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  "You got no business in my home," Staggs said, a worried look crossing his face.

  "The guest in cabin three is a murder suspect," Clayton said, "and I need to use your phone. Either let me inside or I'll arrest you for refusing to assist an officer."

  Grudgingly Staggs opened the front door. Inside Clayton asked Staggs a few questions about cabin three and found out all the rental units were identical in layout. Standing at the side of the window with cabin three in view, he called Hewitt, gave him the news, and asked him to request SWAT assistance from the Ruidoso Police Department.

  "You've got it," Hewitt said. "Give me specifics for deployment."

  "Cabin three is the target. It's in the center of the circular driveway, backed up against a hill. There's good cover if SWAT comes in from the rear. The only windows are one on each side of the cabin and a living-room window near the front door. There's a raised front porch that's high enough to conceal a crouching man."

  "No other exits?" Hewitt asked.

  "Affirmative."

  "Are you under cover?"

  "Affirmative."

  "I'm rolling. So are Quinones and Dillingham. Stay put and don't take action until SWAT arrives and sets up, unless you have to."

  "Ten-four," Clayton said. "I'll be on my handheld." He hung up and looked around the room. It contained a fully stocked, built-in bar, two large poker tables, an assortment of straight-back chairs, a sagging daybed, and a sideboard that contained boxes of poker chips and stacks of unopened playing cards. "Are all the cabins furnished like this one?" he asked.

  Staggs said he liked to have his pals over once in a while for a friendly card game.

  Clayton pointed at the poker table that gave a clear view out the window. "Sit down."

  Staggs sat. Clayton read him his rights as he pushed him forward in the chair and handcuffed him behind the back.

  "I want to call my lawyer," Staggs said.

  "That will have to wait. What time did the game break up last night?"

  "I want to call my lawyer now."

  "Did the people who dropped Ulibarri off sit in on last night's game?"

  "I'm not talking," Staggs answered.

  Clayton resumed his position at the window, switched his handheld radio to the Ruidoso PD frequency, waited, and listened. In twenty minutes SWAT arrived. He made contact with the SWAT commander and talked the team down the hill and into position. There was no discernible movement in cabin three.

  Hewitt made contact by radio, reported his arrival, and gave his location. Quinones and Dillingham followed suit.

  "SWAT goes in first," Hewitt said. "Sheriff personnel hold your positions."

  From their units, Dillingham and Quinones acknowledged the order.

  "Roger that," Clayton replied.

  The SWAT commander cut in. "We're ready."

  "It's your move," Hewitt said.

  Clayton watched it go down. Sharpshooters covered the windows. Three men hit the front door, two on either side, as one smashed it open at the lock set with a battering ram. They went in high and low, automatic weapons at the ready, while Clayton held his breath. Finally the radio hissed.

  "Clear," the SWAT commander said, "but you might want to come and take a look-see."

  "What have you got?" Clayton asked.

  "Looks like one very dead murder suspect," the SWAT commander replied.

  Clayton left Staggs in the company of Deputy Dillingham and joined up with Paul Hewitt outside cabin three. Together with Sergeant Quinones they inspected the crime scene. Naked to the waist and bare-foot, Ulibarri was on the floor in a sitting position propped against one of two unmade double beds. The new belt with the sterling silver rodeo-style buckle was undone at his waist, his jeans were unzipped, and his feet were bare. His fancy new boots were next to his body with a pair of socks draped over the toes. There were visible bruise marks at his throat suggesting death by strangulation.

  "Dammit," Clayton said.

  Hewitt stopped scanning the room, glanced at Clayton, and noted the disappointed look on his face. "Let's see what evidence the crime scene techs turn up before you start grousing."

  "I wanted an arrest and conviction out of this," Clayton said.

  "Like the sheriff said, maybe we can still clear the Humphrey murder," Quinones replied.

  "That's not the same thing," Clayton said.

  "We can worry about that later," Hewitt said, with a nod at the corpse. "Right now we've got another fresh homicide to work."

  "You're not turning it over to the city cops?" Quinones asked.

