Albuquerque Highway, Kerney turned Andy’s conference room into a temporary office. The room had exposed brick walls, a large wall-mounted chalkboard, and three long tables pushed together to form a U. Windows provided a view of the parking lot, the highway, and a new car dealership across the road.

  The word of his promotion had spread quickly throughout the building, and the range of staff reaction ran from polite congratulations to studied indifference. Kerney expected as much; cop shops were paramilitary societies, and any promotion outside of the traditional practice of rank and seniority always sent shock waves through the system.

  Andy had gone back to the Roundhouse to meet with a legislative finance committee on his proposed budget, so Kerney was on his own. He selected several agents to assist him, met with the criminal investigations commander, and got busy pulling together a team. The report of Officer Rogoff’s murder came in as he completed making initial assignments. He took two agents off the theft case and sent them down to T or C to take charge of the homicide investigation, and ordered field commanders in the southern part of the state to swarm their districts with patrols in an attempt to locate the vehicle and suspects.

  Rogoff’s murder put everyone in a foul, tight-lipped mood. By the end of the morning, all that could be done at the command level was under way. Kerney tapped more agents for field assignments to supplement the team. Almost every criminal investigator on duty was working the case one way or another.

  He pushed the paperwork to one side and walked stiffly to the window. Bone tired, he stared at the traffic on the highway, trying to clean out the cobwebs in his head. As he turned back, Andy came into the conference room through his office door, dumped his briefcase on the table, and sank into a chair. Kerney joined him at the table.

  “Where do things stand?” Andy asked.

  “We’re working from a list of all the people with access to the underground garage at the state capitol,” Kerney replied. “It includes everybody on the governor’s staff, the lieutenant governor and his staff, cabinet officers, legislators, and some of the state employees who work in the building.”

  “I hope you told our people to be diplomatic.”

  “Of course,” Kerney replied. “We’re running fresh background checks on everybody, looking for shady relationships, money problems, or indiscretions that might be suspect. I’ve got the two night janitors in interrogation, but neither of them seems to know a damn thing.”

  “Has anybody with access to the garage or private elevator turned up missing?” Andy inquired.

  “No such luck,” Kerney answered.

  “What’s the status on the Rogoff shooting?”

  “No breaks yet. We’ve got a license number and description of the vehicle. Every law enforcement agency in southern New Mexico is looking for the van. The one bit of good news is that Rogoff had his video camera on. We’ve got the shooting on tape, with good pictures of the killer and his cohorts. A copy of the video has been sent to the FBI to see if they can make a match.” Kerney paused.

  “What else?”

  “The killer opened the rear gate of the van before he shot Rogoff. There was no artwork inside, but something wrapped in a sheet was behind the backseat. Our lab people think it might have been a body. They’re analyzing the videotape now.”

  “Do you think the shooting and the robbery are connected?”

  “That’s the way I read it.”

  Andy nodded in agreement, stood up, and reached for his briefcase.

  “How are the budget hearings going?” Kerney asked.

  “I’m due back tomorrow morning. The committee wants me to cut ten percent from my request for new money for equipment.”

  “Will that ding the department?”

  “Not really,” Andy said, walking toward his office. “I padded the budget by twenty percent, figuring I’d have to take a cut somewhere down the line.” He stopped at the door. “Catch Rogoff’s killer, Kerney.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  During the remainder of the day, Kerney kept in touch with the field investigators as they worked their lists and conducted initial interviews. He didn’t expect anything interesting to pop up at the information-gathering stage, and nothing surfaced. Likewise, the background checks were raising no red flags.

  Night had settled over the city by the time Kerney left headquarters and walked to his car. Going thirty-six hours on an hour’s sleep had drained him, but his day wasn’t finished. Nita was about to be discharged by the doctors, and she’d have to be booked into the Torrance County jail.

  • • •

  Nita had been moved by the deputy sheriff guarding her from the hospital room to an office in the administrative wing, which got her away from family and friends who had congregated throughout the day. Grateful for the deputy’s good sense, Kerney thanked the officer.

  “She doesn’t act like a cold-blooded cop killer,” Deputy Henry Delgado said as he nodded at the open door to the office where Nita waited. “In fact, she’s been so damn easy to guard, I’ve had a hard time believing she killed a cop.”

  “She had her reasons for doing it,” Kerney replied.

  “They better be damn good ones,” Delgado noted.

  An older officer, probably near retirement, Delgado still looked like he could mix it up with the bad guys and come out on top. He had short-cropped hair, a high forehead, and a chunky face with deep-set brown eyes. Kerney liked the man immediately.

  “Has she spoken with an attorney?” Kerney asked.

