Mexican hat (28 page)

"Talk to Ortiz and call me when you're finished. We'll meet at Whitewater Creek."

"What about Kerney?" Gatewood demanded.

"I'll bring your orders with me."

The line went dead.

CHARLIE PERRY, dressed in a three-piece suit, sat in his office sorting papers and putting stuff he wanted to take with him in a box. It felt damn good to be closing the assignment out, and he looked forward to returning to the Beltway civilization of Washington and a headquarters job. Two years undercover in the boondocks of New Mexico had seemed like living in a nineteenth-century time warp. He was glad to be done with it.

He looked up to find Karen Cox standing in the doorway.

"You wanted to speak to me, Charlie?" she asked, eyeing his suit.

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"I do." He stood up and gestured at an empty chair. When Karen was settled, he showed her his FBI credentials.

"What's this all about?" she demanded, giving Charlie another appraising look.

Charlie perched on the edge of his desk. "Kerney turned a smuggling bust into a murder-one case for me," he explained, "and for that, I owe him. I have hard evidence that exonerates him in the Steve Lujan shooting, and he has information that your sheriff may be a dirty cop. He wants you fully briefed on the situation."

"I'm listening," Karen said.

AT THE SILVER CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT, Karen used a vacant interrogation room to meet with Kerney. Even though Charlie Perry had walked her through the facts of the Steven Lujan murder, she let Kerney tell his story. He finished up with Amador's admission that Gatewood had ordered him to give the Padilla Canyon tip to Jim Stiles.

"Do you think Gatewood did the shooting?" Karen asked, making a final entry in her notebook.

"I doubt it. But I've been wondering if Jim was a target of choice or a target of opportunity."

"Meaning?"

"Jim should have waited and turned the information over to me. Padilla Canyon is Forest Service land and on my patrol route. Amador knew that and probably told Gatewood."

"So you think you were the target?"

"Maybe I have been all along."

"That would make the trailer bombing a second attempt to kill you," Karen noted.

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"Which makes me very nervous."

Karen closed her notebook and stood up. "Let's go."

Kerney stayed seated. "There's the small matter of murder charges against me."

"Not anymore. The charges have been dropped."

"Why didn't you tell me that up front?"

"We don't have time to bicker. Let's go."

Outside the police station the drizzle continued, but the sky promised a heavier rain. Rolling thunder rumbled in overcast, thick clouds. Kerney stepped off in the direction of Jim's truck.

"Where do you think you're going?" Karen demanded, standing in the drizzle.

"I've got to find a way to get to Omar Gatewood and rattle his cage."

"Not without me you don't," Karen said sharply.

"That's not a good idea."

"If you're concerned for my safety, don't be," Karen said sarcastically.

"This could get ugly."

"Either you work with me or I'll put you back in the slammer under protective custody."

"That's illegal," Kerney said.

"I'll do it anyway," Karen countered. "Your chances of getting to Omar are nil, if you try it by yourself. He's probably pulled in every lOU he has to get to you before you can get to him. If you want to solve this case, get in my car."

Kerney studied Karen's icy expression and decided arguing with her would do no good. "What's your plan?" he asked as he opened the passenger door to Karen's station wagon.

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"Our best bet is to isolate Omar. I'll call Gatewood from home, tell him that I'm approving his warrant, and ask him to personally bring it by the house for me to sign. When he shows up, we'll Q-and-A him."

"That might work."

As they drove away, the skies opened and hail began to fall, clattering loudly on the roof of the station wagon.

"Would you mind making a couple of stops along the way?" Ker-ney asked, raising his voice above the din to be heard.

"Where do you need to go?"

"Jim loaned me a shirt and a pair of jeans, but I'd like to buy some new clothes and some shaving gear."

Karen's eyes softened as Kerney's predicament hit home. "You lost everything in the trailer, didn't you?"

"It wasn't much," Kerney admitted. "But it was everything I cared to keep."

She looked at his waist. He wasn't wearing the rodeo championship belt buckle. He wasn't wearing a belt at all.

Kerney followed her glance. "Melted," he announced.