  "Nope," Hewitt said. "The police chief won't like it, but screw him. I'm the chief law enforcement officer in this county and this is in my jurisdiction."

  "How do you want the team to operate?" Quinones asked.

  Given his mistakes and Quinones's rank, Clayton fully expected Hewitt to bounce him and put the sergeant in charge.

  "Let's leave things as they are," Hewitt answered. "Deputy Istee will continue as lead investigator."

  "Makes sense to me," Quinones said.

  Clayton hid his relief by staring at the corpse and avoiding eye contact with the sheriff. "We need to talk to Harry Staggs," he said. "Maybe he knows what got Ulibarri killed."

  "Let's do that," Hewitt said to Clayton as he turned to leave the crime scene. "By the way, the stain on Ulibarri's boot is the same type found in Humphrey's car. If the DNA confirms a match to Humphrey, as far as I'm concerned you've cleared a homicide."

  Before leaving Los Alamos, Kerney made phone calls from his unit. Several years ago Professor Perrett had transferred from his teaching position to administer a chemical and alcohol dependency research project affiliated with the university. Kerney made an appointment with Perrett's secretary and then dialed the orthopedic surgeon in Albuquerque who had reconstructed his shattered right knee after it had been blown apart in a shootout with a drug dealer. He persuaded the office receptionist to slot him in for a ten-minute doctor's visit late in the afternoon.

  In spite of weight work to keep his legs muscles strong and his daily routine of slow jogging, the knee had been hurting like hell over the past month, and Kerney's limp was getting more pronounced with each passing day. It was time to see what could be done, if anything, to fix it.

  The recently constructed bypass around Santa Fe, built to avoid trucking nuclear waste from Los Alamos through the city, shortened his driving time to Albuquerque. The new Indian casino just outside of Albuquerque, a massive, glitzy pueblo-style complex, loomed up as the traffic slowed to a mere ten miles above the reduced speed limit. Across from the casino the tribe's buffalo herd grazed behind a fence anchored by railroad-tie posts that covered acres of ground. It made for a startling contrast of old Indian traditions and new Native American enterprise.

  The administrative offices for the chemical treatment research program were located in an area of the city known as Martineztown, a predominantly low-income, Hispanic neighborhood. The nondescript building, sandwiched between the train tracks and the interstate, reflected the university's politically correct decision to place community services in the barrio to avoid criticism of an ivory-tower mentality.

  A few minutes early, Kerney spent his time waiting for Perrett reading a brochure that detailed the scope and mission of the center. It received major funding from a variety of government agencies and private foundations and had half a dozen ongoing projects to develop and test new treatment approaches to hard-core addiction with an emphasis on minority populations. Kerney was halfway through a second brochure when the secretary buzzed him in to Dr. Perrett's office.

  Jeremiah Perrett was a man of late middle age who obviously put time and energy into remaining fit. His biceps filled the sleeves of his collarless shirt, and he had a well-developed upper torso. He kept what hair he had cut short, and his blue eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of fashionable glasses, signaled a no-nonsense outlook on life.

  If he was gay, as Osterman said, it didn't show in eith
er his mannerisms or appearance. But living in Santa Fe, Kerney was used to meeting gay men of all ages who proved that homosexuals were by no means all swishy queens.

  Perrett stood up, reached across the desk, gave Kerney a hearty handshake, and sat back down. "My secretary said this is about Anna Marie Montoya."

  The office furnishings were far too nice to have been bought with grant or public money. No bean counter would have allowed such indulgences. Kerney eased into a comfortable wicker lounge chair with leather cushions. The expensive walnut desk was twice normal size, and Perrett's desk chair was a high-end model that likely sold for eight or nine hundred dollars. The wall art consisted of tasteful, nicely framed posters of old Broadway musicals. Clearly, Perrett had furnished the office with his own funds.

  "Are you aware that Anna Marie disappeared some years ago and her remains have just recently been discovered?" Kerney asked.

  Perrett nodded. "Yes, of course. Very tragic."

  "How well did you know her?"

