Eric Langsford lolled in the straight-back metal chair, head back, staring at the fluorescent lights in the interrogation room ceiling. He unzipped the top of his orange jail jumpsuit and scratched his skinny chest.
“Man, I barely remember talking to you,” he said. “You busted me, right?”
“More or less,” Kerney said.
“For possession, right?”
“You’re in protective custody, for now. If you cooperate, I might forget about the possession charges.”
Langsford sat up straight. “I can get out?”
“We’ll see. You left the band in Marfa, Texas.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna kill that fucking drummer, if I ever see him again.”
“What for?” Kerney asked.
“I don’t take shit from anyone. He got on my case about my drinking and then dumped out all my booze. He was an AA freak who wanted to save me. I hate that kind of crap.”
“I can see how that would make you angry.”
Eric nodded. “I’ve got a short fuse.”
“What did you do?”
“I threw an empty whiskey bottle that hit him in the head, and told him to get the fuck out of my room.” Langsford touched a small bruise on his chin. “He busted me in the chops, so I quit the band. I couldn’t stand playing with those assholes, anyway. They sucked.”
“What day was that?”
“Last Wednesday, I think.”
“Where did you go after you quit the band?”
“I drove to Del Rio and crossed the border. Got there late.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Overnight.”
“Remember where?”
“Some cheap hotel. I don’t know the name.”
“You left the next day?”
“Yeah.”
“Where to?”
“I hit a bunch of Mexican border towns.”
“Which ones?”
Langsford rattled off the town names.
“What about on the Texas side of the border?” Kerney asked.
“I stopped in Redford and McNary.”
“Did you rent rooms?”
“Not after Del Rio. I slept in the van so I could save my money for booze and pills.”
“What bars did you drink at?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Sometimes I’d hit the bars, other times I just drank in the van. The desert is beautiful at night, man. All those stars.”
“When did you get to Juárez?”
“Friday, Saturday—I don’t remember.”
“You stayed at a whorehouse.”
“That’s where I woke up.”
“Where was it?”
“About six blocks in from the bridge. I thought my van had been ripped off. I found it on our side of the border in a parking lot.”
“Did you get a parking receipt?”
“I don’t keep stuff like that.”
“What was the whorehouse called?”
“It’s more like a hotel where whores take their tricks.”
“The name?”
“I don’t know. Why are you asking me all this crap?”
“When did you leave Juárez?”
“Sunday afternoon. I drove straight to my place.”
“Have you gone anywhere, seen anybody, since you arrived home?”
“Just you, and look where that got me.”
“You didn’t go to the tribal resort earlier this week, looking for work?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”
“I understand you got a check recently from one of your father’s companies.”
“Party time,” Eric said smiling. “I go through Daddy’s money fast. When it runs out, I find work. Like playing in a piece-of-shit band that doesn’t pay squat.”
“Where were you Thursday night?”
“Beats me.”
“Did you meet up with anyone you knew in Del Rio?”
“No.”
“How about the other places you stayed?”
“I didn’t see anybody I knew.”
“I understand you’re a gifted musician,” Kerney said.
“Once I was. After high school I was accepted at every top-flight music school in the country that I applied to. But I didn’t go.”
“Your father is dead, murdered.”
“I remember that,” Eric replied.
“What do you remember?”
“That you told me he was dead.”
“Did you see your father much?”
“I haven’t seen him since I left Roswell six years ago.”
“You never visited him in Ruidoso?”
“What for?”
“Is that a no?”
“No. I don’t go near the man.”
Kerney rose. “We’ll talk again.”
Eric scrambled to his feet. “Do I get out of jail?”
“Not yet. I’m booking you on the drug possession charge.”
Langsford screwed up his face in disgust. “I want to make a phone call.”
“I’ll tell the guard.”
“You think I killed my old man, don’t you?”
“And if you did?”
“It would make me happy,” Eric said, sounding like a mischievous kid admitting to a prank.
“Because of the way he treated you as a child?” Kerney asked.
“That’s not even the half of it.”
“I’d like to hear the rest.”
“That’s my business.”
“You’re really not sure if you killed your father or not, are you?”
