Kerney placed his shield and commission card on the table. His blue eyes, usually so intense, were expressionless. “I’m not doing this anymore,” he said flatly.
“Did you know that you’re the only deputy chief in the history of the department who wasn’t appointed from within the ranks?” Andy Baca replied.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I caught a lot of flak for that,” Andy said.
“Am I supposed to thank you for the opportunity to be a cop again?” Kerney had been chief of detectives for the Santa Fe Police Department before a gun battle forced him into medical retirement. Andy had brought him back into harness a year ago.
His stinging tone made Andy repress a smile. “Quitting now will make a lot of people happy.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“It might be seen as a forced resignation.”
“It’s common knowledge that I’m planning to leave soon.”
“Next month, under completely different circumstances,” Andy said, thinking about Kerney’s windfall inheritance. “Erma’s estate will be settled, the land sale will be closed, and you’ll be a rich man. Did you know this is the biggest murder case in the department’s history? If you leave now, some people might say that you weren’t up to the challenge.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what people think.”
“I know that,” Andy said, not believing it at all, but pleased that more emotion had returned to Kerney’s voice. “By the way, Major Hutchinson agrees with your theory that this wasn’t a spree murder. It doesn’t fit the profile. Spree murders are emotional, disorganized, unplanned, with no cooling-off period. The perp made it look good until he got to Langsford.”
“I put a cop down today, Andy.”
“One of the victims has to be the real target. Everyone else was murdered to cover it up.”
“I know that. You’re not listening to me.”
“Yes, I am. You put down an armed and dangerous felon who hid behind a shield. Who refused to comply with your lawful orders, tried to kill you, and had stolen property in his possession. That’s the word from the city PD and the district attorney’s office. If Shockley’s bullet hadn’t clipped the top of the unit’s door frame you’d both be dead.”
“Are you saying I’m cleared?”
“For now. Because you supervise the internal affairs unit, I’ve asked the local DA to handle any follow-up investigation. That way we can avoid speculation about a departmental whitewash.”
“Regulations require you to place me on administrative leave until the investigation is complete,” Kerney said.
“Or I can relieve you from your current duties and reassign you. Give me thirty days, full time, as lead investigator on this case. Hutch will take over the division. I’m promoting him to deputy chief after you leave, anyway.”
“That’s not much of a reassignment,” Kerney noted.
“It satisfies the regs,” Andy said, as he pointed out the window at the mobile command center. “That’s your office for the duration.”
Kerney didn’t speak for a moment.
“You still keep your rank as a deputy chief,” Andy said.
“I don’t give a damn about the rank. Does Hutch know about this?”
Andy nodded. “He also knows that you recommended him for your job.”
“I’ll do it on one condition: I leave as soon as an arrest is made within the thirty-day period. Agreed?”
“You want out that bad?”
“I’m done with it, Andy.”
“Okay. You’re booked into a local motel. Give me your house key and a list of what you need from your apartment, and I’ll have it here from Santa Fe by morning.”
“What made you so sure I’d go along with this?” Kerney asked, as he dropped his house key on the desk.
Andy smiled. “Because you’re bullheaded.”
“That’s it? I’m bullheaded?”
“And you love a challenge. Go catch this killer, Kerney.”
Kerney walked into the small office at the back end of the mobile command trailer where Nate Hutchinson was planted behind the tiny desk.
“Good deal,” Hutch said, grinning at Kerney.
“Meaning exactly what?”
“Chief Baca talked you into staying on.”
“Only long enough to train you for my job.”
Hutch’s smile spread. “Thanks for putting in a good word for me.”
“You earned it on your own, Hutch.”
“Thanks, anyway.” Hutch hesitated before continuing. “This thing with Shockley.”
“What about it?” Kerney asked.
“He didn’t give you a choice, Chief.”
“That doesn’t give me much comfort. I could have handled it better. What have we got on the victims?”
“So far, very little, including Vernon Langsford. The state parks use a one-page application form for camp hosts that captures almost no personal data. They don’t run background checks and don’t gather next-of-kin information.”
“How long before we get the details on Langsford and the others?”