  “Yeah. A lawyer was in to see her. He wasn’t anybody I knew.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “He gave me his card.” He passed it to Kerney and smiled apologetically. “I don’t mean to rush you, but am I done here? My grandson is the point guard on his junior high school basketball team. He’s got a game tonight. I try not to miss any of them.”

  “Take off. And thanks again.”

  Kerney entered the office to find Nita Lassiter sitting on a small couch. She stood up quickly. She wore a black tailored jacket that broke just below her hips, a pair of double-pleated gray trousers, and square-toed black pumps with low heels. The sophisticated outfit favored her good looks. Her right arm was secured against her side by a sling.

  “Ms. Lassiter,” Kerney said, waiting for a reaction.

  Nita nodded silently in response.

  “I understand from the doctor that there is no permanent damage.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. My lawyer
tells me that I’m probably going to spend the night in jail.”

  “That’s true,” Kerney said.

  Nita glanced at the door. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  “My lawyer told me not to say anything more to the police unless he was present.”

  “That’s wise advice. But I wasn’t planning to interrogate you, just ask a question or two that you may find helpful.”

  Nita looked Kerney up and down. “What are your questions?”

  “Has your lawyer discussed the possibility of bail?”

  A worried look crossed Nita’s face. “We didn’t talk about that.”

  “Has he ever practiced criminal law?”

  “I don’t think so. Just real estate and tax law.”

  Kerney shook his head. “You’ll need a criminal defense lawyer. I’m going to book you on a murder-one charge, Ms. Lassiter, and with your confession, a judge or grand jury will most likely find there is sufficient probable cause to go to trial. You’ll be facing a pretty stiff bond for your release, if the court agrees to let you make bail at all. Do you have property to put up as security?”

  “My home and my practice,” Nita replied. “I should talk to my lawyer. Is that possible?”

  “Of course. You’ll be allowed to call him from the jail.” Kerney took out a business card, wrote quickly on the back of it, and held it out. “But in case he doesn’t know who to use as a bail bondsman, the name of this gentleman might do. He’s honest and reliable.”

  Nita took the card. “I’ll pass the information along.”

  “Have your lawyer call me if he wants the name of a good attorney.”

  “Do you have any more helpful questions to ask?” There was a challenge in Nita’s voice.

  Kerney sensed that Nita’s mistrust of police officers ran deep. He let the question go unanswered. “There are some reporters at the front of the building. To avoid them, we’ll leave by way of the rear loading dock.” He stood to one side of the door to let Nita pass.

  “Shouldn’t I be handcuffed?”

  “Are you planning to escape?”

  “No.”

  “Handcuffs won’t be necessary until we get to my unit. Then regulations take over.”

  A thin smile crossed her lips. “How very thoughtful.”

  Without giving Kerney the opportunity to respond, Nita Lassiter walked into the hallway.

  • • •

  Kerney ushered Nita into the booking area of the jail. When the electronic lock of the security door clicked shut behind them, Nita stiffened. Kerney could see panic building in her eyes, so he stayed after the booking process and waited until she returned from a strip search and change-out into a jail uniform. Even with a stiff upper lip, she looked frightened.

  He arranged for Nita to be kept in a seclusion cell away from the general population. She gave him what may have been a weak, thankful smile when he left.

  He called the on-duty assistant DA and told him that Lassiter was in jail. Wesley Marshall, the ADA—a man Kerney didn’t know—asked Kerney to meet him at the county courthouse.

  In Marshall’s office, Kerney sat quietly while the ADA read the criminal complaint, the transcribed copy of Lassiter’s tape-recorded confession, and Kerney’s case report on the events leading up to the shooting incident.

  A young man in his late twenties, Marshall had dark curly hair, thick eyebrows, and a bushy mustache. He looked up from the documents and stared intently at Kerney.

  “You didn’t read her rights to her prior to her first confession,” Wesley noted.

  “She wasn’t in custody at that point,” Kerney answered.

  “Did you have the intent to arrest her at that time?”

  “No. She was in her truck when she confessed to killing Gillespie. I arrested her after she attempted suicide. I read her the Miranda rights, placed her in custody, and explained the charges against her.”

  “Was she coherent at the time?”

  “She was.”

  “Was shooting her necessary?”

  “It was. I had no other option. If I hadn’t fired, she would have killed herself.”

  “The level of force may have been excessive.” Marshall thumbed through the paperwork. “Did you perceive a risk to yourself?”

  “Facing a loaded weapon is always a risk.”

  “When you taped her confession at the hospital, was she in full possession of her faculties?” Marshall asked.

  “She was.”

  “Who made that determination?”

  “The attending physician,” Kerney replied, flipping over a page in the notebook. He read the doctor’s name.

