"The big gamble" - читать интересную книгу автора (McGarrity Michael)

Chapter 9

Since Kerney's arrival in Santa Fe years ago as a rookie officer, the city had changed dramatically. Where there used to be open pastureland and dirt roads, there were now trailer parks, residential subdivisions, strip malls, and paved streets. Several working cattle ranches that once bordered the city were either gated communities for the very rich, burgeoning middle-class enclaves for those who sought country living on an acre and a half, or clustered housing tracts on postage-stamp lots for families willing to pay a quarter of a million dollars or more for the convenience of living in town.

Untouched hills that rose up to the national forest in the mountains behind the city had sprouted multimillion-dollar-view homes. Along Cerrillos Road, the ugliest and busiest gateway into the city, a commercial building frenzy was underway with national chain stores, discount stores, motels, supermarkets, and specialty retail outlets rising up from the leveled, graded, paved earth with alarming frequency.

Most of the population growth came from newcomers to the city, a motley assortment of the new rich, old rich, New Age spiritualists and healers, wanna-be artists, movie stars, celebrities of every stripe, trustfunders, ski bums, restless youths of various ages, baby boomers who'd taken early retirement, and true believers of every possible persuasion who were drawn to the magic of Santa Fe. While they all laid claim to the trendy aesthetic life of the city, politics, a favorite local pastime, remained firmly in the hands of Hispanic and Anglo old-timers.

Kerney's sources of information about Tyler Norvell consisted of a retired state legislator, a former chief of staff for an ex-governor, a lobbyist, and a syndicated political columnist. He made the rounds, picking up a bit more information about Norvell from each informant.

After three stops, he knew that Norvell owned an expensive Santa Fe home, which he frequently made available to key legislative leaders when they traveled to Santa Fe on official business. He'd also learned that Norvell was the only senate minority member who consistently got his pork-barrel appropriations passed and signed into law. His success was attributed to a close personal friendship with the senate majority leader and backroom deal making with his colleagues.

Additionally Norvell, who was divorced, frequently threw parties at his Santa Fe house during legislative sessions, using his sister's modeling students as hostesses. Some probing questions about possible indiscretions involving the young women failed to yield any embarrassed pauses or gossip. Norvell's sister, Cassie Bedlow, was always in attendance at the parties and kept a careful eye on the girls.

That didn't mean the informants weren't equivocating. Sex was always the subject people lied about first and foremost.

Interestingly, Kerney's first three contacts had slightly different takes on the source of Norvell's wealth. The lobbyist thought that Norvell had made his money in Colorado as a lawyer, where he'd lived for some years before returning to Lincoln County and getting into real estate. The ex-chief of staff believed Norvell had been a partner in a commercial construction firm that had cashed in on the Denver building boom. The retired legislator thought Norvell had gotten rich through the stock market.

Kerney met with his last contact, Ellsworth Miller, in the press and media room that overlooked the dark senate chambers at the state capital. By law the New Mexico legislature convened only once a year in either thirty- or sixty-day sessions, so the chambers were generally empty. While some critics considered a part-time legislature unprogressive, Kerney liked the idea that the house and senate incumbents couldn't turn public service into a well-paying, full-time sinecure.

Ellsworth Miller touted himself as the dean of New Mexico journalists, which wasn't an exaggeration. In his seventies with fifty years of experience as a reporter, Miller had become a fixture at the capital. He sported a full head of curly, disheveled gray hair that rolled over his shirt collar, and a scruffy beard always in need of a trim. In the twenty years Kerney had known him, the look hadn't changed. But he had aged dramatically. Ellsworth's face was permanently flushed red by drink, and the skin around his neck was loose and flabby.

"Why the interest in Tyler Norvell?" Ellsworth asked in his gravelly voice, after Kerney had explained the focus for the meeting.

"It's supplemental to an investigation," Kerney replied.

"That tells me exactly nothing," Ellsworth said.

"Maybe we can exchange information," Kerney said. "You go first."

"Only if I get an exclusive on the story."

"If there is a story, you'll get it first," Kerney replied.

