Clayton finished his pizza and left for Las Cruces to continue his computer search at home. He and his family would see them in Mescalero tomorrow afternoon.
Alone with Kerney, Sara watched as he sat at the desk studying the map and making notes. His determined expression couldn’t hide his fatigue. Standing behind him, she could see the futility of the task. Large areas of the land within a hundred-mile radius of Silver City were controlled and managed by the BLM, the state of New Mexico, and the federal Department of Agriculture. An enormous chunk of it was designated wilderness, and there were hundreds of square miles of land in private ownership that abutted remote areas with limited access.
“Stop it,” she ordered.
Startled, Kerney looked up. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re exhausted and what you’re trying to do right now is impossible. What Jack Page’s pal at the veterans center told you about a remote ranch may or may not be true. But this is no way to find it.”
Kerney tossed his ballpoint pen on the desk, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “What do you suggest?”
“Let’s assume that Louis Page died in Vietnam and verifying it as fact would waste our time. If someone is using his identity, there must be a good reason for him to do so, and we need to find out what it is and who he is. What if it was Earl Matson who took Jack out of the veterans center? The docent I talked to at the museum told me Jack treated Matson as his own flesh and blood. Wouldn’t it be natural for Page to refer to him as his son?”
Kerney pushed back from the desk and stood. “Sure, but why tell Bud Elkins his son’s name was Louis?”
“Unless Jack is demented, why indeed?” Sara replied. “If he knows the difference, that makes him complicit.”
“Which may or may not be a big deal. According to the nursing assistant, he’s got all his marbles.”
“Let’s say Jack lied for an important reason. My command sergeant major at Fort Leonard Wood retired about a year ago and went to work for Homeland Security. He’s now a senior special agent in the Office of the Inspector General. In the morning, I’ll call and ask him to research Earl Matson through the National Security Agency database.”
“Without a DOB, a Social Security number, a reliable physical description, or other identifiers, that could generate hundreds of names.”
“You don’t know NSA,” Sara responded. “We can assume he was born or lived much of his life in New Mexico. Bud Elkins told you he had a gray beard and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. That’s a start. I’ll give my guy some additional parameters as to approximate age and location, which should help narrow the field.”
“And if it’s a dead end, as Clayton intimated it might be?”
Sara reached up a hand and smoothed down Kerney’s hair. “We move on.”
“What would I do without you?”
The wastebasket next to the desk was stuffed with leftover trash from dinner, exuding a strong smell of pizza. Their room, in probably what amounted to the best motel in Deming, approached depressing. Bland prints on the walls, mass-produced furniture, and the awful floral curtains covering the one big window above a noisy combination air conditioner/heater, almost made Sara shudder. The previous night, they’d been kept awake by an hour-long argument between a couple next door.
She reached down and picked up the wastebasket. “Mind making a trip to the nearest trash bin? Eau de Pepperoni is not my favorite fragrance. While you’re gone, I’ll put on some fresh lipstick, and then we’ll go out for a drink. We both could use one.”
Kerney smiled. “Good idea.” Wastebasket in hand, he gave her a quick kiss and went out.
There were two kinds of customers in Trino’s Lounge, a bar that catered to real and faux-cowboys, serious drunks and casual drinkers. But the place was clean and quiet, and there seemed to be no brewing disagreements between the pool players at the back of the room.
In a booth away from the dozen customers gathered at the bar, they sipped shots of tequila and didn’t speak until the final chords of Marty Robbins’s classic “El Paso” faded away on the jukebox.
“We promised Patrick he could spend the summer with my brother and his family at the Montana ranch,” Sara said.
Kerney put down his shot glass. “We can’t go back on that.”
“Even if—”
He raised his hand to stop her. “Yes, even if. It would be too much of a letdown to take that away from him. He’s been looking forward to it all year. Besides, with what I’m putting him through, he’ll need a big dose of family sanity. I’ll talk to Dalquist when we get home and find out when he thinks the prosecution plans to go to trial. Which we won’t let happen, because we’re going to blow their case apart.”