"That stinks. We'll stop at a couple of stores and get you squared away."

When Kerney had finished buying what he needed, the backseat was filled with shopping bags and a large canvas carryall to put everything in. Halfway back to Glenwood, with the skies clearing, Karen took her eyes off the road and glanced at Kerney.

"You're staying with me," she said, "until we get things sorted out."

"I'm staying with you?"

"There's no other option. You haven't got a place to live, and bunking with Jim Stiles is too risky."

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"I guess house arrest is better than jail," Kerney noted. "You'll have to sleep on the floor." She glanced at Kerney again. 'Where is Jim?"

"I wish I knew," Kerney answered.

IN SPITE OF Jim's attempts to hurry Molly along, she took her own sweet time shopping for a new outfit in a Tucson clothing store that opened early. His stomach was grumbling for breakfast by the time she finished and came out of the dressing room wearing a dark green blouse with an embroidered yoke, a pair of white jeans, and new Tony Lama cowboy boots.

"Now you have to feed me," she announced, as she spun around to give him a full view of the outfit.

He grinned, nodded in agreement, and paid the bill without complaint.

They arrived in Green Valley in the middle of the morning, with the temperature already in the three digits. Halfway between Tucson and the border town of Nogales, Green Valley paralleled the interstate that ran through the high Sonoran Desert. Except for a few businesses at the northern end of the town and one large strip mall on the main drag, there was very little commercial development, but there were a hell of a lot of churches. Cars along the wide boulevard moved slowly in spite of the absence of heavy traffic, and most were late-model American-made land yachts driven by gray-headed motorists. There wasn't a baby boomer, adolescent, or thirty-something person in sight.

Molly turned off the main street and passed row after row of single-story apartment condominiums that looked like cheap budget motel units. The native landscaping of saguaro cactus,

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paloverde trees, desert ironwood, brittle bush, and yucca didn't completely hide the cut-rate construction of the cement-block buildings.

After the condominiums petered out, the neighborhood changed into modest single-family ranch-style tract homes on small lots. Recreational vehicles, pickup trucks with camper shells, and travel trailers filled about every other driveway. Finally they entered an upscale area of multilevel homes with brick exteriors and tile roofs that surrounded a golf course. Molly parked in front of a house that backed up to a fairway. It was expensively landscaped with crushed rock, native plants, flagstone walks, and a border of blackfoot daisies that covered a low stone wall.

With Molly at his side, Jim rang the doorbell. A tall woman, about seventy years old, answered. She had an angular face, a high forehead, and a long nose that gave her a birdlike appearance.

"Yes?" the woman said, glancing from the man to the woman. The young man's face looked as if it had been peppered with bird-shot, his eye was covered with a patch, and his left arm was in a sling. The young woman was wholesomely attractive with lively blue eyes that sparkled with vitality.

"Louise Blanton Cox?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

He introduced himself and showed his deputy sheriff's commission to the woman. "I'm with the Catron County Sheriff's Department. We'd like to talk to you about your husband and brother-in-law."

Louise Cox began to close the door as he spoke. Stiles blocked it with his foot.

"I have nothing to say to you," Louise Cox said.

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"We can talk informally, or I can get a subpoena," Stiles bluffed.

Louise Cox hesitated and opened the door, her mouth drawn in a thin, anxious line. "Come in."

She ushered them into a vaulted-ceiling living room and sat them in a conversation area in front of a freestanding natural-gas fireplace with fake logs. She looked warily at them across a low glass coffee table centered on an off-white area rug. Next to the front picture window stood a grand piano. An accent table which held a vase of fresh-cut flowers was close at hand.

"What is this all about?" Mrs. Cox asked.

"Don Luis Padilla's son and great-grandson were murdered at Elderman Meadows," Jim explained. "They had returned to New Mexico to investigate the death of Don Luis."

"Luis Padilla died long before I arrived in Catron County."

Jim smiled. "But you do know about his death. What can you tell us about it?"

"Talk to Eugene," Louise said flatly.

Molly leaned forward. "Mrs. Cox, please help us. We came a long way to see you."

Louise's hand fluttered to her cheek. "I can't."

