Mexican hat (13 page)

Kerney looked at Gatewood in amazement. "That was a stupid thing to do."

"Now wait a minute, Kerney . . ." Gatewood blustered.

"I'll try to get the story killed," Karen cut in, freezing Gatewood with an abrupt look.

"Good," Kerney replied.

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Kemey and Stiles signed the necessary paperwork, got sworn in, and left. Kemey had a draft for a thousand dollars from the local bank tucked in his wallet. In the parking lot, Jim shook his head in disbelief. "You played hardball in there," he said.

"I don't want Gatewood calling the shots," Kerney answered. "Besides not being very bright, he's a politician. We're going to have to improvise if we hope to solve this case, and Gatewood would keep us on a short leash. Fill me in a bit more on Karen Cox. Where does she get her influence?"

Jim laughed. "Her daddy served two terms on the county commission, helped Gatewood get hired as a deputy, and supported him for sheriff when he ran for office. Edgar carries a lot of political weight. The last thing Omar wants to do is piss off Edgar or his daughter. Especially in an election year."

"Is everybody in this county in bed with each other?"

Jim grinned. "Not me. My girlfriend lives in Silver City."

"Exception noted. Are you bragging or complaining?"

"Both. So what's next, boss?"

"You get to review every piece of paper that was found in Jose Padilla's travel trailer. I want a full report when I get back."

Jim groaned in dismay.

"You wanted to do real police work, remember?"

Stiles groaned again. "Why did I ever say that? And where in the hell are you going?"

"South," Kerney replied.

EARLIER IN THE DAY Karen had rearranged the office so she could sit at her desk and look out the window. The seventh judicial district operated on a circuit court schedule in Catron County, and she had

Mexican Hal

a week to prepare for her first court appearance. A stack of active files filled her briefcase. She was pretty much up to speed on the contents.

She sat down, pushed her shoes off, and wiggled her toes. She hated to wear panty hose. As far as she was concerned it was the major drawback to the job.

When Kerney had stood up, ready to walk out on the deal because of Gatewood's stubbornness, Karen had momentarily lost her train of thought. The belt buckle he wore sparked a forgotten memory. At the age of twelve, she had accompanied her parents to the state high school rodeo championships in Reserve to watch her cousin Cory compete. Afterward, she and her girlfriends giggled and fantasized for weeks about the tall, good-looking high school senior from Engle with the square shoulders and the pretty blue eyes who had beaten out Cory for the best all-around cowboy title. Kevin Kerney. She smiled at the girlhood silliness of it all.

Kerney had aged well, she decided. He was a little taller now and slightly fuller in the chest, with a flat stomach and baby-fine brown hair that was just barely receding. All in all, a good-looking man. It was Kerney's intense blue eyes that drew Karen in, and during the meeting she had worked hard to keep from looking at him. He had caught her sneaking a glance only once.

She smiled at the thought that Kerney seemed much more interested in her now than he had when she was twelve. The smile faded as Karen thought about her mother. She stopped herself from reaching for the telephone. There was no sense in disturbing Mom with her overabundant concern. Let her enjoy her time with Elizabeth and Cody, Karen thought, as long as she is able. But how long would that be? It frightened Karen to think about it. Her mother had always been an anchor point in her life.

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She pushed back the emotion and found herself thinking about her father. He was a strong-willed man who didn't bend easily. The prospect of pressuring him to reveal the contents of the Padilla letter was distasteful, although she was still mad as hell at him for lying about it. For now, the issue could remain dormant. Karen hoped it would stay outside the scope of Kerney's investigation. But what if it didn't? How could she protect her father without violating her professional ethics? If necessary, she would have to rein Kerney in. Somehow, she didn't think Kerney was the type of man who would take that easily.

She put in a call to the Silver City paper and got through to the editor, who told her it was too late to kill the story. She hung up wondering if Omar Gatewood even realized how badly he had blundered by letting the cat out of the bag to the media. She seriously doubted it.