"Is this part of a criminal investigation?" Ellsworth asked, peering over the rim of his reading glasses.

"It's possibly tied to one," Kerney answered.

Ellsworth put his glasses in his shirt pocket. "Okay, I'll play along. I assume you know the basics: He's divorced, no children, his ex-wife lives out of state, he's rich, votes conservative, and he's well regarded on both sides of the aisle."

"I've got all that."

"I've heard very little dirt or gossip about him. There was word of a DWI that got buried by a former Santa Fe county sheriff some years back, but I never could confirm it."

"Which sheriff?" Kerney asked.

"Mike Olivera."

"Did you hear any specifics about the incident?"

"Just that during Norvell's first term in office, he took out a mailbox driving some woman home from a party."

"Who was your source?" Kerney asked.

"A state police officer who stopped to offer the deputy assistance. He said Norvell failed the field sobriety test, but was never booked into jail."

"Did you get an ID on the woman?"

"No."

"Who was the state cop?"

"Nick Salas. He passed the information on to me while he was assigned to security during a legislative session."

"How did Norvell get elected to his first term?"

Ellsworth rubbed his fingers together. "Money and influence. He outspent his opponents three to one in both the primary and the general election. And he got endorsements and personal appearances during the campaign from two old college chums who'd already been elected to the legislature, Silva in the senate and Barrett in the house. All three are still serving."

"Who would know the most about Norvell's college years?"

"Locally? Probably Mark Shuler," Ellsworth answered. "He was the editor of the university newspaper back when Norvell and his buddies were in college and law school together. He runs a political research and polling outfit here in Santa Fe. He's very liberal and very much opposed to Norvell's conservative agenda."

"Where did Norvell get his money?" Kerney asked.

"My understanding is that he was a successful commodities broker in Colorado."

Kerney renewed his promise to give Ellsworth first crack at any story and left, puzzling about why four informants would all have different impressions of how Norvell got rich. As he walked through the empty rotunda he called Sal Molina on his cell phone and asked him to have someone start digging into the source of Norvell's wealth.

Running over the high points in his mind, Clayton left the team meeting Sheriff Hewitt had convened. Because of a significant lack of progress in the case, Quinones and Dillingham were back on patrol duty effective immediately. Clayton was now a homicide task force of one, but at least he wasn't spinning his wheels anymore.

The autopsy and forensic reports had arrived, showing that Ulibarri had a high level of alcohol and painkillers in his bloodstream, which meant he'd most likely been strangled while unconscious. The medicine was identical to Humphrey's prescription.

Indentation marks around the neck suggested the murderer was male. Partial fingerprints had been lifted, enough for a match. But a computer data search had failed to identify a suspect. Blond hairs combed from Ulibarri's groin area confirmed Ulibarri had engaged in sexual intercourse sometime prior to his murder.

Clayton's query to the FBI about other homicides with similar signatures had come back negative. There was nothing in the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data bank that correlated to other murders with a similar or identical staged placement of the body.

The DA wanted Harry Staggs found and held as a material witness, so with a search warrant in hand, Quinones and Dillingham had scoured every inch of Casey's Cozy Cabins, looking for personal papers and financial records that could give them a line on Staggs's whereabouts. The exercise failed, as did a canvass of area financial institutions, banks, and government offices. Apparently, Staggs was a man who'd worked hard at not leaving behind a paper trail. He'd paid his property taxes, utilities, and living expenses with cash or by money order, and had no known bank accounts or credit cards.

Finding Staggs wasn't going to be easy, but Hewitt had added that task to Clayton's already full plate anyway. With instructions from the sheriff to dig deeper into Luis Rojas and his girlfriend, Clayton was headed back to El Paso. But first, he needed to make a couple of detours.

He stopped first at Warren Tredwell's office in Ruidoso. The lawyer sat behind an old library table that served as his desk. With a foot propped on his knee, brushing his bushy mustache with a finger, he didn't bother with a greeting or make an attempt to be civil. Clayton's aversion to the man rose up like a tight knot in his stomach.