Sara lifted her shot glass. “Here’s to you.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me that you’re a man who never gives up.”
Kerney winced. “I have been less than optimistic lately, haven’t I?”
“You’ve hidden it well.”
They clinked glasses, finished their shots, and left Trino’s as Johnny Cash’s “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town” started playing.
There were no sounds of domestic squabbles or raucous partying from the adjoining rooms, and soon Kerney was asleep. Sara curled up next to him, listening to his steady breathing. Fortunately, the firestorm of publicity about him had died down, but to have his whole career called into question by one false accusation had hurt him deeply. She drifted off wondering what else she could do to ease his anxiety.
In the morning, she woke to an empty bed, the sound of the shower in the bathroom, and the smell of coffee. She poured a cup from the in-room carafe and called retired Command Sergeant Major Otis Roderick at his new job with the Department of Homeland Security, counting on his thirty-five-year-old habit of always being first to report for duty. He answered on the first ring.
“Command Sergeant Major Roderick, this is Sara Brannon,” she said. “Hello, how are you, how’s the family, and I need a favor.”
Roderick laughed. “Good morning, ma’am, I’m fine, the family is fine, and what can I do for you?”
She asked for a full background check on Earl Matson, gave him what little information she had, including some history about Louis and Jack Page, and told him the reason why.
“I’ve heard about your husband’s difficulties,” Roderick said diplomatically. “I’ll get on it ASAP, General.”
“Thank you, Otis.”
“You were the best boss I ever had. Would it be inopportune of me to congratulate you on your recent retirement? It’s been the talk of the town, so to speak.”
“Not at all,” Sara answered lightheartedly. “Thank you. We’ll come out on the right side of this shitstorm.”
“I wouldn’t bet against you, ma’am,” Roderick said.
Sara disconnected just as Kerney emerged from the bathroom in a T-shirt and skivvies, rubbing a towel through his hair.
“We’ve been going about this all wrong,” he said.
“How so?”
He sat on the corner of the bed. “By treating everything as if it were an isolated thread. What if it’s all connected? Kim’s murder, her friend Loretta going missing, the disappearance of Kim’s mother and Todd Marks.”
“Tied in with Jack Page and Earl Matson?”
“Why not? With the epicenter for all of it right here in Deming.”
“How do we connect the dots?” Sara asked, delighted to hear reignited enthusiasm in his voice.
“We start with Flavio Sapian. This is his hometown. After he retired from the state police, he joined the Deming PD and worked his way up to chief before retiring a second time. If anyone can tell us where to look for buried secrets, it’s Flavio.”
“How do we find him?”
“If I recall, everyone knows Flavio. All we have to do is ask.”
Years ago, while pursuing a smuggler and murderer, Kerney had met with Flavio at his home on some acreage outside of the Deming city limits with a fine view of the Florida Mountains. Like so many New Mexicans rooted to the land by ancestry and choice, Sapian still lived there, expanding what had once been a small, mid-century ranch-style house into a two-story home and an attached two-car garage. A late-model motor home was parked nearby on a concrete pad. At the rear of the house, a covered deck shaded a hot tub, an expensive barbecue grill, and a wrought-iron dining table with enough chairs to accommodate a dozen people. It was a fine example of the New Mexico tradition of moving up the socioeconomic ladder without moving out of the family home.
Except for a few more pounds and a slightly sagging jawline, Flavio hadn’t changed much. Burly and thick through the chest, with stout legs and strong arms, he could be an intimidating presence, which had given him a great advantage during his law enforcement career. But just as readily, his calm nature and friendly smile could quickly put people at ease.
Under the welcoming shade of the rear deck with a cool breeze moderating the growing heat of the morning, Flavio served iced tea and explained that his wife, Rosemary, was in Albuquerque visiting one of their children, a daughter attending UNM.
“As soon as she gets back on Monday, we’re heading out in the RV to Yellowstone,” he added. “We want to see it before it gets overcrowded with summer tourists.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Sara said.
Flavio nodded in agreement. “It will be great.” He swung his attention to Kerney. “Knowing the trouble you’re in, I bet this isn’t a social call.”