“We found letters from family and friends in the out-of-state victims’ travel trailers. I’ve passed the information along to agencies in Arizona, Iowa, and California. They’re making contact with people now. I’ve asked the Ruidoso Police Department to get me what they can on Vernon Langsford.”
“Why haven’t we sent an agent up there?” Kerney asked.
“Everybody’s still working the crime scenes, Chief.”
“What’s come in from the field so far?”
Hutch stood up and waved a hand at the papers on the small desk. “Here it is. I’ll get out of your way. Shockley was way over the edge, Chief.”
“How so?”
“During the last two years, he made at least five DWI traffic stops involving women. He coerced them into having sex and then let them go without making an arrest.”
“Has a victim come forward?”
Hutch shook his head. “Shockley used his own blank tapes to record the sex acts with his unit’s video camera. Duran found them in his apartment.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Some of it makes everything but hardcore porno films look pretty tame.”
“I want to see those tapes.”
Hutch pointed to the cassettes on the shelf next to the wall-mounted combination TV and VCR. “They’re gonna turn your stomach.”
“Has Andy seen them?”
“Not yet, but he knows about them.”
“Has Agent Duran run down Shockley’s stolen-car ring?”
“He’s working on it. Chief Baca said I’m to manage the division while you take the lead on the homicides.”
“That’s correct.”
“With Chief Baca’s permission, I’m going to release what we have on Shockley to the media. I don’t want anybody in or outside of the department thinking Shockley was anything but a psycho who never should have worn a shield.”
“You don’t have to do that for my sake, Hutch.”
Hutch shook his head and stepped toward the door. “I’m not. It’s for all of us, Chief. The district attorney wants to meet with you again in an hour.”
“Tell him I’ll be there.”
After Hutch left, Kerney watched the videotapes. By the time the last one finished playing, anger flushed his face. Shockley liked to sodomize his victims. In each tape he positioned himself at the front of his unit, bent the women over the hood and held them down with a hand on their necks. Then he’d smile at the camera with a smug, satisfied look on his face. The images made Kerney almost want to shoot Shockley all over again.
He rewound the last tape, no longer feeling quite so lousy about taking Randy Shockley’s life, and thought about Paul Gillespie, the small-town cop who’d been killed by a woman he’d raped. Nita Lassiter had shot Gillespie with his own handgun at the Mountainair Police Department. Kerney had solved the case with some lucky breaks and had come out of the investigation convinced that Nita Lassiter had more than an adequate reason to blow Gillespie away.
Nita’s trial had concluded last month, and she’d been found guilty of manslaughter, a third-degree felony. Because of mitigating circumstances, she’d been sentenced to one year minus a day in the county jail, with work-release privileges so she could continue her practice of veterinary medicine.
A lot of cops and prosecutors around the state were upset when Kerney testified on Nita’s behalf at the sentencing hearing. They didn’t like the idea that a senior state-police officer could find anything redeeming about a convicted cop killer, no matter what the justification might be.
Now that he’d put Randy Shockley down, he wondered how much more character assassination he’d have to face. Maybe he’d go from being known as a turncoat who sided with a cop killer to being called a cop killer himself.
He rewound the last cassette. With Hutch making sure all of the hard facts about Shockley got out, that might not happen. For the first time in hours, Kerney smiled. It was a damn fine gesture on Hutch’s part.
He checked the time, went back to the desk, and scanned through the field reports before leaving to meet with the DA.
Kerney spent several uncomfortable but necessary hours with the district attorney, who probed hard to uncover any personal relationship that might have existed between Kerney and Shockley, or any work-related antagonism that might have contributed to Kerney’s willingness to use deadly force. Kerney made it clear he’d never met Shockley before the shooting and had never supervised him.
With that issue set aside, the interview shifted to Kerney’s record of deadly force. The DA dug into all prior events, including a gunfight with a street drug dealer who’d blown out Kerney’s knee, the shooting of a rogue army intelligence officer during a murder investigation at White Sands Missile Range, the wounding of Nita Lassiter, who had tried to commit suicide to avoid arrest, and a gun battle with assassins hired by a Mexican drug lord to kill Kerney.