"I honestly don't know where my client is," Tredwell replied in answer to Clayton's question.

"He's wanted for questioning as a material witness," Clayton said.

"I know that," Tredwell said tersely, leaning back in his chair. "I spoke to the DA earlier today about the matter. But I can't inform my client until he contacts me."

"Has he left town permanently?"

"You could assume that," Tredwell replied.

"And why should I assume that?"

"Good question," Tredwell said sarcastically.

"Answer it," Clayton said. He hated the snippy little word games so many Anglos liked to play. His sharpness with Tredwell earned him a serious look.

"He put his property up for sale and gave me a power of attorney to handle the transaction," Tredwell said.

"How do you contact him?"

"I don't," Tredwell answered. "He said he would call once he got settled."

"And you haven't heard from him?"

"If I had, I would have told the district attorney."

"Where did he go?"

"He didn't say."

"Not even a hint?"

"South," Tredwell replied. "He said he would be traveling south."

There was a casino outside of El Paso and a racetrack nearby, just inside the New Mexico state line. It made sense that Staggs would want to relocate close to the action, where he could set up shop and draw business.

"Did he mention any plans to visit El Paso?" Clayton asked.

"No, he did not."

"How did Staggs pay your fee?" Clayton asked.

"That's none of your business," Tredwell replied.

Clayton smiled. "If he paid in cash, I'm sure you won't forget to report it to the IRS."

"We're done here," Tredwell said, unwinding himself from the chair.

Clayton nodded in agreement, left, and paused to see Grace at work to tell her he would be gone overnight. Her classroom was filled with happy, noisy children who were finger painting on large sheets of newsprint spread out on low tables. From the doorway Clayton caught Grace's eye and motioned for her to approach. The room fell silent as the children watched as Grace came close and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Several children giggled. He told her what was up.

"You promised Wendell and Hannah a phone call to Kerney tonight," Grace said.

"It can wait for a day or two."

"That's not fair," Grace replied. "It may not be a big deal to you, but it is to them."

"You can call Kerney. It doesn't have to be me."

"I'd prefer if you did it," Grace said.

"Not tonight," Clayton said with a shake of his head.

"You can't keep running away from the fact that Kerney is your father," Grace said.

"I'm not. Tell him I wanted to call but couldn't."

"Do you mean that?" Grace asked.

"Half and half," Clayton replied with a weak smile. "He's not an easy man to talk to."

"Neither are you," Grace said, squeezing his hand. "I'll call him."

Clayton kissed his wife and left to the sounds of tittering children. He fired up the engine of his unit, thinking his best move, given what he'd learned at Rojas's mountain retreat and from Tredwell, would be to get a handle on the girlfriend and then start looking for Staggs in El Paso.

Ramona Pino got the lowdown on The Players Green Club amp; Restaurant from Jeff Vialpando. It wasn't an ordinary sports bar. High-class and expensive, it had opened less than a year ago in a new building in the Northeast Heights, and catered to young, affluent singles who lived in the town homes and condominiums close by.

The grand opening had been attended by the mayor, several city councillors, a couple of state legislators, and some important local business leaders.

Within several months narcotics agents were hearing street talk about drug dealing at the club, and vice cops were getting rumors of illegal Las Vegas-style betting on televised athletic events. Weeks of outside surveillance had identified only two known drug dealers who frequented the club on a regular basis. Undercover cops posing as customers saw no evidence of dealing or illegal wagering. About the only incidents of note involved a duo of college-type hookers, just barely of legal age, who worked the bar on the weekends.

Everything pretty much looked on the up-and-up, but rumors and talk persisted, mostly passed on by two reliable white-collar snitches, who'd fingered an ecstasy drug ring of graduate students at the university.

Surreptitious attempts to get an officer hired as an employee failed. Staff turnover was minimal, and the owner, a man named Adam Tully, always seemed able to bring a new waitress on board quickly without advertising or interviewing applicants.

Tails were placed on staff members, and background checks were run as identities were ascertained. All had clean sheets, but interestingly, all were recent arrivals from out of state, particularly Colorado and West Texas.