Eric smirked. “I don’t think I did, but you never know. Sometimes dreams come true.”
Outside, Kerney took a deep breath of the cool night air. Eric Langsford had the maturity of an adolescent, a drug-addled mind, and was clearly pleased about his father’s death. Kerney couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Eric had iced his old man along with five other victims. Killers came in all flavors and varieties, including the hopped-up, emotionally arrested kind.
He decided to come back early in the morning and take another crack at Eric.
Kerney knocked at Sedillo’s motel room door, and the lieutenant opened up. He reported that nothing of consequence had been uncovered during the search of Eric Langsford’s house and van, except for a receipt from a package goods store in Marfa, Texas, dated the same day Langsford had left the band.
Kerney summarized his interview with Langsford, placed the cassette of the taped conversation in Lee’s hand, and asked Sedillo to put an agent on it right away.
“Have him backtrack on Langsford,” Kerney said.
“That’s a three-day swing.”
“So far, he’s our only suspect without an alibi.”
“Did his sister have one?” Lee asked.
“I haven’t gotten that far with her yet.”
“I could use more people, Chief.”
“Not possible. The way it stands now, if we don’t get serious movement by the end of the week, we’ll be down to just you and me. Did Mary Margaret run those employee names?”
“Yep, and you can forget about it. At the time of Mrs. Langsford’s death there were no political activists, hard-core felons, convicts, or fugitives working at the resort or casino who we can connect to Langsford. There were two cases against employees that resulted in bench warrants for failure to pay child support. Both fathers made their back payments and got a stay out of jail card. One other employee did time for aggravated battery against a police officer, stemming from a DWI stop. But he got drunk two years ago, passed out on the railroad tracks, and was run over by a train.”
“Eric says he hasn’t seen his father in years—never once visited him. Get an agent up to Ruidoso in the morning, showing Eric’s picture around the judge’s neighborhood. That beat-up van he drives would be pretty hard to miss.”
“Will do. Is that it, Chief?”
“Why is Langsford so damn happy his father is dead?”
“Maybe he just didn’t like him.”
“I think it goes deeper than that.”
“You may be right,” Lee said. “We just got the information you requested from the phone company on those hang-up phone calls made to Linda Langsford’s residence. All of them were made the night of the murders from pay phones along the killer’s route.”
“What about the anonymous calls to her office?”
“Two one-minute calls were made one right after the other from an Albuquerque number. I’ve got an agent making contact now.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear anything. We may have caught a break.”
The phone rang. Lee walked to the bedside table, picked up, listened for a minute, and then dropped the handset in the cradle with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t look promising, Chief. The Albuquerque calls came from an elderly man who misdialed a granddaughter’s Roswell number. He reversed two digits.”
“I want confirmation on who he is, who the granddaughter is, and whether or not anyone else has access to his telephone.”
“We have an agent from the Albuquerque district office rolling on it now.”
In the morning, Kerney checked his unit for damage, found none, did a short run, and called Sara at Fort Leavenworth, half-hoping she’d already left her quarters for class. She answered on the first ring.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Pumped,” Sara answered. “We start the advanced military studies sequence today. The Civil War. Grant’s Vicksburg campaign. I’ve been reading all about it. Very exciting stuff. You never call me in the morning. What’s up, sweetie pie?”
Kerney told her about Isabel Istee, Clayton, and the two grandchildren.
“My, my,” Sara said.
Kerney waited for more, but Sara remained silent.
“That’s it?” he finally asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“I swear, I knew nothing about this.”
“You lead a shockingly interesting life, Kerney.”
Kerney caught a hint of amusement in Sara’s voice. “The Irish are cursed that way,” he said.
“I’m not sure I like the idea of being married to a man who’s a grandfather.”
“Don’t say that.”
“This has thrown you, hasn’t it?”
“It’s a little unsettling.”
“I’m a bit stunned by the news myself,” Sara said. “You’re absolutely sure about this?”
“I have no reason to doubt it.”
“Then we’ll just have to accept it.”
“It’s not a problem for you?”
“Well, the upside is that now I know you can father children.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“But I don’t like the idea of an old love suddenly reappearing in your life.”
“You’re still kidding, right?”