  "Fairly well. I became her advisor when she transferred from university studies to major in psychology. She was a good student with an intuitive talent for working with people. She held promise as a researcher, but she enjoyed direct client involvement more than pure science."

  "Yet she worked for you on a research project in northern New Mexico."

  Perrett nodded. "She took my senior research seminar and I recruited her to be a field worker the summer after she graduated. She was bilingual. Native Spanish speaking, in fact. A very desirable asset, since we were working to develop a culturally unbiased intake assessment tool for Spanish-speaking alcohol and substance abusers."

  "That must have been difficult to accomplish," Kerney said, hoping that focusing on Perrett's professional interests would loosen him up a bit.

  Perrett's eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. "Yes, very frustrating. Do you have some knowledge of research methodology?"

  Kerney smiled. "Not really. What I know consists only of dim memories from an undergraduate psych course I took years ago. Did you get the results you hoped for?"

  Perrett smiled, showing his pearly whites and a hint of smug satisfaction. "Indeed, we did. The assessment instrument we developed is now used in Hispanic alcohol and chemical dependency treatment programs throughout the country."

  His reaction, and a framed photograph on the credenza behind the desk of a former first lady presenting him with an award, confirmed to Kerney that Perrett was a man who took great satisfaction in his accomplishments.

  Kerney stroked him. "That must be very gratifying."

  Perrett gave a modest shrug and said nothing.

  Kerney turned the conversation back to Anna Marie and asked if she'd ever come to him with any personal problems.

  "None of a serious nature, as I recall."

  "What do you remember?"

  Perrett reflected for a moment. "Best not to trust to my memory," he said, rising from his chair. He opened an antique oak filing cabinet and sorted through a drawer. "Anna Marie used me as a reference when she applied to graduate school, so it's quite likely I still have my advisor notes attached to my copy of the letter of recommendation."

  He returned to his chair with a folder in hand and thumbed through it. "Yes, here it is. She had met a young man, early in her senior year, who she was attracted to but not sure about."

  "Another student?" Kerney asked.

  "She didn't identify him as such," Perrett said, scanning his notes.

  "Did she give you a name?" Kerney asked.

  "If she did, I didn't write it down."

  "What were her concerns about him?"

  "A fear that he was just interested in sex."

  "Nothing more than that?"

  "For a young, heterosexual Hispanic woman raised as a Catholic that would not be a minor issue."

  "Was she sleeping with him?" Kerney asked.

  "Considering it," Perrett said, setting the folder aside.

  "Did she ever tell you what decision she made?"

  Perrett shook his head.

  "What can you tell me about the young man?" Kerney asked.

  "He had money and lived off campus. Other than that, nothing. Perhaps one her former roommates could tell you more."

  Kerney left, thinking the fresh information about a hitherto-unknown boyfriend at least gave him another new thread to follow. He didn't know how far it would take him, but it felt like a potential bright spot in an otherwise stalled-out cold case.

  He shook off the brief snippet of optimism, called information for Cassie Bedlow's number, got an address, and headed toward the northeast heights.

  Chapter 5

  The attorney Harry Staggs had called was Warren Tredwell, a former prosecutor who advertised his services on a billboard along the busiest highway into Ruidoso. The sign promised to secure justice for all who called his toll-free number. A tall man with the frame of a long-distance runner, Tredwell had a bushy mustache and dark, intense eyes. His suspicious glare and pursed lips didn't match up at all with the affable smile that greeted motorists passing by the billboard.

  Clayton uncuffed Staggs and waited outside with Paul Hewitt while Tredwell consulted privately with his client. The Ruidoso SWAT team was long gone, and Artie Gundersen's crime scene techs were gathering evidence in Ulibarri's cabin. After a heated exchange between Hewitt and the Ruidoso police chief, the city detectives who'd arrived on the scene had been sent packing. Quinones and Dillingham were busy interviewing the two remaining Cozy Cabins guests, who'd returned to find a full-bore homicide investigation underway.

  After a long wait Tredwell stepped outside shaking his head, looking somewhat amused. "Listen," he said, giving Hewitt a hearty pat on the back, "forget about this bullshit arrest and my client will talk to you."