Tully, a New Mexico native recently returned from Colorado, was listed as the sole owner of Five Players, Incorporated, doing business as The Players Green Club amp; Restaurant. If he had partners, they were silent.

Tully had no criminal record, and owned another club in Denver operated under the same name, which had been given a clean bill of health by the Denver PD. All his business licenses, corporate reports, and state and local tax filings were current and in order.

Vialpando had described the club's layout. The bar and dining area were separate from a large room where big-screen televisions were set up in six different viewing areas consisting of comfortable couches, overstuffed chairs, and coffee tables. Only the bar menu and drinks were available to customers in the screening room. Six adjacent rooms with televisions were available for fans who wanted to dine and watch a specific televised event. Those rooms were already booked months in advance. On the weekends, a jazz trio played dance music in the main dining room.

As she drove to the club, Ramona pushed pleasant thoughts about Jeff Vialpando out of her mind and ran over the cover story she'd laid on Cassie Bedlow. Whatever she told Adam Tully had to match what Cassie Bedlow "knew" about her.

Good undercover cops always built fictional personas based on reality. Ramona's previous assignments had taught her the importance of character development. Blending fact with fiction made the role more natural and authentic, easier to pull off. But there couldn't be any gaps or lapses that might give you away.

In fact, Ramona had been both a waitress and a sales clerk in Durango during the year she'd attended college there as a transfer student. She'd returned to the city several times since then, so dredging up recollections and recalling places and streets wasn't much of a stretch. She did it anyway, because you never knew what could trip you up.

She stepped inside the club and let her eyes adjust to the dim lights. The man standing at the end of the bar talking to the hostess matched Vialpando's description of Adam Tully. Five eight, narrow shoulders, a thin frame, with an arched, slightly turned-up nose. Tully smiled as she approached, and Ramona smiled back.

Adam Tully liked what he saw. She was all that Cassie had told him in her phone call and more: great Hispanic features with dark, liquid eyes, a tight, shapely body with a tiny waist, and creamy skin with a golden hue.

"You must be Ramona," Tully said.

"Yes, I am."

Her baby-doll voice ran through him, right down to his cock. If everything panned out, he could work this bitch every night for five, maybe eight years, and make a hell of a lot of money. He knew a Major League baseball player who'd pop fifteen or twenty grand for a week with her, easy, as soon as she started tricking. Plus, a former Colorado congressman who favored the thin, schoolgirl type with nice knockers. Put her in thigh-high stockings, lacy panties, a push-up bra, some candy-apple-red platform mules, and braid her hair, and the guy would get a hard-on just looking at her picture.

"Let's talk," Tully said, leading her to his office, where he eased back in his thousand-dollar ergonomic chair and inspected the woman more closely. Thick dark hair, small bones, comfortable with her body, five three, one-ten at the most, perfect teeth. She took his gaze without flinching. She was used to getting attention from men, wasn't put off by it. That was good.

"Tell me about yourself," Tully said.

Ramona licked her lips and ran out her cover story: Durango and her failed marriage, the need to make a change, dreams of becoming a model, looking to have some fun and excitement. Tully nodded all the way through it.

"Have you waitressed before?"

Ramona named the restaurant in Durango where she'd worked.

"Isn't that in the old downtown Victorian hotel?"

"No, it's by the railroad station. When were you in Durango?"

"Some time ago. I rode my Harley from Denver for the annual motorcycle rally."

"Every September," Ramona said with a nod. "It's a lot of fun."

"Why did you leave the restaurant?"

"My ex-husband didn't like me working nights."

"The jealous type?" Tully asked.

Ramona remembered her ex-boyfriend and made a face. "He thought every man I talked to I wanted to take to bed."

Tully laughed. "Do you smoke dope, get high, use drugs?"

Ramona paused. "Sometimes," she said in her tiniest voice. "But not a lot."

"If I hire you, you can't come to work high."

"Okay," she said seriously. Was she playing it too Goody Two-shoes?

"You see how my girls are required to dress at work. They show a lot of skin, a lot of T and A. Is that a problem for you?"

