THE BIG GAMBLE

When the body of a woman who went missing years earlier is discovered in a burned-down fruit stand, Police Chief Kevin Kerney finds himself cooperating with his estranged son, Deputy Sheriff Clayton Istee, who is working to identify a suspect with ties to prostitution and illegal gambling. By the author of Tularosa. 35,000 first printing.

Chapter 2

Back late from an all-day meeting in Albuquerque, Kevin Kerney sat in his office and paged through the Anna Marie Montoya missing person file. Until yesterday Montoya had never been found and the investigation had remained officially open, although not actively worked for some time. There were periodic entries by various detectives summarizing meetings and phone conversations with family asking if any new information about Montoya’s whereabouts had surfaced, along with unsuccessful query results from other law enforcement agencies regarding the identification of human remains found elsewhere.

Notations in the record showed that every year on the anniversary of Montoya’s disappearance, her parents met with a detective sergeant to ask about progress in the case. One supervisor had scrawled in the margin of the supplemental contact report, “These sweet people foolishly refuse to give up hope.”

Kerney shared the detective sergeant’s sentiments. Based on what was known about Montoya, she was an unlikely candidate to go missing, so foul play was the only scenario. He scanned the woman’s personal information. Born and raised in Santa Fe, Anna Marie, age twenty-nine, was about to earn a master’s degree in social work when she disappeared. She lived in an apartment with a roommate, her best friend since high school. She was engaged to be married to a young, up-and-coming businessman, had a good job lined up after graduation, and worked as a part-time counselor at a youth shelter. She had strong ties with her family and a tight-knit circle of friends.

Montoya’s roommate reported her missing on a day when the major crimes unit was busy busting a burglary ring, so Kerney, then serving as chief of detectives, handled the call. Montoya had failed to return overnight from an evening reception for graduating students held near the university campus in Las Vegas, fifty miles north of Santa Fe.

Kerney had run his inquiry according to the book and come up empty. Montoya’s car, which was found at a shopping mall parking lot in Santa Fe the day after her disappearance, provided no clues or evidence of foul play. People at the reception remembered Montoya leaving the gathering alone. All in attendance had strong alibis for their whereabouts during the remainder of the night. Family, friends, and coworkers knew of no troubles which would have made Montoya want to go missing. Her fiancé, who’d spent the night Montoya vanished in the company of his roommate, reported no problems with their relationship. Faculty members at the school of social work disclosed that Montoya stood near the top of her class academically, had congenial relationships with instructors and fellow students, and had evidenced no signs of stress, unhappiness, or depression.

With nothing that pointed to a motive or a suspect, Kerney had dug for some dirt on Montoya, hoping to uncover a shady tidbit about her past or a shabby little secret. Nothing incriminating had surfaced. Anna Marie had been a solid, upstanding young woman who’d lived a respectable life.

He’d interviewed casual male acquaintances and all the men who lived in the apartment complex where Montoya resided in the hopes of finding someone who fit a stalker profile, but nothing emerged.

He studied the woman’s photograph, taken just a few weeks before she vanished. She had round, dark eyes that looked directly at the camera and seemed to hide nothing, full lips that smiled easily, a quizzical way of holding her head, and long curly hair that fell over her shoulders. It was an intelligent face that held a quiet, sincere appeal.

The telephone rang and Kerney picked up.

“I thought you might be working late,” Sara said.

Kerney smiled at the sound of his wife’s voice. “How are you?”

“Tired of being a pregnant lieutenant colonel in the army,” Sara replied. “Emphasis on the word pregnant.”

“Protecting the country from known and unknown enemies while having a baby does seem a bit inconvenient,” Kerney said.

Sara laughed. “The pregnant part is slowing me down and I don’t like it. I have to sleep for two, eat for two, and basically think for two. It’s distracting me from my career path.”

“Does that mean you won’t be the honor graduate at the Command and General Staff College ceremony?”

“I will be the biggest blimp of an officer to ever waddle up to the stage and receive that high honor,” Sara said.

Kerney let out a whoop. “You got it!”

“You’re first supposed to say that I will look beautiful at the ceremony, pregnant or not. Indeed I did, by two-tenths of a percentage point. And if you’re not here to see me graduate, I’m divorcing you for mental cruelty and emotional abandonment.”

“You are beautiful,” Kerney said. “I promise to be there. But it’s still a whole month off.”

“And you won’t see me until then,” Sara said.

“You can’t break away for a weekend at all?” Kerney asked.

“I’ve way too much to do. Besides I’m not sure you want to see me minus my girlish figure.”

“I’ll stare at your chest,” Kerney said.

“Even that has enlarged a bit.”

Kerney laughed. “I’ve heard from Clayton in a roundabout way.”

“Really? Tell me about it.”

Kerney gave her the facts about the missing person case he’d handled eleven years ago, and Clayton’s discovery of Anna Marie Montoya’s remains.

“Sometimes fate smiles on you, Kerney,” Sara said when Kerney finished.

“Meaning what?”

“Now you have a perfect opportunity to connect with Clayton. Use it.”

“I tried that before, remember?”

“You’ve had three, maybe four conversations with Clayton in your lifetime, all in the space of a few very intense days. That hardly constitutes a major effort.”

“The effort has to be mutual,” Kerney said.

“You cannot tell me that Clayton isn’t at least a little bit curious about who you are on a personal level.”

“He hasn’t shown any interest,” Kerney said.