“It’s not.” Kerney laid out his theory of connecting all the dots to the people they were searching for in Deming and asked Flavio for his help.
Flavio rubbed a hand across his chin and gave it some thought. “It might be a stretch that Kim Ward’s murder was connected to something in her past, and not because of a drug-fueled marriage gone bad. Granted, all those people except Todd Marks are from Deming, but Kim Ward and Louis Page died in totally unrelated circumstances, and Jack Page, Earl Matson, Loretta Page, and Kim’s mother haven’t lived here for years. Plus, if Jack is alive and living off the grid somewhere with Earl, what’s the glue that holds everything together?”
“I don’t know,” Kerney answered. “But it seems odd that an entire family has either gone missing or deliberately into hiding.”
Flavio sipped his iced tea. “That’s true.”
Kerney waited a beat for more, but Flavio remained silent. “You’ve put a pretty big dent in my theory, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved.”
Sara reached for her sunglasses on the table. “Thank you for your time.”
“No, it’s not that,” Flavio said with a wave of his hand. “I was just wondering what I could do to be helpful. I’ve got the weekend here by myself before Rosemary gets back and nothing but small chores to do. Let me turn over some rocks with a few of the old-timers I know.”
“That would be great.”
Flavio stood up. “No promises. Will you still be staying in town?”
“No, we’re heading out to Mescalero for a family weekend,” Sara replied.
“Good. If there are any secrets to be found, it’s best that I work this on my own. Deming may call itself a city, but it’s really still a small town.”
“And strangers are strangers,” Kerney said.
“Exactly.”
Flavio walked them to the front of the house. “I’ll call after I’ve turned over those rocks.”
Kerney extended his hand and Flavio shook it. “Thanks.”
“You didn’t kill that girl,” Flavio said in parting. “I know it.”
Following behind Kerney’s truck on the way to Mescalero, Sara received a text message from Otis Roderick that read: “No joy in Mudville unless Earl Matson Page from Deming, New Mexico, is your boy.”
Jack Page had adopted Earl after all. Sara pulled over to the shoulder of the highway, called Kerney, gave him the news, and said she’d be along after talking to Roderick. Up ahead, Kerney coasted to the shoulder and waited for her.
“That’s our boy,” Sara said when Otis picked up.
“Can you positively ID him?”
“Why?” Sara asked.
“Because this Earl Matson Page was an undercover DEA Special Agent in Colombia who disappeared in the jungle over twenty-five years ago with five million dollars in confiscated drug money to be used to recruit a confidential informant close to one of the major drug kingpins. He’s been legally declared dead. Can you positively ID him?”
“No, but there may be someone who can.”
“I can only hold on to this information so long.”
“Understood,” Sara said. “How long?”
“Monday. I’ll send you his photograph as soon as we disconnect. I’ve got a sketch artist working on an updated rendering, complete with ponytail and beard. You’ll get it in about an hour.”
“Can you push your deadline past Monday?”
“If you can confirm his identity, I’ll hold off until Tuesday morning. But once I report to the inspector general, he’ll want to move quickly on this.”
“Thank you. Did NSA have any tracking information on him?”
“Negative. Not under Matson or Page. He’s completely off the radar, and that’s almost unheard-of these days.”
“We may have a general location.”
“Try to nail it down. If it is Earl Matson Page, he’s a dangerous, crooked cop and the DEA wants him. It’s against the rules, but I’ll send you his personnel jacket. Give me your most secure email address.”
Sara rattled off the information.
“Be careful, General,” Roderick warned.
“Affirmative, and thanks again.” She disconnected, flashed her headlights at Kerney, rolled to a stop behind him, and got in his truck.
She held up her cell phone with Earl Matson Page’s official DEA photograph on the screen. “He’s a former DEA agent who went missing twenty-five years ago in the Colombian jungle with five million dollars. Supposedly dead.”
Kerney whistled. “If he isn’t dead, that might explain using his brother’s name. What now?”