"I bet they get good tips," Ramona replied with a grin, "and I can use the money. Besides, I don't mind men looking."

"Do you like men?"

"Most of them."

"I have a girl leaving in a week," Tully said. "See Lisa. She's the hostess. She'll give you a tour and an employment application. I'll work your schedule around Cassie's classes. You'll have to take an alcohol beverage server course before you can start. Lisa will set it up."

"Thank you, Mr. Tully."

"You'll do just fine," Tully said. He watched Ramona leave, wondering how long it would take to get her strung out and in debt big-time to one of his dealers. He figured maybe two or three months, if he played it right.

Clouds had thickened outside, but not enough to promise rain. The April sun broke through the cover, casting patches of yellow light on the brick walkway that led to the old adobe house near the state capitol where Mark Shuler ran his research and polling company. Shuler was round, had probably been round all his life, but he wasn't fat, although if you only looked at his chubby cheeks you might think so. Add a foot to his solid stocky frame and he'd pass for an NFL line-backer. He pressed his lips together when Kerney mentioned Tyler Norvell.

"I understand you went to college with Norvell," Kerney added.

Shuler closed his office door on the four researchers who worked in office cubicles in a room just behind the reception area. "Why the interest in Norvell?"

"I'm told you don't like him."

"Don't trust him would be a better way to put it."

"Why is that?" Kerney asked.

"Are you going to tell me why you're investigating Norvell?"

"No," Kerney said with an apologetic smile.

"Then it's probably best for me to keep my thoughts to myself," Shuler said. "I make my living in the political world, Chief Kerney, and while it's public knowledge that I'm not a member of Senator Norvell's fan club, I keep my personal opinions to myself."

"I'll do the same with what you tell me," Kerney said. "You went to college with Norvell. What kind of person was he back then?"

Shuler found his way to his desk chair and settled in. "Are you familiar with F. Scott Fitzgerald's work?"

"I read The Great Gatsby in college."

"Norvell was like Gatsby, always full of subterfuges, superficially charming, good at keeping up appearances, but basically unscrupulous. He was quickwitted, ambitious, and smart enough to align himself with people who would help him socially. By the time he entered law school, he'd transformed himself from just another college student who was scraping along into a big man on campus."

"How did he do that?" Kerney asked, as he pushed an office chair to the front of Shuler's desk and sat.

"He joined the right clubs, hung out with the right people, especially the popular jocks, and got involved in campus politics-member of the student senate, student rep on an activities planning committee. That kind of thing."

"So, he played the angles," Kerney said. "How was he unscrupulous?"

"Drugs, women, and gambling," Shuler answered. "While the campus cops and narcs were busting the longhairs and student radicals for using, Norvell and his pals were allegedly selling drugs to frat boys, sorority girls, and students living off campus. He supplied women for bachelor parties, took bets on sporting events, even organized spring vacation gambling jaunts to Denver."

"You know all this as fact?" Kerney asked.

"I got some information from an anonymous informant while I was editor of the college newspaper, but I couldn't confirm it. I spent a lot of time trying to corroborate the story through other sources. All I got was second- and third-hand rumors and gossip."

"What stood in your way?"

"I was the longhair liberal running the college newspaper. The enemy, so to speak. Norvell's customers were the kids who saw themselves as the elite. They were well-off, clannish, spoiled brats. Socially, they kept to themselves and partied pretty much out of sight. They'd rent a suite of rooms in a nice hotel, gather at private houses away from the campus, or go out of town for their big bashes."

"How did the anonymous information come to you?" Kerney asked.

"By letter. Two of them."

"Did you happen to save them?"

"You bet I did," Shuler replied. "I kept hoping someone would come forward and give me something tangible that I could verify and print."

"Were they typed or handwritten?" Kerney asked.

"Handwritten."

"I need to see those letters," Kerney said.

"They prove nothing."

"I still need to see them."