“Of course I am. Don’t go getting insecure on me, Kerney. This wasn’t a situation of your making. When do I get to meet your new family?”
“I’m not sure that will happen. I’m not perceived as a welcome addition to the clan.”
“It sounds complex. I’ll try not to add to the confusion.”
“Meaning?”
“Having a husband who’s a grandfather isn’t something I’ve had to consider before. But it doesn’t make me love you any less.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. I need to get going.”
“Be careful out there, grandpa.”
“Give me a break,” Kerney groaned.
“You’re tough, you can take it.”
Agent Robert Duran checked out of the motel, threw his luggage filled with dirty laundry into the unit’s trunk, and slammed the lid. Getting pulled off the vandalism case by Lieutenant Sedillo to be sent on a three-day road trip to backtrack on Eric Langsford was irritating.
Because Duran was part of the Internal Affairs Unit, Sedillo had asked—not ordered—Robert to take the assignment, knowing full well that turning down the request could sully Robert’s reputation as a gung-ho officer. With his eye on an upcoming sergeant’s vacancy in criminal investigations, Robert couldn’t afford any bad raps about his dedication to the job.
He sat in his unit and studied a map, mentally tracing the route Eric Langsford said he’d taken after quitting the band in Marfa, Texas. The pivotal issue hinged on where Langsford had been last Thursday night. Robert decided to work Langsford’s drunken travels home in reverse order, starting with his last stop in Juárez, an easy eighty-mile drive from the Oliver Lee State Park.
If he could confirm that Langsford had been within striking distance on the night of the murders and didn’t have an alibi, it would make him a prime suspect.
Robert tossed the map on the seat and thought about the vandalism case he’d been forced to put on the back burner. Chasing down the person who’d disabled and damaged Chief Kerney’s unit was no small matter, especially given the strong likelihood that a cop could have done it in retaliation for the Shockley shooting.
Duran couldn’t see a civilian sneaking around a motel where a bunch of cops were staying, or even knowing which car Kerney drove. And some of the smug reactions from Shockley’s buddies at the city PD about the vandalism made it clear that there were those who believed Kerney deserved a payback. It wasn’t a stretch to believe that the situation could easily escalate into a physical attack against the chief.
With no hard target outside the department on the horizon, Duran had asked all district personnel and the agents working the spree killings to account for their time during the two incidents. It hadn’t gained him any new friends or valuable information, so he’d been about to start working the bars where Shockley had hung out when Sedillo dropped the Langsford assignment on him.
So be it, he thought glumly, switching his attention to the field notes on Eric Langsford. If nothing panned out in Juárez, he would be spending his time in shitkicking bars and backwater border towns for the next three days.
Across the parking lot, he watched Chief Kerney limp to his unit, inspect it carefully, and drive away.
Last spring, Robert had worked a murder case in northern New Mexico on ranchland the chief had inherited. According to the scuttlebutt, Kerney was about to cash out the land, pay the taxes, and still have a hefty seven-figure bankroll. With that kind of money Kerney could’ve walked away from it all and never looked back.
That wasn’t the chief’s style, Robert decided, as he pulled into traffic, heading south.
After discovering that Eric had been bailed out of jail on the misdemeanor drug possession charge by Drew Randolph, who’d left with Langsford in tow, Kerney drove to Roswell.
Randolph greeted Kerney at Linda Langsford’s door with a haughty expression. “Don’t you think it was bad form not to tell Linda you had her brother locked up in jail?” he asked.
“I saw no reason to add to her worries,” Kerney answered. “Where is Eric now?”
“In the guest bedroom, sleeping off the bottle of whiskey he drank after I brought him here last night.”
“And Ms. Langsford?”
“I’ll get her for you.”
Linda Langsford entered the screened porch with Randolph close behind. She pressed her hand into his and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be fine, Drew. You go along.”
“You’re sure?” Randolph asked, shooting Kerney a hard look.
Linda nodded, and her long hair swept across her face, hiding it.
Randolph breezed by Kerney and out the front door without a word.
“Do I need to hire an attorney for Eric?” Linda asked, pushing her hair away with a shaky hand. Dark circles under her eyes clashed with the gold frames of her glasses.