“We’ve got until Tuesday morning to wrap him up. I should have an artist’s sketch of how he might look today in about an hour, plus a copy of his personnel jacket.”
“Forward it to my laptop,” Kerney said. “You go on to Mescalero. I’m going to the Fort Bayard Veterans Center to have another talk with Bud Elkins.”
Sara shook her head in dismay.
“I know, this could ruin the family weekend. But only for me, not for you, Patrick, or your parents. Tell Clayton that I may need him for backup, but please stay put for Patrick’s sake.”
“This man is dangerous,” Sara said.
“I’ll be careful. If I get nowhere with Bud Elkins or the staff at the veterans center, I’ll be in Mescalero in time for dinner.”
“Promise?”
Kerney nodded and kissed her. “Promise. I’ll give Flavio a heads-up.”
She followed him until he got off the interstate at the next exit and turned back toward Deming, the silhouette of his pickup disappearing in the steady stream of westbound traffic.
Flavio Sapian kept two old horses and some weed-eating goats on his acreage, not just to reduce his state property tax assessment, but also for the pleasure of seeing critters on the land other than rabbits, roadrunners, and rattlesnakes. After Kerney and his wife left, he fed and watered the horses, let the goats out of the pen to roam in one of the small pastures infested with ragweed, and went to talk to Elias Lopez, his wife’s ninety-six-year-old great-uncle and the former sheriff of Luna County.
On the road, Kerney called with information about Matson that made Flavio’s willingness to help more interesting. He felt his old cop instincts begin to kick in.
Elias lived with his eighty-six-year-old sister, Carmella, in a neighborhood of small homes not far from downtown. In the tiny front room filled with Carmella’s prized Victorian furniture, sipping a cup of her terrible coffee, Flavio waited patiently for Elias’s favorite television game show to finish. When the last winner went running and screaming off the stage, Elias muted the TV.
“So, why do you come to see this old man?” Elias asked. With his full head of hair slicked down, his new dentures in place, and dressed in pressed, faded blue jeans, he looked ready to go to the grocery store, one of his favorite outings. Still able to get around without a cane or walker, and sound in mind, Elias was proof old age didn’t have to be all that bad, even though the thought of it made Flavio wince.
“I need your help, Tio. When you were sheriff, did you have any dealings with a couple named Jack and Jann Page and their children?”
“Is this about the cop they say killed Kim Ward?”
“Yes, Kevin Kerney,” Flavio acknowledged.
Elias studied Flavio with his cloudy eyes. “Are you helping him?”
“I am.”
“Jack and Jann Page, Tio,” Flavio gently nudged. “Did you know them?”
Elias nodded. “Besides his ranch down here, Jack had a small place he’d inherited outside Mimbres where they used to run a few cows in the summer. I was with the Grant County Sheriff’s Office back then when a call came in about somebody killing his cattle. There were five dead cows and two dead calves, all shot in the head. We never did find out who did it. Jack used his tractor to bury them.”
“Can you remember where Jack’s property was?” Flavio asked.
“That was a long time ago, but it was up a canyon away from the village. There wasn’t much to the place except an old trailer, a couple of sheds, and a pasture. Ask in Mimbres how to get there. Somebody will know.”
“Gracias, Tio.”
“Por nada.” Elias’s second favorite game show was starting. He turned on the sound.
At the veterans center, Bud Elkins hobbled out of the physical therapy suite, his face flushed from exertion, breathing heavily. Kerney held up his cell phone with the forensic artist’s drawing of Earl Matson Page as he might look now.
“Is this the man who took Jack Page home?”
Elkins scowled and refused to look. “I know who you really are. Why should I tell you anything? Coming in here and lying to everybody like you did.”
“I apologize for misleading you, but I have a lot at stake.”
“Go to hell.”
Elkins shuffled away. The sound of heavy footsteps and the clicking of heels caught Kerney’s attention. He turned to face an older, uniformed security guard and a stern-looking, middle-aged woman dressed in a conservative gray pantsuit.
“You are to leave the premises immediately,” she snapped.