"You have a beautiful house," Molly said. "How long have you lived here?"

"Ten years. I had it built when I moved from Sedona. My doctor said I needed to move to a lower altitude. My heart isn't very good."

"Were you teaching in Sedona?"

Louise shook her head and relaxed a bit. "No. I haven't taught since I married Eugene and left Pie Town."

"You're still married to Eugene, aren't you?" Molly asked, looking at the wedding ring on Louise's left hand.

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"Technically."

"After so long?" Molly probed.

"I have no desire to talk about my personal life," Louise said, caution creeping back into her voice.

"Sorry," Molly said quickly with a disarming smile. "We're not here to pry."

"We came to ask you about Eugene," Jim said. "Did he ever

talk about what happened when he was shot on Elderman Mead's" ows.'^

"Not really."

"What did he say?"

"He talked about revenge."

"Against who?"

Louise hesitated for a moment, brushing an invisible bit of lint off her sleeveless polo shirt. Satisfied, she crossed her legs and adjusted the drape of her poplin skirt.

"Eugene is an angry man, Mr. Stiles. An unforgiving, angry man."

"Was he angry with you?" Molly inquired.

Louise laughed in harsh agreement. "Always. I could never do anything right. It was a loveless marriage. It became intolerable for me.

"You gave him custody of your sons," Molly said softly.

Louise's eyes blinked rapidly. "I had no choice. I don't want to talk about it anymore." Stiffly, she stood up.

"Please sit down, Mrs. Cox," Jim said.

Louise hesitated and complied.

"You said you had no choice," Jim restated.

"I had to protect myself."

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"From who?" Jim asked.

"I've said enough."

"You can't be forced to testify against your husband. I'm not asking you to do that."

Louise's eyes flashed at Jim Stiles. "I want you to leave."

Jim pushed on, "Did Eugene tell you things he wanted to make sure remained secret?"

"Absurd." Her voice rose a few notches.

"From where I sit, it looks like whatever happened to you still hurts."

Louise turned her face away and stared off into space; the corner of her mouth turned down in a dour grimace,

Jim continued, "It must be hard to live with those memories."

Louise Cox looked ashen, "It is," she said weakly. She licked her lips, clasped her hands, and pulled herself together before continuing. "But I don't want to be dragged into a police investigation of something that I had nothing to do with."

"You're a victim, not a criminal," Jim responded gently. "Did Eugene mistreat you? Did he beat you?"

Louise took in Jim's words as if they were slaps across her face.

"Did he force you to give up your children?" Molly asked.

The breath rushed out of Louise, and her lip quivered. "I've feared this moment ever since Emily Wheeler wrote to me. It was like opening a door and getting hit in the face with a past I wanted to forget." She looked from Jim to Molly with a taut smile.

Molly slipped out her chair, sat next to Louise, and took her hand. "You don't have to be afraid," she said.

"But I am. I am not a brave person."

"I think you are," Molly said.

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Louise swallowed hard and looked at Molly. "What would you do?"

"Maybe it's time to let it go," Molly replied.

Louise nodded her head and stood up slowly, still clutching Molly's hand. "Maybe it is. Wait here."

She returned promptly with an old leather diary and resumed her position on the couch.

"When I decided to leave my husband, I knew I needed something to keep him away from me. Don't let the wheelchair fool you— he is a vicious man. He was tremendously strong back then. His chest and arms were as hard as rocks. He frightened me. Just the thought of him still does. When I told him I was leaving him, he threatened to kill me if I took Cory and Phil with me. He forced me to my knees, put a pistol to my head, and made me promise to leave the boys with him."

"How terrible," Molly groaned. "Wasn't there someone you could turn to for help?"

"No one. Eugene kept me isolated from everybody. After I had his children—my sons—I was nothing but a maid and a prisoner."

She patted the book in her lap. "All I had when I left was the clothes on my back, my grocery money for the month, and his father's diary. After some time had passed and I was far enough away, I copied pages from Calvin's diary and sent them to Eugene. I told him if he ever came near me again I'd make his father's diary public. It's been the only protection I've had over the years."