“He’s only facing a misdemeanor possession charge right now,” Kerney said.
“Aren’t you here to arrest him for murder?”
“Do you think he killed your father?”
She shook her head to ward off the question. “And five other innocent people? I can’t comprehend how anybody can do that, Mr. Kerney. Eric, especially.”
“You don’t think he’s capable of murder?”
“Don’t ask me to incriminate my brother.”
“I was asking for your opinion.”
“Eric told me that you suspect him.”
“He has a weak alibi and admits to wanting your father dead. Why is that?”
“He told you how my father tormented him. Can’t you understand his anger over that kind of treatment?”
“Anger can turn into rage and murder.”
“Save the pop psychology for somebody else, Mr. Kerney. You’ve seen him, you’ve talked to him. He can barely cope. He’s almost always stoned, high, or drunk. He’s been this way since high school.”
“I understand both you and Eric held your father accountable for the death of your mother.”
“Given the circumstances, surely you can understand why.”
“And now your father is dead.”
“Murdered by a nameless spree killer, unless you have evidence to the contrary. Do you?”
“Was your father abusive to you?”
“My God, you don’t quit, do you? My father was a stern man who expected his children to be perfect. Eric failed him because he chose to live in a drug-induced dreamworld.”
“Didn’t his problems with his father start long before he began using drugs?”
“That’s the way Eric sees it.”
“But you disagree?”
“Eric is a troubled person. He can be charming, intelligent, overly dramatic, and totally unpredictable. He also lies a great deal.”
“You both stand to inherit considerable wealth from your father’s estate.”
The morning sun washed into the porch and accentuated Linda’s angry eyes. “Look around, Mr. Kerney. Does it seem that I am in dire need of my father’s money?”
“Eric’s circumstances are quite different from yours.”
“Did you come here to tell me about the investigation or to conduct an inquisition?”
“I need a copy of your vacation itinerary,” Kerney said.
“Am I now a suspect?”
“It’s merely a process of verification, Ms. Langsford. Nothing more.”
“I have nothing to hide from you.”
“Then it shouldn’t be an imposition,” Kerney said.
“Wait here.”
She left, returned with her purse, emptied it on a table, and began picking through the contents. Finished, she held out a batch of credit card receipts and hotel bills. “I’d like these back,” she said.
Kerney quickly fanned through the receipts. “Do these cover your entire trip?”
“Yes.”
“Have you had any more hang-up telephone calls?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I’m worried about the anonymous calls to your house. They were made from pay phones along the killer’s route on the night of the murders.”
Linda’s eyes widened.
“Three members of your family are dead, Ms. Langsford. I can’t dismiss the possibility that you might also be a target.”
“Do you actually believe someone has been killing off my family, one by one?”
“It’s within the realm of possibility.”
“Do you have any substantiation for your theory?”
“My assumption is that the murderer knows you. Otherwise, why would he take time from all the bloodletting to call?”
“It could be a coincidence. And my brother wasn’t murdered; he was killed by a hit-and-run driver.”
“Still, it’s troubling. Will Eric be staying with you?”
She nodded. “Until after the funeral.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“My brother isn’t a killer, Mr. Kerney. I have nothing to fear from him.”
“Do you want police protection?”
“That’s totally unnecessary.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, “Please go, Mr. Kerney. I’ll be fine.”
Kerney stopped at the Roswell district headquarters, arranged to put Eric Langsford under surveillance, and faxed Lee Sedillo copies of Linda Langsford’s credit card receipts along with instructions to start the verification process. From the looks of what Linda had given him, she’d spent the night of the murders in a small Colorado town six hundred miles away.
At the high school, Colby Trumble sat with Kerney and went through the yearbooks, pointing out former students who’d been friends with the Langsford children. As expected, Arthur and Linda had been quite popular, while Eric’s buddies—kids Trumble characterized as marginally socialized—had been few and far between.
Kerney asked for the guidance and counseling records on the Langsford children, and after checking with his superiors, Trumble complied, although it took a while to dig the paperwork out of storage. As Arthur and Linda’s counselor, Trumble’s efforts had been focused on college placement, but with Eric the issues had been mainly disciplinary in nature. Trumble had referred Eric to a private psychotherapist who still maintained a practice in town.