  The ADA nodded, wrote down the name, scrawled his signature on the documents, and glanced up at Kerney. “That should do it. It looks like a solid, legal bust to me.”

  “Are you taking Lassiter before the grand jury?”

  Marshall shook his head. “Nope. We’ll do a probable cause hearing before Judge Ross-Gorden sometime tomorrow. My boss wants to move fast on this one.”

  “Has the DA told you to go for no bail?”

  “Damn right he has. A murder-one defendant has never made bail since he took office. I doubt we’ll have a problem with the request.” Marshall stuffed the paperwork into a folder and stood. “We’re going to push to go to trial as soon as possible. The defense will probably want to depose you in a day or two. I’ll let you know when the request comes through.”

  “Good enough,” Kerney said as he pushed himself out of the chair. The bum leg had locked up on him again.

  Marshall’s office was near the sheriff’s department at the back of the building. Kerney knew Judge Willene Ross-Gorden, who had served on the bench for over twenty years. He called her at home from the receptionist’s desk in the sheriff’s office. After an exchange of pleasantries, he asked the judge if she would have her clerk notify him when Lassiter’s hearing had been set.

  “Of course,” Ross-Gorden replied. “I was surprised when I learned that you were the arresting officer in this case, Mr. Kerney. I thought you were retired.”

  “I can’t seem to stay that way, Judge.”

  Ross-Gorden chuckled. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. My clerk will call you.”

  • • •

  A hand shook Kerney awake.

  “Get up,” Fletcher commanded. “It’s time for our morning run.”

  “Hump,” Kerney said into his pillow.

  Fletcher shook him a little harder and Kerney turned to see Hartley standing over him, dressed in sweats and running shoes. In the few weeks Kerney had been bunking with Fletcher, he had joined him on an early morning two-mile jog around the quiet streets when his schedule allowed.

  Kerney enjoyed Fletcher’s company on the morning runs. Before returning to Santa Fe, he’d lived alone in a borrowed house in Reserve, New Mexico, while serving as the interim sheriff. Breaking up the local militia’s plans to assassinate Forest Service employees hadn’t won him any popularity contests among many of the residents of Catron County.

  “If you want to become an ageless beauty like me, you must remain fit,” Fletcher said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Six.”

  “It’s too early.”

  “Then I simply won’t tell you what the very nice art theft investigator I spoke to in London told me.”

  “I’ll get up,” Kerney said. “Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

  Kerney dressed, met Fletcher outside, and the two men ran together in silence, trotting past Victorian cottages, sprawling flat-roofed adobes, and two-story homes reminiscent of Midwestern farmhouses.

  Halfway into the run Kerney broke the silence. “What have you learned?”

  “It’s mostly a rehash of what I mentioned yesterday. We should be talking to gallery owners who deal in the works of the artists on the list,” Fletcher explained. “Particular attention should be paid to recent new clients looking to either
buy or sell. Some of the more intelligent thieves will approach dealers before they pull the job to get a feel for what the market will bear once the objects are in hand. Others, who have no idea what they have stolen, will do the same after the fact.”

  “I’ll put somebody on it,” Kerney said, slowing down a bit to accommodate Fletcher’s pace. In the cold morning air, his breath turned to frost.

  “No need,” Fletcher said. “I’ve been doing it myself. I’ve spoken to a number of dealers by phone, and left messages for others to call me.”

  “Has anything interesting come up?”

  “Not as it pertains to the investigation. This morning I plan to visit a number of galleries. Fortunately, whoever chose the collection for the governor’s office had good taste. I won’t have to go into those vile places on the plaza and Canyon Road that sell romanticized cowboy and Western sleaze art.”

  “You don’t like cowboys?”

  “I love cowboys,” Fletcher responded as he turned the corner, keeping a steady, slow pace. “But I hate bad taste. By the way, you need to be more attentive to my wishes.”

  “How so?”

  “That young officer you sent over with the inventory and photographs had the right sexual orientation, but she was the wrong gender.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time. Did you get any additional feedback from the research foundation and the Art Loss Register?”

  “Yes, indeed. It could be that the works were stolen to fill an order, but that’s considered unlikely. Most thefts are done by uneducated crooks who have no appreciation of what they’ve stolen. In other situations, it may be a curator who can’t resist an opportunity to steal, an art lover who is obsessed with a certain work, or a professional criminal who knows how to sell the item.”

  “That’s not much help.”

  Fletcher shrugged a shoulder as he ran comfortably at Kerney’s side. For a man in his mid-seventies, he was in remarkably good physical shape. “Over two hundred and fifty works by Picasso are listed as stolen. Signed paintings, prints, etchings, and lithographs—worth a fortune. Art theft is not an easy crime to solve.”