KERNEY CASHED THE CHECK, drove to his trailer, and swapped the Forest Service truck for his own vehicle, a late-model GMC pickup. Making a quick stop at the hospital in Silver City, he found the same guard at the door of the ICU and asked to speak to Erlinda Perez.

She arrived quickly, stepped halfway into the hall, and held the door open with a hand. "I'm very busy, Mr. Kerney."

"I won't take much of your time. Did Dr. Padilla's daughter show up?"

"She's here now."

He gave Erlinda a business card and switched to Spanish. "Please give her my condolences, find out if she will tell me where she's staying, and ask if I may speak with her this afternoon. Tell

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her I wish to be of assistance in finding the person who killed her son.

Erlinda nodded, told him to wait, and returned after a few minutes. She told Kerney where the woman was staying.

"She'll be at her motel in the afternoon," she added. "She would like to meet with you."

"That's great. What's her name?" Kerney asked.

"Cornelia Marquez."

"Have the police talked to her?"

"I don't know," Erlinda said.

"How is Senor Padilla?"

Erlinda shrugged. "The same. He fades in and out. Not very responsive. He remembers almost nothing."

"Is he talking?"

"Not really. A word here and there. The doctor thinks the damage may be permanent."

"Thanks."

''Por nada. " Erlinda watched him leave. Generally, she was not impressed with cops. But this gringo didn't run a macho game or act like a tough guy. Also, he didn't wear a wedding ring. She wondered if he was married.

KERNEY BURNED UP THE ROAD gettingto El Paso. In Juarez he drove through the sleazy tourist district that never seemed to change, except to smell worse and look more appalling. He fought his way around crazed motorists until he was off the strip and heading for the suburbs.

Francisco Posada's home, a modern two-story affair with arched

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windows, a red tile roof, Grecian columns under a domed entrance, and meticulously landscaped grounds, qualified as a mansion. It harmonized nicely with the rest of the Juarez neighborhood. The entire district could easily be part of any wealthy Southern California enclave.

Sefior Posada's houseboy answered the door, recognized Ker-ney, and blocked his entrance.

"I don't think it is wise for you to be here," Juan said.

"I need to see him now," Kerney replied. "Don't make me walk over you to do it."

Juan considered the threat, his soft black eyes flickering over Kerney's face, and decided not to resist.

"Very well," Juan said. "Follow me."

Escorted into the spacious living room and left alone, Kerney sat in front of the Diego Rivera portrait of a beautiful Mexican woman that had captured his admiration during his first meeting with Posada, when he'd been tracking down Eppi Gutierrez's smuggling contacts. Hung above the fireplace, it was a remarkable painting, filled with an odd mixture of passion and piety, and Kerney was delighted to see it again.

Glass walls on either side of the fireplace climbed to a vaulted ceiling, bringing the outdoors virtually inside. The yard had as a centerpiece a large swimming pool and cabana ringed with palm trees and potted tropical plants. In the living room were three separate seating areas of matching, richly upholstered chairs and couches that blended nicely with the off-white carpet and walls.

Guided by Juan, Francisco Posada entered from the adjoining library. Kerney stood up. The old man shuffled slowly to him. The arthritis that so grotesquely crippled his hands had obviously wors-

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ened. Deep circles beneath his small eyes stopped at his cheekbones. The loose skin around his neck looked almost detached. Pain was etched in his expression.

"Please sit," Posada said, in his elegant Spanish. He joined Kerney on the couch, Juan helping to lower him down. "I did not expect to see you again, Sefior Kerney."

Juan, slight, dark, and as slender as a girl, stood at the side of his employer, eyes fixed on Posada, his expression guarded. During Kerney's past visit, Juan had seemed much more attentive to Posada. He wondered what was up between them.

"Nor I you, Don Francisco," Kerney replied, in Spanish.

Posada smiled. "I assume you did not come to present your apologies for deceiving me."

On his past visit, Kerney had hoodwinked Posada into selling him valuable information that had led to a major break in shutting down a smuggling operation and solving the murder of Kerney's godson.

"Circumstances prevented me from telling you the truth," Kerney replied.