The referral notation in Eric’s counseling file cited family problems, and Kerney asked Trumble to elaborate.
“I could never get him to talk to me about it, specifically,” Trumble replied. “It came out as generalized anger toward his father, sister, and brother.”
“Eric gave you no hints?” Kerney asked.
“No. But he was spiteful about his siblings in a way that went beyond feeling merely alienated or envious, and his reaction to his father bordered on hatred. Only his mother escaped his vindictiveness.”
“How did Eric display his anger about his family?”
“With snide remarks, cutting comments, and sarcasm. He called his father the Judas Judge.”
“He used the same expression with me,” Kerney said. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
“He felt bitterly betrayed by his father, but I never learned why.”
It took a while for Kerney to get in to see Dr. Lillian Joyce, the psychiatrist who’d treated Eric Langsford. A tall woman in late middle age, Joyce had a calm, receptive manner and serious, thoughtful eyes. Her office seemed more like a comfortable sitting room, and Kerney guessed that the expensive armoire against a wall concealed a writing desk and a computer.
Kerney made his pitch for information about Eric Langsford, which Dr. Joyce greeted with a shake of her head.
“You can’t possibly expect me to release privileged information to you,” she said.
“What can you tell me?”
“Eric was the disruptive member of a dysfunctional family.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Chief Kerney, that individual work with Eric wasn’t the treatment of choice. The entire family needed to be in psychotherapy. That’s why my time with Eric was unproductive.”
“It sounds like serious stuff,” Kerney said.
Dr. Joyce smiled. “Many families need therapy. It’s not that unusual.”
“What was the degree of family dysfunction?”
“At the time I felt it was severe and persistent.”
“Severe enough to lead to violence?”
“Eric didn’t stay in therapy long enough for me to find that out.”
“Take a guess,” Kerney said.
“Determining family psychodynamics isn’t guesswork, Chief Kerney.”
“Let’s step away from the family for a moment. Generally speaking, would current research and case studies lead you to believe an individual with personality traits similar to Eric’s might be prone to act violently?”
“The potential for violence would most likely be present. But I couldn’t speculate on the degree of it or the direction it might take.”
“But it could run the gamut from thoughts of violence all the way up to and including lethal acts.”
“Yes, of course. But isn’t that true of all of us, given the right set of circumstances?”
Kerney left Joyce’s office chewing on her words, and the fact that she hadn’t shut him down completely. She’d stayed within ethical boundaries during the conversation, but she was clearly troubled by what she knew about the Langsford family.
He needed to put together Joyce’s strong hint that what he knew about Eric should be tied to the entire Langsford family.
A few miles past the Mescalero boundary, flashing red lights of a tribal police unit appeared in Kerney’s rearview mirror. He pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and watched Clayton Istee dismount and walk toward him.
“Was I speeding, Officer?” Kerney asked, when Clayton arrived, knowing full well he’d been traveling a good ten miles an hour over the limit.
“Yeah, but that’s not why I stopped you.”
“What can I do for you?” Kerney asked.
“It’s more like what I can do for you,” Clayton said. “I know somebody you might want to talk to.”
“And who might that be?”
“Are you interested or not?”
“I’m interested,” Kerney answered.
“Follow me,” Clayton said. “But when we get there, let me do the talking at first.”
“Does this person have a name?”
“If he wants to tell you, he will.”
Clayton swung his unit around in the direction of Ruidoso, and Kerney followed. They turned off on a graded tribal dirt road that wound through narrow mountain canyons and descended into a large meadow ringed by old-growth pine trees.
A modern wood-frame cabin with smoke drifting from a chimney sat in a clearing at the edge of the meadow. A young man about Clayton’s age, wearing jeans and a denim jacket, stepped out on the porch and watched the vehicles approach. Shoulder-length hair fell loose behind his ears. High cheekbones and a small chin gave him a gaunt appearance.
Kerney stayed at his vehicle and let Clayton take the lead. The man raised his chin in a greeting to Clayton, and they talked briefly before approaching Kerney’s unit. He got out to meet them.