  "I can't do that," Clayton said, before Hewitt could respond. "The law clearly states that a suspect can't be unarrested."

  "It's your call, Sheriff," Tredwell said, ignoring Clayton and smiling at Hewitt. "But no judge will let it stand. Mr. Staggs was in his own home and your deputy had no exigent circumstances to make the arrest."

  "There's plain-view evidence that Staggs was running an illegal gambling operation," Clayton replied.

  Tredwell shook his head. "My client explained to you that he often has friends over for a companionable game of poker. There's nothing illegal in that. Having playing cards and poker chips for recreational purposes is hardly probable cause to make an arrest."

  "What's the bottom line here, Tredwell?" Paul Hewitt asked.

  "Mr. Staggs feels his reputation has been damaged and his civil rights have been violated," Tredwell said, spreading his arms out in supplication to an invisible jury. "Look at what happened: Mr. Staggs, a good citizen, agrees to cooperate with the police and gets arrested for his trouble. All because Deputy Istee jumped to an erroneous conclusion."

  "Hardly," Clayton said.

  "Will he tell us what he knows, if we agree to drop the matter?" Hewitt asked.

  "Yes, with the proviso that you don't pursue any illegal gambling charges against him."

  "What else is he willing to do?"

  "Mr. Staggs feels it is time for him to move on. You've damaged his reputation among his friends. He no longer feels comfortable living here."

  "When?" Clayton asked.

  "As soon as possible," Tredwell replied.

  "With no more friendly card games until he goes?" Hewitt asked.

  Tredwell nodded.

  "So how do we unarrest him?"

  "At the time Deputy Istee detained my client, he had what appeared to be a potentially dangerous situation involving a murder suspect. Mr. Staggs is quite willing to think that your deputy restrained him solely to keep him from harm's way."

  "Yeah, that's why I cuffed him and read him his rights," Clayton snapped.

  Tredwell shook his head sadly. "You made a false arrest, Deputy. I've advised my client that he has a strong civil rights case, should he choose to pursue it. W
e can either meet at some later date in court, or act today in a cooperative spirit."

  Tredwell gave Hewitt his best billboard smile. "Lincoln County would have to pony up out of the public coffers if we won the suit, which I believe we would. I doubt voters would like seeing their taxes going to pay Mr. Staggs for Deputy Istee's mistake."

  "Deputy Istee was only protecting Mr. Staggs from a dangerous situation," Paul Hewitt said without hesitation.

  "Very good," Tredwell said, turning away. "I'll let my client know we've reached an understanding."

  Clayton stared silently at Tredwell's back until he disappeared inside. Never in his years as a cop had he been accused of making a false arrest. "I screwed up, big time," he said, unwilling to look Hewitt in the eye.

  Tredwell appeared in the doorway and beckoned them to come in.

  "You aren't the first cop to make a bad arrest," Hewitt said as he started toward the porch. "Don't let it eat at you."

  "Do you think Tredwell could win a civil rights suit?" Clayton asked as he caught up with Hewitt.

  "Oh, yeah."

  Cassie Bedlow lived in a fashionable foothills neighborhood near a popular national forest picnic grounds at the bottom of the west slope of the Sandia Mountains. The large house was sited to give views of the West Mesa, where Albuquerque's sprawl petered out and five extinct volcanos rose up from the high desert plateau.

  There was no answer at the front door, so Kerney talked to some neighbors and learned that Cassie Bedlow lived alone, kept to herself, had no children, and owned the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency. He called the business and got a telephone answering service. The operator gave him the agency's street address and noted that Ms. Bedlow was not expected back in her office until morning.

  The agency, located on a side street near the university, was closed when Kerney got there. A sign on the glass door announced that a new modeling class would be starting in two weeks. At the contemporary art gallery next door, a one-man show was in progress. The artist specialized in paintings reminiscent of Marc Chagall. But unlike Chagall, who often portrayed men, women, and angels floating above villages and landscapes, the artist on display went in for flying automobiles, dishwashers, and other major appliances, all with gossamer wings.