"I am not interested in that. I am interested in the money you owe me."

As an inducement to do business with him, Kerney had agreed to pay Posada a percentage of the gross profits from the sale of the stolen historical artifacts.

"The percentage you were promised was based on the delivery of certain items. The delivery was never made."

"It was never intended to be made."

"You did not consider that possibility," Kerney countered.

Posada laughed nastily.

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"Have I amused you?"

"I do not like the notion that I was so easily duped."

"Can we do business?"

"It depends. What is it you require?"

"I need the names of people who smuggle endangered animals to the Asian trade. Specifically for compounds used in medicines sold by folk healers and herbalists."

"Is this a police matter?"

"Yes."

"Does your investigation extend into Mexico?"

"No."

"Can you pay my fee?" Posada asked.

Posada charged a minimum of five thousand dollars for information. "Not all of it up front," Kerney admitted. "But I'm willing to trade. I'll give you a thousand dollars cash and provide advance warning when we plan to shut down the pipeline. If you move quickly, you should be able to comer the market and turn a tidy profit from the last shipments that cross the border."

Posada's eyes narrowed. "You know my fee is not negotiable. I see no reason to put my trust in you, given your past performance. It gives me great pleasure to refuse you, Senor Kerney. Please do not come back here again. Juan, would you show Senor Kerney out?"

Kerney got to his feet and bowed in Posada's direction. "Goodbye, senor," he said gravely. "I am sorry we were unable to do business."

"Old enmities die hard," Posada replied flatly.

Juan walked Kerney through the grand vestibule to the front door. "Senor Posada will not live much longer," he said.

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"What will happen to you when he dies?"

"I hope to continue in the trade," Juan answered. "But the senor has severely cut back on his workload, and does not seem inclined to turn over the business to me. He has a niece who will inherit."

"I would welcome the opportunity to do business with you," Kemey proposed.

Juan made an empty gesture with his hands. "A thousand-dollar fee does not suffice, Mr. Kerney. Unlike the senor, I do not have the resources to act on the information you proposed as a trade."

"The expenses of starting out can be considerable," Kerney noted. "Is there something else that might satisfy you?"

"I would welcome the opportunity to have a permanent American visa. I would like to offer my services in the North American market without fear of legal entanglements."

"I believe that can be arranged. I know a customs agent who could be very helpful," Kerney held out the thousand dollars. The money disappeared into Juan's shirt pocket.

"Call me in two hours," Juan said, giving Kerney a phone number. "Senor Posada will be resting. We can exchange information then."

Kerney's contact in the El Paso U.S. Customs office was very interested in Juan as a potential long-term informant. After advising Juan on how to get in touch with the agent, Kerney wrote down Juan's information and hung up. He had a short list of three smugglers: two in El Paso and one in Deming, New Mexico, a small city thirty miles from the Mexican border. According to Juan, the market was highly specialized and controlled by only a few people operating in the States.

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THE MOTELS IN SILVER CITY, mostly mom-and-pop businesses mixed in with a few budget franchise operations, were concentrated along the state highway that ran north from Deming. Cornelia Marquez was registered at a motel on the main drag fairly close to downtown. The establishment boasted a restaurant that looked out on the highway and featured a daily radio talk show aired by a local station.

Kemey stopped in for a light meal. His stomach was grumpy— the norm rather than the exception with half of his gut shot away— and he had to eat judiciously in order to keep it functioning properly.

The talk-show host, at a table with a microphone and two telephones, sat by the large plate-glass window taking calls about a small group of environmentalists who had used the courts to stop timber sales in the Gila. Loudspeakers let the customers listen in on the conversations. One caller phoned in to say that the members of the group had better stay the hell out of Catron County, since they were nothing but a gang of radicals who didn't know a damn thing about the west or its people. The customers, mostly working men in for a coffee break, applauded in agreement.

Kemey finished his meal as the subject of repealing the Endangered Species Act was introduced by the host. The first caller to respond wondered why the government thought spotted owls were more valuable than people. It kicked off a diatribe against Washington politicians.