“Clayton says you’re okay,” the man said, looking Kerney up and down. “Is this off the record?”
“Is that the way you want it?”
The man searched Kerney’s face before nodding.
“Then it’s off the record.”
“Clayton said you want to know about Eric Langsford.”
“Whatever you can tell me,” Kerney said.
“I worked with Eric at the resort, before his mother got killed. We used to drink and gamble together after hours. When he’d get a check from his father’s company we’d go on a spree with the money.”
“Go on.”
“I got fired from the job but kept hanging with Eric at the casino and the racetrack in Ruidoso for a couple of years, until I joined AA and got into recovery.”
“And?”
“If he had money and I was tapped, he’d always give me some. I owed him maybe two thousand dollars.”
A long stretch of silence prompted Kerney to ask, “Is that it?”
The young man glanced at Clayton for reassurance and got a nod. “Once, he asked me to pay him back what I owed, but I didn’t have that kind of cash. So he asked me to rob his father’s house in Ruidoso.”
“When was this?” Kerney asked.
“A little over four years ago, in late summer—August, I think. Eric had me drive him around his father’s neighborhood so he could point out the place to me. He said he’d get me a list of things to steal and where I could find them.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah, about a week later. He wanted me to do it, like, right away, but I chickened out.”
“How did Eric find out what was inside his father’s house?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What did he want you to steal?”
“Jewelry, a coin collection, handguns—stuff like that.”
“Handguns?” Kerney asked. Not one weapon had been found in the search of Judge Langsford’s house.
“Yeah, I guess the judge had quite a collection.”
“And Eric knew exactly where to look for everything?”
“I guess so.”
“What did he say when you backed out of the plan?”
“That he’d do it himself. That he’d ripped off things from his father when he was a kid.”
“Did he do the job?”
“I guess so. About a week later, I saw him at the casino betting heavy, and asked if he’d ripped off his old man. He smiled and nodded like it was a big joke.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Something about how he could never steal enough from his asshole father to make up for his shitty childhood.”
“I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me,” Kerney said.
“No problem,” the man said, as he walked away.
“How did you connect this guy with Eric?” Kerney asked Clayton.
“He told me the story a couple of years ago, after he stopped drinking and got into treatment. I thought it might interest you.”
“Eric told me he’d never been near his father or the house in the last six years. Not once.”
“So you caught him in a lie,” Clayton said.
“Either that, or his brain is just fried from staying stoned and loaded for years.”
The half-friendly expression on Clayton’s face vanished. “I’m sorry if I wasted your time.”
“You didn’t. This case is a tough nut to crack. I’ve got enough motives for a dozen murders, a screwed-up family a shrink described as needing treatment, a suspect who wants to believe he killed his father but can’t remember doing it, and no hard evidence that points to anyone else.”
“So, you’ve got no Apache suspects,” Clayton said somewhat smugly. “I told you there weren’t any.”
“So far, you’ve been right.”
“But that won’t stop you looking.”
“Give it a break. I don’t give a damn what the killer’s ethnicity is, as long as I catch him.” Kerney paused. “I told my wife about you this morning.”
“Yeah? How did she take it?”
“She teased me about being an old man with grandchildren.”
“That’s it?”
“I’d like her to meet you and your family.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s part of my life.”
“Or is she just curious about your bastard Apache son?”
“Believe it or not, that subject wasn’t broached. You don’t let up on this race thing, do you?”
“Why should I?”
“Maybe you just don’t like the idea that your father is a gringo.”
“Maybe I don’t.” Clayton switched his gaze to his unit. “You can follow me out.”
“Whatever you say.”
Kerney clamped down on his anger as he drove behind the tribal unit. Butting heads with Clayton was no fun, and yet twice the kid had voluntarily helped the investigation, which meant something. He needed to see beyond Clayton’s fierce Apache pride and his leeriness about Anglos.
He smiled and waved at Clayton as he pulled onto the highway, and got a curt nod of acknowledgment in return.
Kay Murray wasn’t at her town house, so Kerney drove to the Langsford residence, where he spotted her Explorer parked in the drive. He rang the doorbell incessantly for a few minutes before Murray opened up. Her face was clear of emotion, but anger rose in her voice when she spoke.