Kerney stepped back from the guard’s attempt to guide him by the arm. He had the bearing of a man who knew his job, probably a retired cop.
“This is a public building,” he replied genially.
“And you’re causing a disturbance,” the woman countered. “Leave now before I call the police.”
There was no sense in arguing. She led the way to the main entrance and remained in the lobby watching as the guard accompanied Kerney to his truck.
Kerney opened the driver-side door and paused. “Is Robert Ripple on duty?”
“Bobby? He works swing shift only.”
“Know how I can find him?”
The guard smiled. “Now, why would I tell you that?”
Kerney shrugged and got behind the wheel. “I can tell you’re retired law enforcement. Give me a hand here.”
The guard nodded. “Thirty-two years with the San Diego PD, Traffic Division. I don’t know if you’re guilty or not, but Bobby’s not hard to find. He works part-time in the lumberyard at Big Jim’s Home Improvement Store on Highway 180. Usually puts in his hours there before he starts his shift here.”
“Did you ever see or meet Jack Page’s son?”
“Can’t help you with that one, pal, but good luck.” He closed the truck door and retreated to the entrance, where he waited until Kerney drove away.
According to the lumberyard supervisor, Bobby Ripple wasn’t due to clock in for an hour. At a truck-stop diner, Kerney killed time over a cup of coffee and a stale cheese Danish. After the first bite, he realized the Danish had been a big mistake and pushed it aside. He was on a coffee refill when Patrick called.
“Where are you?” Kerney asked.
“On the road to Mescalero with Gramps and Grandma,” he answered. “Where are you?”
“Silver City,” Kerney said. “I’ll be along shortly, I hope. What’s up?”
“Before we left, I put the home security video app on my phone. You’ve got to see this.”
When they were traveling a lot to visit Sara at her duty stations, Kerney had installed an expensive video security system at the ranch, but rarely checked it. “See what?” he asked.
“Juan snooping around inside our house.”
“Okay, hang on.” Kerney touched the app icon and watched a replay of Juan going from room to room, looking at the family calendar on the fridge, poking through the papers on Kerney’s desk in the library, even wandering through the guest quarters. If Juan was acting under police orders, the video would cause serious damage to the prosecution’s case against him.
“That was a smart thing to do, son,” he said. “This is going to be a big help.”
“Thanks.” Pride filled Patrick’s voice.
“Do one more thing. Show it to your mother, so she can call our lawyer. He’ll know what to do with it.”
“Okay.”
“And thanks again. You’re one sharp hombre.”
He disconnected, dropped some bills on the counter, and got back to the Big Jim’s ten minutes before Bobby Ripple clocked in. His eyes widened in surprise when Kerney closed in on him at the doorway to the staff lounge.
“Jesus, I never expected to see you again.”
“Just a slap on the wrist, but I got a great story to tell. Guys will be buying me beers at the VFW for months.”
Kerney held out his phone with the age-enhanced forensic drawing of Earl Matson Page on the screen. “Is this Louis Page?”
Bobby Ripple nodded. “That looks like him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, he even introduced himself to me when he came for Jack. I remember it clear as a bell, because most folks don’t wait until after the evening meal to take a family member home. It isn’t usual.”
“Will you write out a statement to that effect?”
“Right now?”
Kerney handed him a pencil and a tablet. “Right now.”
With Bobby’s written statement in his pocket, Kerney called Sara from the truck and gave her the news. “Now all I have to do is find him,” he added.
“I’m leaving for Silver City right away.”
Kerney cranked the engine and turned on the AC. “Don’t do that. If I need help, I’ll ask Clayton to jump in. For now, it’s just legwork.”
“Where will you start?”
“At the Grant County Assessor’s Office.”
Many times, Flavio had passed through Mimbres on his way to his favorite mountain fishing holes. More a settlement than a village, it was named for the river that trickled through the lovely valley, the foothills of the Black Range of the Gila National Forest pressing against it. A two-lane blacktop rose into the high forest and dead-ended at a popular lake and tourist vacation spot.