The records showed Kerney had been cleared of any wrongdoing in each incident. But the DA, a burly man with a high-pitched voice who breathed heavily through his nose, quizzed Kerney carefully on each event, looking for anything that might suggest Kerney was a trigger-happy cop.
Kerney understood the DA’s reasoning; compared to most officers he had an extremely high use-of-deadly-force history. At five o’clock he returned to the command center, drained but through the worst of it. The DA had let him go without scheduling another session.
Sounds of commuter traffic hummed on the street as civilian workers from the air base and White Sands Missile Range made their way up the boulevard to houses in the foothills. At the nearby media staging area, reporters washed in the glare of high-intensity lights were broadcasting live satellite feeds back to stations and networks.
To the west, diaphanous in a light haze, the far-off tips of the San Andres Mountains towered like silent sentinels over the Tularosa Basin, home of the vast White Sands Missile Range.
Kerney’s personal history was tied to the Tularosa. When he was a young boy, his parents had been forced off the family ranch when the missile range expanded; and less than three years ago Kerney had met his future wife, Sara, while searching for his AWOL godson, Sammy Yazzi, a soldier stationed at the base.
Good and bad memories coursed through Kerney’s mind. His early years on the ranch had been the best of his life, and meeting Sara Brannon, a strong-willed, beautiful woman, had brought him emotionally back to life in ways he’d never imagined possible. But the loss of the ranch still galled, and the murder of his godson would always remain a sore spot in his mind.
The teams of agents and uniformed personnel from the crime scenes began trickling in, and Kerney went to meet them. No new killings had been reported, and Kerney figured the chances were good that the spree was over. He listened to their debriefings, which clearly indicated that a quick break in the case was unlikely. The sum total of facts remained unchanged: six people had been robbed and killed by person or persons unknown—probably with the same handgun—within a six-hour period, in a sequence that started at Carrizozo and ended at the Oliver Lee State Park. Vernon Langsford was the only victim to be shot twice with a silenced weapon.
Why two bullets for Langsford with a silencer?
In Kerney’s mind, Langsford had to be the primary target, which meant that five innocent people had been killed to cover up a premeditated murder.
Kerney went looking for Lt. Lee Sedillo, the assistant commander of the criminal investigation unit, who’d been gathering background information on Langsford. He found him glued to a computer screen at the front of the command trailer.
Over twenty years ago, Kerney had started his career with the Santa Fe Police Department about the same time Sedillo had joined the state police. Kerney had worked on a number of joint cases with Lee after both of them had moved into criminal investigations.
A big-boned, balding man, Sedillo had thick thighs and large buttocks, a legacy of his years as a high-school and college football lineman. He easily carried an extra twenty pounds on an imposing frame, and had a pudgy face.
“What have we got on Vernon Langsford, Lee?” Kerney asked, as he sat in a chair next to Sedillo.
“I knew who Langsford was as soon as Hutch asked me to check him out,” Sedillo replied, as he positioned the cursor under an icon on the screen and clicked the mouse. “He retired as a district court judge about six years ago, not long after his wife was killed by a letter bomb that was sent to his home. The case was never solved. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms and the FBI were brought in. I’m asking for their case files right now.”
“What do we have on the case?”
“A lot of digging that went nowhere.” Sedillo swung his chair around and faced Kerney. “I was still in narcotics when it happened, but it created a big buzz in the department and among the politicians.”
“Why?”
“Langsford had just ruled against the Mescalero Apache tribe’s casino operation, and ordered it shut down on a legal technicality. Everybody figured that Langsford was the target of the letter bomb, and the murder was tied to his ruling invalidating the gaming compact with the state. But nothing materialized to prove it.”
“You have our case file?”
Sedillo nodded and patted a thick folder. “I almost burned up the fax machine getting it, but here it is. That’s your copy.”
“Have you talked to the Ruidoso PD?”
“Yeah, and they don’t have much. Langsford kept a low profile. He lived alone and, except for his golf buddies, kept pretty much to himself.”
“Was he under any kind of protection?”
“Not since before his retirement.”
“I want a list of everyone who visited the four campgrounds during the past month,” Kerney said.
