Head Wounds Page 9

  “You queried one of my Houston neurologists, allegedly on my behalf, requesting a copy of my test results be sent to the office. They complied, but only after calling me to confirm that the request was legitimate, as I’d asked of all my doctors. I went along with it to see what you would do. Did Shen put you up to it?”

  Wanda nodded. “I’ve been giving him your schedule when he asks for it. He wanted to know why you were taking annual leave to go to Houston.”

  “How did you know it was for medical reasons?”

  “Several of the doctors’ offices called to change appointment times. I took the messages for you.”

  “So you did.” Maria smiled. “Who have you told about my brain tumor?”

  “Only Sammy Shen.”

  “Keep it that way. Tell me, how did Shen recruit you?”

  Wanda explained it all: her crippled mother, her father’s bad fall and concussion, and the expensive nursing home bills paid by an anonymous donor who turned out to be Sammy Shen.

  “How sad that you got sucked in,” Maria said sympathetically.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “For now, we’ll play it as if nothing is different,” Sedillo answered. “But understand this: You’ve been flipped. Everything you do for Sammy will be under my direct supervision.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Relieved, Wanda smiled weakly. “I’m so sorry about your condition.”

  Sedillo’s laugh was harsh and short. She stood, brushed cat hair off her slacks, and put the cell phone in a pocket. “Don’t be. I’d rather be dead than be you.”

  The words hit Wanda like a body blow. She didn’t stand up until the sound of Sedillo’s car faded away. All three cats were at her feet, calling to be fed. She’d forgotten their dinner.

  In the kitchen, she prepared an expensive meal of the cat food she bought online by the case for special occasions. They were chattering with delight as she put the dishes on the floor. Milling around, they swatted at each other, growling as they went for the food.

  She stepped around them, went to the small desk in the living room, opened her laptop, and started typing out her confession, trying hard not to forget anything. It had to be complete. She began with what had happened to her parents and how Sammy Shen had recruited her. After several attempts to justify her dishonorable behavior, she deleted the passage. It read like a sob story. She deserved no sympathy. Instead she concentrated on facts, listing everything she’d done for Sammy, adding the dates as she recalled them, approximations when she couldn’t.

  She read it through several times, corrected typos, added bits of information, formatted the text. Finished, all that was needed was her apology. She worded it carefully, taking full responsibility, avoiding any rationalizations.

  She closed the file, wrote two short email notes to her sister in Germany and her brother on the Gulf oil platform, and clicked send. She returned to the confession. The apology would never be enough, but there was no more to say. She sent it to Agent Sedillo’s official email, closed the laptop, opened the desk drawer, and picked up her father’s old Smith & Wesson .38 Special.

  She’d read somewhere that it didn’t really hurt if you did it the right way. She stuck the barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

  In the office on her computer, Resident Agent Sedillo finished a quick intelligence report of her conversation with Wanda Cantu, leaving out only the particulars pertaining to her medical condition. She was about to shut down the desktop and go home when notification of a new message from Wanda popped up. She opened the file and read it quickly.

  “Oh, shit,” she snapped, heading for the door.

  CHAPTER 7

  Without anything other than a shadowy Mexican assassin as a suspect, Detective Clayton Istee returned his focus to the victims. Something they did got them killed. What was it? He needed somebody Goggin and Lucy had known to help him kick-start the investigation. But who?

  He worked every avenue, talking to everyone he could locate who had known or worked with the victims. He contacted Lucy’s old high school classmates and teachers still living on the rez. Reached out by phone to Goggin’s out-of-state relatives and Lucy’s ex-friends who’d moved away. Talked to her former basketball coach. Followed up with every personal reference they’d provided on their gaming commission employment applications.

  Using the gaming commission database, he identified six individuals currently employed at other casinos around the state who’d worked with Goggin and Nautzile. He did a twenty-four-hour road trip to personally interview every one of them. He finished up—zero for six—at the new, modernistic casino and resort that sat on Tesuque tribal land immediately adjacent to the grounds of the Santa Fe Opera. It stood like a poke in the eye to the high-society opera buffs, who’d complained that the new casino spoiled the spectacular views and the oh-so-perfect ambience of the iconic classical music venue.