Shuler rummaged around in a file cabinet, pulled out a folder, and handed two sheets of paper to Kerney. They were note size, no dates, with writing on one side only. The first letter read: Tyler Norvell is supplying drugs to a young friend of mine and taking advantage of her. He has parties at his house and gets her high on drugs. She tells me that she sometimes wakes up in the morning in bed at his house with a boy or a man she doesn't know, and can't remember what happened. She says there are lots of girls at his parties who have had the same experiences. I think he and his friends are drugging these girls and then raping them. My friend also tells me that Tyler and his friends take some girls to Denver on weekends once a month and the girls come back with expensive gifts. Something very bad is going on. If a student who is supposedly a campus leader is doing these kinds of things, I think it should be made public knowledge.

The second letter read: I wrote you before about the illegal things Tyler Norvell is doing. Now my friend is addicted to cocaine and says that Tyler loves her and wants her to enter a treatment program in Denver, which he will pay for. I think he just wants to get her out of town. She's planning to drop out of school and move to Denver. I've talked to a psychologist and have tried to use his advice to help her, but it hasn't changed her mind about going. Can't you expose this criminal in your paper? All students should know about the terrible things he does.

"When did you receive these letters?" Kerney asked.

Shuler checked his file and read off dates that corresponded with Anna Marie's cousin Belinda Louise Nieto's time in Albuquerque.

"Whoever the person was," Shuler added, "I don't know why they didn't go to the police."

Kerney knew the answer to Shuler's question. There were millions of reasons why people shied away from talking to cops. It didn't matter if they were friends, family, relatives, or total strangers. He'd seen women protect abusers; parents lie on behalf of felonious teenagers; people confirm false alibis for friends; and witnesses deny they'd seen a crime occur. The rationales for either lying to or avoiding the police were endless.

If the author of the letters had been Anna Marie Montoya-and Kerney was virtually convinced that she was-he would never know why she had chosen to deal with her cousin's situation so obliquely. At this point it didn't really matter.

"Who were Norvell's pals in this enterprise?" he asked.

"Luis Rojas, a football jock from El Paso; Adam Tully, a high school buddy from Lincoln County; and Gene Barrett and Leo Silva, both from Albuquerque. Tully was part of the campus brat pack. That's how Norvell and the others got accepted into the clique."

"Barrett and Silva are state legislators, right?"

"That's right," Shuler replied.

"I heard they got behind Norvell's political ambitions big-time after he moved back from Colorado."

"Right again."

"Any old rumors about them?"

"Just what I've already told you," Shuler replied. "They were rarely on campus, except to attend classes. I don't really know how large a role they played in what went on."

"How do they make their money?"

"Silva has a successful law practice, and Barrett owns a management consulting and CPA firm."

"What about Cassie Bedlow, Norvell's sister?"

"I never heard anything bad about her. She had her own circle of friends, mostly sorority types and fine-arts majors."

"And Rojas?"

"A lady's man who cut a wide swath. But not your average dumb jock. Along with Tully, he was Norvell's off-campus roommate. They shared a large house in the North Valley. People thought that maybe some rich alum was subsidizing Rojas. He dressed nice, drove a new car, always had money to spend."

Kerney held up the handwritten notes. "I'm going to need to hold on to these for a while."

"Just as long as I get them back," Shuler said.

Kerney nodded. "Of course. You've been very helpful."

"Maybe I'll read something about this in the newspaper someday," Shuler said with a slight smile.

"Maybe you will."

Kerney found George Montoya outside, planting bare-root rosebushes in a flower bed. He wanted to know why Kerney needed a sample of his Anna Marie's handwriting. Trying not to raise false hopes, Kerney explained that he'd been given some letters which might have been written by Anna Marie. But he wouldn't be sure until he could have her handwriting compared and analyzed.

A bright eagerness lit up Montoya's eyes. "What do these letters say?"

"It won't matter what they say if Anna Marie didn't write them," Kerney replied.

"But you think maybe she did," Montoya said.

"It's worth checking into."

"Why do you tell me so little?"

"Because I want to give you facts when I have them, not unfairly raise your expectations with speculation."

Montoya's eyes shifted away and his shoulders sagged a bit. "We want so much for there to be justice."

"It can happen," Kerney said. "Always believe that."