“Do you think our killer reconnoitered the campgrounds?”
“We can’t dismiss it as a possibility.”
“Visitors pay on the honor system, Chief, if they pay at all. We’ll have to gather the pay envelopes, pull the license plate information, and run motor vehicle checks. We’re talking thousands of day and overnight visitors, Chief.”
“I know. Get started on it tonight. Tell the team to pay particular attention to anyone who visited all of the sites on the same day, or in a very short time span.”
“Will do.”
“And keep working the background investigations on the other victims. We can’t rule out the possibility that Langsford wasn’t the only primary—or even the last—target until we’re sure that we haven’t missed anything. If Langsford knew any of the other victims casually as the camp host at Oliver Lee State Park, or had a prior personal or professional relationship with any of them, that could be important.”
“Another long day at the office,” Sedillo sighed, as he scribbled a note to himself.
“If any promising connections or motives turn up, get an agent on a plane as soon as possible to check it out.”
“Are we looking at money, revenge, sex, profit, and politics as motives, Chief?” Lee asked dryly.
“All of that, plus extremists. Using a letter bomb to kill Langsford’s wife goes way beyond an ordinary homicide.”
“You got it.” Lee paused. “Hutch told me about Shockley, Chief.”
“I’m glad he did.”
“You and I go back a long way. Can I speak freely?”
“I’ve never known you to do otherwise, Lee.”
“Every member of the team knows you did what you had to do. If I hear any flak about it, I’m gonna kick some butt.”
Kerney squeezed Sedillo’s shoulder and picked up the letter bomb file. “Thanks, Lee, but don’t waste time on adjusting attitudes. Just keep your people focused on the job.”
Outside the command trailer, Kerney watched the day fade on the western horizon, tinting the San Andres with flecks of amber. The lights along Tenth Street flicked on in a hot pink that gradually turned yellow as the fluorescent filaments powered up. In the morning he would go to the mountain resort community of Ruidoso, an hour away by car, where Vernon Langsford had lived, and start digging. But tonight, he would read the file on the murder of Langsford’s wife, catch a couple hours sleep, and then drive the killer’s route from Carrizozo to Alamogordo, starting at the time of the first shooting.
He wanted to experience the conditions encountered by the killer: see the terrain, move through the campgrounds, drive the roads, time his movement along the route, and get a feel for the killer’s efficiency.
His cell phone rang.
“I got your message that you weren’t coming,” Sara said lightheartedly. “Does this mean our romance has soured?”
The sound of Sara’s voice made Kerney smile. “That’s the last thing I need to have happen.”
“Bad day?”
“Worse than bad.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Have you got the time?”
“Now that I have all weekend to work on it, my stunning analysis of military operations in Haiti since its independence from France can wait a few more minutes.”
Kerney walked away from the command trailer. “I killed a cop today, Sara.”
“Was it an accident?”
“No, I had to shoot him.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Kerney walked to the lawn that bordered the walkway to the district office, stood under a tree that had yet to shed its leaves, and started talking to his wife.
At first light, Kerney entered the command trailer. The core of the trailer, a rectangular space with built-in workstations, communications equipment, computer terminals, and office machines, was crowded with agents who looked as sleep-deprived as Kerney felt. He found Lee Sedillo in the small office, hand on his chin, staring blankly at some papers. The FBI and ATF files had arrived, and Kerney wanted a briefing before starting out for Ruidoso.
Sedillo filled Kerney in. The letter bomb matched no signature of any other, either before or after the event. Reconstruction experts had determined the device was similar to, but not identical with, several that had been mailed to abortion clinics in the Southwest. Postal inspectors had intercepted those devices before delivery, but no suspects were ever identified. Nothing in Langsford’s court docket over a ten-year period showed any rulings that could be connected to an anti-abortion issue.
“Have all the victims’ next of kin been notified?” Kerney asked.
“All but Langsford’s,” Lee said. “His only living relatives are a daughter and son. Son’s name is Eric, the daughter is Linda Langsford. Eric is single and thirty-two years old. His last known address is in Cloudcroft, twenty miles away. I sent an agent up there last night. He moved a month ago with no forwarding address. We’re checking with his last employer.”