  Personally, Clayton appreciated the smarts of the pueblo people who converted a piece of their land formerly used as a weekend flea market into a business venture to enrich the tribal treasury.

  Before starting the brief drive to Santa Fe, he called his father, Kevin Kerney, at his ranch southeast of the city.

  “I know it’s short notice, but can you meet me in town for coffee in an hour?” he asked when Kerney picked up.

  “You bet,” Kerney replied. “You know the diner on Cerrillos Road by the mall?”

  “Perfect, I’ll see you there,” Clayton said. Owned by a local family, the diner was close to the Santa Fe Police Department, his last stop. It drew a sizable breakfast and lunch crowd from the local cop shop and the nearby New Mexico State Police Headquarters

  Before Mescalero, Goggin had lived in Santa Fe for a time and had been involved in a civil dispute with his landlord that had escalated into assault charges against the property owner, which were eventually dropped. Clayton wanted a look at the police department file, hoping to find someone with a strong enough grudge to hire Goggin and Nautzile’s killer. He was down to scratching for the tiniest shard to grab on to.

  Again, he came away with nada. The property owner had been an eighty-year-old man with dementia. Clayton had nothing to show for his twenty-four-hour marathon except continued disappointment. Maybe Kerney, with his years of experience in law enforcement, could help him shake loose a new idea.

  The walls of the diner, a favorite because of its Northern New Mexico cuisine, were plastered with sports memorabilia from the area high schools, along with photographs of some of the better-known, homegrown star athletes. Kerney was sitting in a booth with a line of sight to the front door when Clayton entered. He smiled and waved as Clayton approached.

  “You look glum,” Kerney said as Clayton slid into the booth.

  “Floundering is more like it.”

  “The scalping murders?”

  Clayton nodded. “I’ve got nil.”

  “It’s tough when there’s no trail to follow.”

  “Oh, supposedly there’s a trail,” Clayton replied. “I’ve just been trying to avoid it.”

  Kerney raised his eyebrows. “Now you’ve got my attention. What’s up with that?”

  “I’ve got a motive, an MO, and a suspect in Mexico given to me on a platter by an undercover DEA agent,” Clayton explained. “All he wants me to do is find and extract him with the help of another agent I haven’t met.”

  “In Mexico?”

  “Affirmative. And my sheriff is keen on the idea, to the point of mentioning a possible promotion. I’d go in with federal credentials and government authorization.”

  “Which won’t mean crap to the Mexicans,” Kerney noted. “Especially now that they’re not feeling very neighborly with all the bullying coming out of Washington.”

  “I’ve thought about that.”

  Kerney gestured to a server. “Are you going to do it?”

  Clayton deferred answering until the server took their orders for coffee and scooted away. “Probably. But I can’
t tell Grace, and that will break my word to her.”

  Kerney leaned back and nodded. Telling Grace about a risky undercover operation could put her and their kids in jeopardy. It went against protocol. “When Sara was active-duty, I didn’t know—couldn’t know—where she was all the time. And there were things I did that I’ve never talked to her about.”

  “I get that part.” Clayton paused for the arrival of their coffee. “But I’ve left some stuff out which might help you get a better picture. The killer is a sicario, allegedly the best in Mexico. His alleged client is a narco-trafficker and police commander in a border state city. And a Chinese-Mexican gangster and his girlfriend are most likely involved.”

  Kerney shook his head. “Quite a cast of characters. Is this all from DEA intelligence?”

  “I’ve confirmed the Chinese-Mexican player and the woman, and the intel on the assassin checks out.”

  “Is there an operation in place?”

  “I’m to learn the specifics when we meet at the staging location.”

  “Which is where?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Sounds like a dicey proposition,” Kerney noted.

  “I’m not happy about it.”