Flavio stopped at three houses in the village without any luck. His next stop, a house on lush river bottomland, was protected by several towering cottonwoods. On a driveway fencepost a sign read Fresh Eggs for Sale. The name on the mailbox was B. Velarde.
He heard chickens cackling from behind the house. He knocked on the front door and a woman stepped onto the porch. In her early seventies at most, she stood no more than five-foot-one and weighed at best a hundred pounds. Browned by the sun, wearing a weathered sun bonnet, she greeted him with a smile and a shake of her head.
“No more eggs until tomorrow. I always forget to take the sign down.”
“My bad luck,” Flavio said, as he flashed his retired police chief badge. “I’m Flavio Sapian. Actually, I’m looking for somebody who knows Jack Page and his son.”
“Bianca Velarde,” the woman replied. “They haven’t been here for years. He only used it to keep a few cows.” She sat on the porch step and patted it with a hand.
Flavio accepted the invitation and joined her. “Any ideas on where they went?”
Bianca shook her head. “No one in the valley ever heard from them again.”
“Where is Jack’s old place?”
Bianca pointed her chin in a northeasterly direction. “One canyon up, all the way to the end of the road, if you can call it that. It gets really rocky and rutted about a mile in.”
“Does anyone live there?”
“Oh, yes, TM and Lucille Trimble. She’s old now, in her late eighties and feeble. I don’t see her much.”
“And the man?” Flavio nudged. “What about him?”
“Younger than Lucille and not real friendly. He’s disabled, and walks with a bad limp.”
Bianca shrugged an apologetic shoulder. “They both keep to themselves, but that’s not unusual for older people nowadays. I’m getting to be the same way.”
“Does TM have a name?”
“I don’t know him by anything other than TM. Maybe Deanna Madrid, our postmistress, does.”
Flavio asked for a description. She described TM as five-ten, clean-shaven, and mostly bald.
“He walks with a limp in his right leg,” she added.
“Have you visited with TM and Lucille at their home?” he asked.
Bianca shook her head. “Oh, no. I’ve only been there once, years ago when I was still active in our volunteer fire department. We had to use their road to reach a brush fire started by a dry lightning strike. It’s posted. No one goes up there.”
Flavio got to his feet. “Thanks.”
With a concerned look, Bianca rose. “Have they done something wrong?”
Flavio shook his head. “Not as far as I know. Next time I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll stop by early enough for a dozen eggs.”
“You won’t regret it. My chickens produce the best eggs in the county.”
“I bet they do.”
At the post office, Deanna Madrid, the postmistress, refused to give Flavio any identifying information about TM and Lucille Trimble. It made him miss the authority cops had getting around roadblocks to learn information quickly. He suspected it was even more frustrating for Kerney. Back in his truck, he tried calling Kerney but couldn’t get a signal.
A few miles back, a road sign advertised a coffee shop off the highway. He decided to get something to eat and try Kerney from there.
In one way, Silver City reminded Kerney of Santa Fe with a historic, interesting core and a lot of nondescript strip malls, franchise retail stores, and fast-food chains. Located along a main highway through town, the building housing the county assessor’s office was no better. A faux-Southwest façade hid a single-story rectangular box, and the small scrubby hill behind it offered no reprieve to the dullness.
Inside, the assessor’s online property search program had Kerney hoping the visit might be worthwhile after all, until he turned up goose eggs. No property in the country was owned by Jack Page, Louis Page, Earl Matson Page, or Loretta Page. He tried Jann Page, and got nothing back.
With sinking expectations, Kerney called the four property owners listed with the same surname, only to have his suspicions confirmed. None claimed any knowledge of or kinship to Jack and his children. Just in case someone was lying, he wrote down their names, addresses, and phone numbers.
On his way to his truck, traffic noise on the highway and a hot sun that promised a spring afternoon scorcher in the high, thin air damped his spirits. His phone rang, and he answered Flavio’s call.
“Do the names TM and Lucille Trimble mean anything to you?” he asked. “The TM guy walks with a limp in his right leg.”
Kerney stopped in his tracks. “That’s who I’m looking for. Are you packing?”