“And the daughter?”
“The daughter is thirty-five, divorced, with no children. She practices law in Roswell, specializing in oil and gas leases and litigation. Her law partner said she started a vacation two days ago. He doesn’t know where she is, exactly. She took off on a road trip to Colorado. I’ve asked all Colorado law enforcement agencies to keep an eye out for her.”
“Have you found any connection between Langsford and the other victims?”
“So far, we’ve struck out, Chief, and it looks like we’re not getting anywhere on a motive for any of the other killings.”
“Have the public information officer release all the victims’ names, except Langsford’s,” Kerney said, “and tell him to keep emphasizing the spree-killing theme.”
* * *
The fairways at the Ruidoso golf course were still green, and several foursomes were out on the links in spite of the cool morning. Langsford’s home, a pitched-roof, single-story ranch-style house, was on the back nine with a nice view of the tenth hole and the heavily forested peak behind the course. The house looked closed up and no one answered Kerney’s knock at the front door. He walked around the exterior noting the burglary alarm system on the windows and the miniature TV security cameras above the entrances and the garage door.
A new Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway as Kerney came around the side of the house, and a leggy woman wearing jeans and a lightweight wool turtleneck got out and hurried toward him.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
Somewhere in her thirties, she had long brown hair and an aura of sexuality that showed in her blue green eyes and the ease of her carriage.
Kerney showed his shield and introduced himself.
“Has there been a break-in?” the woman asked.
“Nothing like that. Please tell me your name.”
“Kay Murray. I work for Judge Langsford.”
“Can we talk inside?”
Murray hesitated, then nodded. “Let me get my things.”
Kerney watched as the woman returned to the Explorer, retrieved a large purse, an overnight bag, and a leather-covered day planner, then locked the car. Not tall, she gave the impression of height, and had a very shapely rump.
She unlocked the front door and turned to Kerney. “Give me a minute to turn off the alarm.”
“Of course.”
Inside, she dropped her bag and purse on the couch and placed the day planner on an end table. The living room, a deep space with a fireplace along one wall and a large picture window with a view of the tenth hole, was decorated in expensive leather furniture accented by bulky dark oak side tables, which held handsome pottery lamps. Two beautifully framed Remington prints were nicely hung on either side of the fireplace, reinforcing the strong masculine feel of the room.
Kerney looked closer at the prints and decided they were original oils, not reproductions.
“What is this all about?” Kay Murray asked.
“Judge Langsford has been murdered.”
Murray pressed a hand against her mouth. “Oh, dear, that can’t be.”
“I take it you haven’t spoken to the local police.”
“No, I’ve been in Albuquerque for the last two days. I just got back. What happened?”
“I can’t go into the specifics. I’m trying to contact either his son or his daughter.”
“Vernon has very little to do with either of them. You could say he’s estranged from his children. I don’t think he’s spoken to Eric or seen him since I’ve been working for him, and about the only communication he has with his daughter is an exchange of cards during the holidays.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Five years.”
“Do you know why he’s estranged from his children?”
“Eric and Linda hold him responsible for the death of their mother.”
“Why would they do that?”
“You know about the letter bomb?”
“I do.”
“The only reason Marsha Langsford was killed instead of the judge was because Vernon was supposedly away at a legal convention, while in fact he was spending time with another woman.”
“How did you come to learn this?”
Murray dropped her gaze from Kerney’s face. “Vernon told me. He’s never stopped feeling guilty about it.”
“Did his children know about this woman?”
“Oh, yes. He’d already told Marsha he was going to leave her, and of course she told Eric and Linda.”
“None of this ever came out during the investigation.”
“It was hushed up by the family. But it cost the judge a good bit of money.”
“He bribed Eric and Linda to keep silent?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. He gave Eric fifty thousand dollars. Linda’s husband had just filed for divorce when it happened, after discovering that she’d been having an affair. I guess she didn’t think she could cast the first stone.”
“Who was the woman in Judge Langsford’s life?”
“Is that important?”
“It could be.”