  “But you’re going to do it.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Kerney held back for a minute, composing his thoughts. “I think you’re still feeling humiliated—no, that’s not the right word—embarrassed, because you were forced to resign from the state police.”

  “No need to sugarcoat it. I don’t like being labeled as unreliable or incompetent at what I do. It’s not an honorable position to be in.”

  Kerney reached out and squeezed Clayton’s shoulder. “A hell of a lot of people know that isn’t true. It will pass.”

  “It will pass a lot faster if I can produce a righteous arrest, and soon.” Clayton smiled. “You’d do the same. Maybe for different reasons, but you’d do it.”

  “You’re right, but not alone or with strangers I don’t know or trust. Promise me you’ll bail out at the first sign something is fishy.”

  Clayton nodded.

  “And promise you’ll stay in touch with me, at least once every second day. A text message, voice mail, landline call—whatever.”

  “If it’s possible, I promise,” Clayton replied

  “Fair enough.” Kerney took the check from the server and paid the bill. “Should we invite Grace and Hannah to the ranch for a visit while you’re gone?”

  “It’s a nice idea, but unnecessary. Grace, Hannah, and Wendell in Albuquerque will have protection. Besides, Hannah has classes and Grace will be working.”

  Kerney nodded. “Good planning. Never underestimate your enemy. You know, next week is spring break for the Santa Fe schools. Maybe I can talk Sara and Patrick into a road trip south.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Kerney brushed Clayton’s protest off with a wave of his hand. “Good time to visit before it gets too hot. I’d like to show them Aguirre Springs, and I bet Sara can use her pull with the Army to get permission from White Sands Missile Range to take us on a guided tour of Pat Garrett’s old ranch. I think Patrick would get a kick out of seeing where the man who gunned down Billy the Kid lived. There’s lots to do down there.”

  “You’ve got a ranch to run,” Clayton objected.

  “And a crackerjack hired hand to gratefully do it without my fuddy-duddy old-man interference.” Kerney held out his hand. “Let’s shake on it.”

  “What if Sara disagrees with your road-trip idea?”

  “She won’t, once I tell her you’ll be on a special assignment soon after our visit.”

  “Figures.” Clayton smiled and shook his father’s hand. “I don’t want you doing anything more than just having fun and visiting. Don’t try to go Rambo on me.”

  Kerney grinned. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  Clayton put some money on the table to add to the tip. “Good.”

  He stood and slapped Kerney on the back. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Stay safe,” Kerney replied.

  They walked out together. Kerney would be turning seventy soon. Sara had called about a surprise birthday party in his honor, rounding up family, old friends, and colleagues from his cop days to attend. She’d booked a rooftop patio venue at a downtown Santa Fe hotel. Clayton had reserved rooms for his family there.

  They parted company at Kerney’s truck, dusty and mud-streaked from the rutted, washboard dirt road that led to the ranch. Clayton watched him drive away. He’d lost some hair, now wore glasses almost full-time, and had grown a bit of a paunch, but otherwise he looked healthy and fit. Clayton expected him to stay that way for many years.

  He climbed into his unmarked unit, followed Cerrillos Road to the interstate, and started out on the long, straight shot to Las Cruces, 280 miles away, cruise control set at eighty.

  Clayton contacted dispatch as he crossed into Doña Ana County, fifty miles north of Las Cruces. There were six messages waiting for him, all from people in Mescalero, including one from Selena Kazhe and one from Truman Balatche, the parking valet supervisor at the casino. He pulled onto the shoulder of the interstate and asked the dispatcher to relay them by back channel. All were about a suspicious male subject who identified himself as a federal law enforcement officer. He was driving a black Chevy SUV and asking questions about how to contact Lucy Nautzile’s family and friends. He’d been spotted in several residential areas, where strangers rarely venture.

  No one had told the man anything, which was to be expected when outsiders suddenly approached and questioned Apache people. It showed ignorance and bad manners. Truman’s message included a detailed description of the vehicle right down to the license plate. It was likely a rental out of El Paso, he’d added.