“The voyeur cop returns for more fun and games. I have nothing to say to you.”
“This isn’t a game, Ms. Murray. I understand Judge Langsford’s house was burglarized some time back. Were you working for him then?”
Murray’s expression turned to puzzlement. “A burglary?”
“A little over four years ago.”
“Nothing like that ever happened here.”
“Supposedly, Eric broke in and took some of his father’s possessions.”
Murray laughed sharply. “Did Eric tell you that?”
“Do you have a different version?” Kerney asked.
“Only if you’re interested in the truth. Eric didn’t break in. He came here demanding that his father give him what he wanted. He even brought a list with him.”
“And Judge Langsford complied?”
“Only after Eric refused to take money instead.”
“He turned down money?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“He wanted things the judge prized. He said that writing a check would be too easy.”
“He wanted to hurt his father,” Kerney suggested.
“I suppose.”
“Do you have any ideas on the subject?”
Murray raised her hands in a theatrical gesture. “For past sins. For the death of his mother. For a shitty childhood. How should I know?”
“Or some family secret?” Kerney proposed.
“Every family has them.”
“But you don’t know what they are?”
“Why should I?”
“How did Eric get Judge Langsford to give him what he wanted?”
“He was half-loaded and waving a gun around.”
“So, it was robbery.”
“No, and it was never reported to the police. Vernon talked Eric into putting the gun away.”
“What kind of gun was it?”
“I don’t know. A revolver of some sort.”
“What did Eric leave with?”
“Everything on his list. Some of his mother’s jewelry, his father’s handguns, Arthur’s coin collection, and Eric’s stamp album. All of it quite valuable.”
“How valuable?”
“Eighty, a hundred fifty thousand dollars. In that range, at least.”
“That’s quite a haul. And the judge just handed everything over?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To get him out of the house, I would imagine.”
“Did Eric want anything that had belonged to his sister?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did the judge discuss Eric’s visit with you afterwards?”
“No.”
“Did Eric ever come back here after that visit?”
“No.”
Kerney took his hand off the front door. “I need a list of the handguns the judge gave Eric.”
“I wouldn’t know where to look,” Kay Murray said. “Go find the killer, Mr. Kerney, and stop wasting your time butting into other people’s personal lives.” She slammed the door shut in Kerney’s face.
Driven by southerly winds, a brown haze of dust and pollution settled over Roswell. The sky was low and dreary, and the mountains to the west were a trivial outline against the horizon. The exquisite, radiant light and the vast conjunction of earth and sky, once so familiar and appealing, were fast becoming a rarity as industry along the Mexican border belched smog that drifted onto the high plains. Middle-class retirees seeking the warmth of the Sun Belt added to the problem, as did the traditional dryness of a New Mexico desert autumn.
As Kerney wheeled into Linda Langsford’s driveway, the sour feeling in his gut intensified. Not because the sky was less beautiful. Other things were piling up on him. Sara was hundreds of miles away, and he didn’t get to see her enough. Clayton viewed him with hostility. And to top it off, he worried that his dream of ranching was nothing more than an overblown, forty-year-old fantasy.
Modern ranching was far more complex than Kerney’s childhood experiences on the Tularosa. Could he do it? Did he even know how to do it? Was he too old to try? Even the thought of the heap of money he stood to get from the sale of the land Erma Fergurson had left him didn’t soothe his unsettled feelings.
His parents had raised him to work hard, enjoy what life brings, and never waste anything. What would they have said about his good fortune? Certainly they would have expected him to put the money to good use and to spend it wisely. They would have wanted him to build something of enduring value. But figuring out how to do that was starting to get harder than Kerney had ever imagined possible.
He shut the car door and stared at the stark architectural lines of Linda Langsford’s house, which now seemed incongruous in comparison to the nearby farms, pastures, and fields. The house said something about Langsford, but Kerney wasn’t sure what it might be.
He tried to get his head straight, but the lousy mood persisted. The most important case of his career was filled with contradictions and going nowhere. As he walked up the pathway, the appearance of the house ate at him along with everything else bouncing around in his head.