“Penelope Gibben. She works for Ranchers’ Exploration and Development in Roswell. Vernon broke off the relationship immediately after Marsha’s death.”
“Langsford confided a great deal in you.”
“I’m about his only confidante. In some ways he’s a very lonely man.” Her face tightened. “I mean, was.”
“What did Eric do with the fifty thousand?”
“He blew it. Eric has a long-standing drug and alcohol problem.”
“Exactly what kind of work do you do for Judge Langsford?”
“I’m a combination housekeeper and personal assistant. I keep his books, respond to his correspondence—if he chooses not to do so himself—pay the bills, shop, and fix his meals.”
“Do you write checks for the judge?”
“Only on the household account. He has his own personal checking accounts. I simply mail him the unopened bank statements if he’s not here when they arrive.”
“Did you work for him full-time?”
“During the spring and summer when he’s in residence, I do. Then it’s three days a week during the fall and winter.”
“And there was enough work to keep you busy?” Kerney asked.
“Part of it was keeping him company, Mr. Kerney. Older people are sometimes willing to pay for that. It’s been a perfect job for me. I’m a weaver. I design shawls, wraps, and textiles. Vernon lets me work on my craft here, when I’m not busy with any of the odds and ends that need looking after to keep things in order. I have a loom in the spare bedroom that I use as an office and studio.”
“That was very generous of the judge.”
“You’ve noticed the security system?”
“I have.”
“Judge Langsford was more concerned for his safety than he was about my personal convenience. He felt my physical presence here, on a regular basis, acted as a deterrent. After all, someone once wanted to kill him.”
“He felt safe in his motor home?”
“As a camp host, he did. He was always surrounded by others, all of them people who had no idea who he was or what he’d been.” Murray put her hand to her mouth again. “He was murdered by that spree killer, wasn’t he? I heard reports on the radio while I was driving home.”
“Yes.”
“How awful.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Langsford?”
“Three days ago. He would always call in once a week to see if anything needed his attention.”
“Such as?”
“Judge Langsford had two consuming interests, golf and investments. He’d call me weekly to get an update on his portfolio, or to ask me if some board minutes or prospectus from a company had arrived.”
“Would you characterize him as well-off?”
“More than that,” Murray said. “He was the only child of a man who was once the biggest natural gas producer in the state. He inherited millions of dollars before he was appointed to the bench. He owns partial or controlling interest in three companies.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about him as still alive.”
“That’s understandable. What will you do, now that you’re out of a job?”
“I’ll be fine,” Murray said. “I’m showing in three galleries: one here, one in Albuquerque, and one in Santa Fe. I’ve been socking away the money I’ve made as a weaver and living off my salary. I won’t be homeless, Mr. Kerney.”
“How long will you be here this week?”
“I’ve been paid through the end of the month, so I’m at your disposal.”
“Will you be in town from now until the end of the month?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
“What for?”
“Information for my report.”
She searched her purse, found her wallet, and extracted the license.
Kerney wrote down the information, verified Murray’s home address, and got her telephone number. “I’m going to ask a judge for a search warrant, Ms. Murray. There may be information in the judge’s papers that could be helpful to the investigation. It will probably be issued today. If I can use the telephone, I’d like to call and have a city police officer come and stay here until the warrant is executed.”
Murray’s expression turned guarded. “Why do you need to do that?”
“I don’t need to do it, Ms. Murray. But it’s in your best interest that I do. With an officer on site, there will be no question about the loss or removal of anything from the house while you’re here.”
“I wouldn’t take anything.”
“I don’t doubt you.”
Kay Murray’s cautious expression cleared. “I suppose it would be a good idea. I hate to think I’d be considered a suspect.”
“We can get that issue off the table very quickly, if you’ll give me the names and phone numbers of the people you were with and the places you went during your two days in Albuquerque.”
“You’re asking for an alibi, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll write it all down for you,” she said, reaching for her daily planner.
“And if you have it, Penelope Gibben’s home and work addresses would be helpful.”
Murray paused. “I’ll get them for you.”
“I have the feeling Judge Langsford was a very private man.”
“Vernon was extremely private.”
“Yet he confided a great deal in you.”