  Selena’s call contained information about the man. Possibly Anglo, in his early thirties, six feet, eyes brown set wide apart, with a noticeable scar on his left hand between the thumb and forefinger. He had a slight accent Selena couldn’t place.

  Clayton wondered if it was the DEA agent he was supposed to team up with, but that made no sense. He decided to forgo a stop at the office and head straight to the rez.

  Fernando Olguin knew he was looking for a stolen million dollars, El Jefe had made that very clear. He had also told Fernando, if he found it, not to harm anyone if possible. If he had no success after a reasonable amount of time searching, Fernando was to return home. No criticism would result because of his failure.

  He had no reason to doubt his father. From the time of his earliest memory, El Jefe had raised him as a son. Until Fernando was three, he’d never uttered a word, and when he did begin to speak it was in his father’s native language, the Algonquian tongue of the Kickapoos. As he grew, he learned Spanish and English and spoke both fluently. Yet a look in the mirror every morning told Fernando he was neither Kickapoo nor Mexican. Eastern European most likely, he thought. Father would neither confirm nor deny his origins.

  Nor would he tell Fernando how he came to be under his protection at such a tender age. It was, as he put it, inconsequential, not part of who Fernando was. He’d also given Fernando both his names, Mexican and Kickapoo. And although it had been unnecessary, he’d hunted and killed four deer in order to bestow Fernando with a tribal name. A great honor, he later learned from the Kickapoo elders.

  He had every desire to find the money and bring it safely to his father. Until now, in each task he’d been given, he had succeeded. But his efforts so far, and especially today in Mescalero, had been dismal.

  He’d retraced the couple’s travels from Eagle Pass to Las Cruces, searching each location for a possible hiding place of the money. The only place he hadn’t looked was Blossom Magoosh’s home. It had taken most of the day to discover where she lived. When he drove by, a row of vehicles was parked at the foot of her driveway. With his binoculars he could see the shadowy movement of people inside the house through the front window. But they were p
artially veiled by the screening on the enclosed porch.

  Fernando decided not to raise suspicions. He drove to the nearby village center adjacent to the major east-west highway that traversed the reservation and parked in front of the tribal museum.

  The weak March sun had already dipped behind the forested mountains and the air was decidedly chilly. He put on his parka, stuck his forged police credentials in a pocket, pulled up the fur-lined hood, and walked quickly away. Past the post office a road took him into the low hills where Magoosh’s house was tucked on a rise between two shallow arroyos.

  In cover of growing darkness, concealed behind a small grove of young junipers, Fernando watched and waited, occasionally scanning the house with his binoculars. An hour passed before visitors began to leave. Soon only three vehicles remained. He guessed the old truck parked nearest the house belonged to Magoosh. Patiently he continued to wait. Eventually a man and a woman emerged and drove away in a restored early-model Mustang parked at the foot of the driveway. That left only the old pickup truck and a new SUV parked at the top of the driveway.

  As the night deepened and turned colder, Fernando decided to leave his cover and see who was inside.

  Avoiding the driveway, he cautiously made his way up the arroyo that angled toward the rear of the house. His footsteps crunched loudly on the frozen snow, breaking the silence of the night. Several times, he paused and listened for any reaction before proceeding.

  At the rear of the house, he was able to see the kitchen through a small window over the sink. Two women sat at the table. A tiny, elderly woman with her head bowed had a shawl over her shoulders. Fernando figured that was Blossom Magoosh. The other, somewhat younger woman was holding Magoosh’s hand, talking animatedly, probably consoling.

  Fernando backed away. A side window revealed a small bedroom barely illuminated by a night-light. Two small figures were snuggled under blankets on twin beds. Nautzile’s girls, sleeping soundly.

  At the front of the house, the screened porch made it hard to see anything clearly through the window. Rather than make more noise and risk detection, Fernando crouched and watched, looking for movement. A long two-minute count convinced him that only the two women and two children were inside.