Montoya nodded, pulled himself together, gave Kerney a weak smile, and gestured at his house. "Come inside and take what you need."

With a handwriting sample and the letters in hand, Kerney met with the state-police-lab documents specialist and asked for a quick turnaround. In Kerney's case, it paid to be a former deputy state police chief. The man said he'd have a preliminary comparison done in an hour.

Kerney spent his time waiting by questioning Nick Salas, a fifteen-year veteran who now served as a lieutenant in the district headquarters housed next door to the Department of Public Safety. Salas remembered the Norvell DWI incident that had been swept under the rug by the sheriff's department.

"How did you hear about it?" Salas asked, cocking an eye at Kerney.

"Ellsworth Miller," Kerney answered.

"You got something going on Norvell, Chief?"

"Maybe."

Salas laughed. "What do you need to know?"

"Date, time, place, name of the woman with Norvell-if you've got it-name of the deputy who made the DWI stop."

Salas snorted. "You think I can remember all of that?"

"No, but I bet you've got the information stashed somewhere. You're one of the biggest pack rats in the department."

Salas grinned and got up from his desk. "That's affirmative, Chief. Like I tell the rookies, hold on to everything. You never know when you might need stuff you once thought was useless. Give me a few minutes to search through my old paperwork."

Salas was back in fifteen minutes with a dog-eared pocket notebook in hand. He rattled off the day, time, and place. "The deputy was Ron Underwood. He's still with the sheriff's department. He got bumped up to patrol sergeant about the same time I made lieutenant. We tipped a few together at the FOP to celebrate. I've been catching his radio traffic lately so he's back on day shift. I didn't ID the woman."

"Did you see Norvell?" Kerney asked.

"Yeah. I watched Underwood put him through field sobriety tests. He was almost falling-down drunk."

"Thanks, Nick."

"No problem," Salas said, reaching for the phone. "Where are you going from here, Chief?"

"I should be back in my office in thirty minutes."

"I'll give Underwood a call. Maybe he can dig out his report and get it to you today."

"That would be a big help," Kerney said.

Kerney returned to the crime lab to wait for the document specialist's report, and spent his time chatting with the officers and civilian staff who passed him in the small waiting area. During his tenure as deputy state police chief, he'd worked with all of them, so even though he cooled his heels longer than expected, he enjoyed catching up and making small talk.

Stan Kalsen, the document specialist, a burly man with a raspy voice, finally appeared and led him back to his office.

"Sorry to make you wait," Stan said as he spread out the documents, which had been placed in clear plastic sleeves. "I took a quick look at slant, connection, formation of letters, size of letters, punctuation, and embellishments on the questioned documents." He pointed out each element he'd reviewed with a pair of tweezers. "Comparing the two samples, I'd say they were written by the same individual. If you can get the subject to write out the complete texts of the documents again, I'll probably be able to make an unqualified judgment to that effect."

"I can't do that," Kerney replied. "The subject was murdered."

Kalsen nodded. "I thought so. The note written to her mother was signed Anna Marie, so I figured it had to do with the Montoya homicide. I took photographs of the anonymous documents under oblique light to pull up any indentations on the paper. That's what slowed me down. Take a look at this one."

Kalsen held up a photograph of the second unsigned note. Down at the bottom were the indentations of Anna Marie's signature. "It's identical to the standard you gave me," he said.

For the first time, Kerney had a bonafide suspect. Surely, as a newly elected state senator, Tyler Norvell might have had reason to silence a woman who had knowledge of his prior criminal activities. But proving that would be a whole different matter.

Still the information made Kerney smile. "Excellent," he said. "Thanks, Stan."

"Anytime, Chief."

His cell phone rang as he left the lab. Helen Muiz reported that Detective Pino was on her way back to Santa Fe with an APD vice sergeant in tow, Sal Molina had just returned to the office looking to speak with him, and a sheriff's sergeant had dropped off an envelope for him.

"I'm on my way," Kerney said. "Anything else?"

"As always, we're in complete disarray without you," Helen said. She hung up before Kerney could think of a comeback.