“Affirmative. Concealed-carry permit. You?”
“Same,” Kerney replied. “Do you have a location?”
“Roger that. Meet me in Mimbres by the post office.”
“I’m bringing some sheriff deputies with me, if they’ll come. ETA within the hour.”
“Ten-four.”
Kerney disconnected and walked to the sheriff’s office, where a secretary informed him both the sheriff and the undersheriff were at a conference on terrorism in Honolulu. However, Lieutenant Steven Campos, commander of the Patrol and Traffic Division, was available.
She called Campos, and within a minute he appeared from a back office.
Tall and solidly built, Campos sized Kerney up. “What can I do for you?”
“You know who I am?” Kerney asked.
“Of course.”
“And what I’m charged with?”
Campos nodded.
“I’ve got a solid lead on Todd Marks, the man I believe killed Kim Ward, the woman I’m accused of murdering. I’d like you to come with me and take him into custody.”
The lieutenant’s expression changed from doubtful to interested. “You’re serious?”
“I’m very serious. Flavio Sapian is waiting for us in Mimbres.”
“I know Chief Sapian. I served under him at the Deming PD.”
“Then you know this is no joke.” Kerney speed-dialed Flavio and held out his phone to Campos. “Here, talk to him.”
Campos took the phone, identified himself, and asked Flavio for an explanation. He listened, disconnected, and asked Kerney if there were outstanding warrants for Marks or the woman he lived with.
“I don’t know. But Marks is a person of interest in a murder investigation. The state police have been looking for him. You have the right to identify, question, and take him into custody as a material witness.”
Campos pursed his lips and thought it over. “And you won’t interfere?”
“I will not.”
After writing down Kerney’s number, Campos handed him the phone and turned to the secretary. “Have dispatch contact Corporal Little and tell him to meet me at the Mimbres post office. No lights or siren.”
He returned his attention to Kerney. “You’ll ride with me, but first I’m going to check for wants and warrants on the subjects.”
“I’ll be waiting right here,” Kerney replied as Campos stepped away.
Within a few minutes, Campos returned and reported no outstanding wants or warrants. As they left the building, Campos said, “You’d better tell me all you know.”
“Absolutely,” Kerney said.
After meeting up at the post office, Corporal Jim Little parked his street cruiser at the turnoff to the canyon, and joined Lieutenant Campos in his four-wheel drive unit. Kerney rode with Flavio in his truck, with instructions to stay back and away from any action. GPS put the Trimble property five-plus miles in at the head of a canyon on a mostly bad road.
“Do you have your pistola?” Flavio asked Kerney.
“It’s back in my truck.”
He popped the glove box to reveal a Smith & Wesson two-inch revolver. “Be my guest.”
Kerney gladly grabbed the weapon. “Where’s the rest of your arsenal?”
Flavio tapped his right cowboy boot. “My baby Beretta. Did you convince Steve Campos that you were innocent?”
The road turned crappy. Up ahead, the SO unit dipped and swayed over and around rocky obstacles. “I’ve got him questioning my guilt, un poquito.”
Flavio laughed as he worked the steering wheel. “What are you going to do if TM turns out to be your man?”
“I suggested Campos ask him to confess.”
Flavio laughed even harder. “You didn’t call your wife, did you?”
“No need to worry her.” Up ahead, Kerney could see they were losing ground on the SO unit. “Speed it up, will you? I don’t want to miss out on all the fun.”
The canyon widened, with mountains beyond and some overgrown fenced pastureland on either side of the bone-rattling road. Soon the outline of an older double-wide appeared in the distance, with a tall TV antenna tethered on the roof by three steel cables. A single electrical line on a series of poles crossed a side canyon and connected to both the double-wide and a small, windowless building that looked to be a pump house. Across from the double-wide, a large, tin-roofed, open-air shed held enough firewood for at least two winters. An ATV and a battered Ford four-wheel drive truck were parked a few yards beyond where the ranch road ended.
“Looks peaceful enough so far,” Kerney said as he checked the cylinder of the revolver. It was fully loaded.