“We were friends, Mr. Kerney,” Murray said tightly. “Is that a crime?”
“Not at all.”
The Ruidoso patrol officer, a woman in her twenties, arrived within ten minutes. Kerney briefed her on the assignment, thanked Kay Murray for her cooperation, went to his unit, called Lee Sedillo, and filled him in on what he’d learned.
“I’ll run a records check on Eric Langsford,” Sedillo said, “and get the search warrant paperwork started.”
“Make the search warrant as inclusive as possible,” Kerney said. “But have the agent who serves it concentrate on Langsford’s financial and personal papers. I need to know ASAP what corporations Langsford owns or has an interest in, and the state of their financial health.”
“Do you have some specific reason to follow the money, Chief?”
“There’s a lot of it, Lee. That’s reason enough. We’ll work this angle and the theory that the prior attempt against Langsford came because of his ruling against tribal gambling.”
“Two motives for murder are better than one,” Lee said.
“Hang on a minute,” Kerney said, as Kay Murray came out the front door of Langsford’s house. She’d removed her wool sweater, and the body-hugging tee shirt she wore made her look even more lissome.
She walked to Kerney’s unit and held out a key “Am I free to go?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’d rather not stay. Having that police officer inside makes me feel that I’m under arrest.”
“That’s not the case.”
“I know, but that’s the way I feel. Take the key.”
“It would be better if you came back after the search is finished and locked up. That way, there will be no question that anything has been unnecessarily damaged.”
“What kind of unnecessary damage?” Murray said, putting the key in her pocket.
“Opening a locked desk or a safe. Does Langsford have a safe?”
“There’s a floor panel in the study closet that lifts out. Under the panel you’ll find a small safe embedded in concrete. His desk key is in the pot on the fireplace mantle in the study.”
“Do you have the combination to the safe?”
“No.”
“Is anything else locked?”
“No. Can I leave now?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get my things.”
“Lee?” Kerney said, as Kay Murray moved away.
“I’m here, Chief.”
Kerney read off Murray’s home address, social security number, date of birth, the license plate number to the Ford Explorer, and the name of the car dealer’s tag on the back of the car. “Do the usual check on Murray, and call the dealership. I want to know if it was Langsford or Murray who bought the car.”
“You got a hunch, Chief?”
“I think Murray’s relationship with Langsford may have been more than meets the eye. It could mean nothing, but then again . . .”
“I’ll get back to you,” Sedillo said.
“There’s more,” Kerney said. “Murray said she spent the last two days in Albuquerque. Have an agent verify that.”
“You got places and names, Chief?”
“Affirmative,” Kerney said. “You ready?”
“Read it off.”
The morning drive into Ruidoso had been pleasant. The east-west highway through the high mountains of the Mescalero Apache Reservation provided beautiful scenery and wonderful views. But from the Ruidoso city limits on, along a long stretch of road that wound down the Hondo Valley, there was nothing but the ugly commercial strip that seemed to be so typical of every Western city.
In Spanish, Ruidoso means noisy. The name came from the fast running river that coursed through the narrow valley where the town sprang up. Once a hotbed of gambling, prostitution, and bootlegging during the Depression, Ruidoso now catered to flatlanders from Texas and Mexico who came to escape the desert heat and for the horse racing, the reservation casino gaming, high-end shopping, the trendy resorts, and the golf courses.
Kerney drove the highway trying to remain immune to all the billboards and businesses that made the mountain pass look so tacky. In his boyhood Ruidoso had been nothing more than a sleepy village.
The investigation was beginning to get complex, and Kerney liked having his attention fully engaged. It pushed shooting Shockley out of the forefront of his mind. But the image of Shockley resurfaced, and with it came an automatic gag reflex that Kerney fought down.
Kerney knew his reaction was purely tribal. The vivid memory of Shockley’s bloodstained uniform and the common bond of belonging it represented had slammed into Kerney’s psyche far more deeply than the actual shooting itself. He wondered if he would ever shake it from his mind.
Roswell was on the eastern plains, an hour or so down the road. He looked forward to talking with Langsford’s ex-lover, Penelope Gibben, and started framing questions he would put to her when they met.