“Oh, stop it, Kerney,” Sara said. “You sound like a little boy with hurt feelings. Just because Clayton didn’t follow through on a dinner invitation he hastily suggested, after you left him speechless by establishing a college fund for his children, doesn’t mean he’s cold to knowing you.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“So?”

“So, I’ll try to be a grown-up.”

“Good. If I were with you, I’d be giving you sweet kisses right now.”

“As a reward for trying to be a grown-up?” Kerney asked.

“No, as a prelude to wild, abandoned sex. I’ll talk to you soon, cowboy.”

Kerney hung up smiling and returned his attention to the Montoya case file. What had he missed in the original victim profile? Unless Anna Marie had been abducted and killed randomly by a complete stranger, events in her life should point to a motive for murder.

He’d found nothing when the case was fresh, and now surely people had scattered, memories had dimmed, and hard physical evidence&151;if any was to be found&151;had vanished.

Kerney sat back in his chair and inspected the two framed lithographs Sara had helped him select for his office. One, a winter scene with a solitary horse grazing in a pasture, was centered above a bookcase on the wall opposite his desk. The second image showed an old cottonwood in summer, branches dense with leaves. It hung next to the office door.

At the time, he’d teased Sara about picking out such serene, idyllic images to hang on a police chief’s office walls.

“These are reminders,” she’d replied.

“About?”

“Places we need to find when we’re together.”

“For what purpose?” Kerney had asked.

“Are you dense, Kerney? Look at that cottonwood tree. Look at that pasture. What would we most want to do in either setting?”

“Just checking.”

Kerney put the remembrance aside and flipped through the Montoya case file one more time. It was Deputy Sheriff Clayton Istee’s homicide investigation now. He’d heard through the cop-shop grapevine that Clayton had recently switched from the tribal police to the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department. He called the sheriff’s dispatch number, left a message advising Clayton he’d be available to discuss the Montoya case first thing in the morning, locked up his office, and walked downstairs through the quiet, almost empty building to his unmarked unit.

Clayton bypassed the office and started work interviewing ranchers and home owners he’d missed yesterday. By the fifth stop, the responses became predictable. The canvass had turned into a see-nothing, know-nothing Q-and-A exercise. Nobody knew diddly or had a shred of useful information. Once the formality of being questioned was out of the way, everybody tried to get some juicy gossip-talk going. He just smiled and shook his head in reply.

He contacted Sergeant Quinones and Deputy Dillingham by radio, who reported similar dead-end results. Dispatch called to advise that the local crime-stoppers organization had put up a thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to the arrest of Anna Marie’s killer. The news gave Clayton a touch of renewed enthusiasm.

When asked if he’d ever noticed anyone suspicious hanging around the fruit stand, one old rancher took off his cowboy hat, scratched his head, gave a Clayton a sly smile, and allowed that sometime back he’d seen Paul Hewitt nailing an election sign on the building. With a straight face Clayton promised to question the sheriff. In response the rancher grinned and said he’d like to be there to see it.

At the end of a ranch road a pickup truck outfitted with a rack of emergency roof lights and sporting a volunteer-firefighter license plate pulled off the pavement and stopped just as Clayton closed the gate behind his patrol unit. Shorty Dawson, the medical examiner, got out and hurried toward him.

At no more than five feet four inches, it was clear how Dawson came by his nickname.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Dawson said, squinting up at Clayton, who topped out at five ten.

All the firefighters had radios equipped with the department’s police band frequency. “Did you try calling me?” Clayton asked.

Dawson shook his head and shifted a wad of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other. “I didn’t want to do that. Too many people listen to police scanners. You know that John Doe that got burned up in the fire?”

“His name was Joseph Humphrey,” Clayton replied curtly, out of respect for the dead man’s ghost.

“Whatever,” Dawson said. “You were right, the fire didn’t kill him. According to the pathologist in Albuquerque, he took a knife blade through the heart.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Clayton said casually as he wrapped the chain around the gatepost.

Dawson eyed Clayton, waiting for more of a reaction. After yesterday’s phone conversation with the deputy he half expected a smug response. “It sort of complicates matters for you, I guess,” he said, smiling apologetically.

Clayton shrugged. “Not really. I’ve been treating it like a homicide all along.”

Dawson drove off, thinking Deputy Istee needed to loosen up and be a little more friendly if he wanted to get along in Lincoln County.

Paul Hewitt, who had been a police commander down the road in nearby Alamogordo for twenty years before coming home to run for sheriff, sat behind his desk and listened as Clayton Istee talked.

In his late forties, Hewitt, who stood six one when he squared his shoulders and straightened up, was a big-boned man. He carried a scant ten pounds more than his playing weight as a high school lineman. Hewitt’s best cop attribute was an ability to adopt a frank, honest interest in whatever he was hearing, no matter how boring or revolting the subject might be. It had paid dividends for Hewitt over the years in terms of managing people and catching bad guys.

Clayton reported that the canvass had been finished with no positive results, and that Quinones and Dillingham were visiting local businesses in Carrizozo and Capitan on the chance that Humphrey might have stopped to buy booze or a meal as he passed through the towns.

Hewitt nodded and smiled as Clayton pitched him with a plea to be allowed to work both homicide cases, all the time thinking that it made no sense all. He wondered why Deputy Istee wanted to juggle two major felony murder investigations, especially when one was a cold case that might prove impossible to solve, especially by long distance.

Clayton stopped talking. Hewitt leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and said, “I think the Humphrey homicide needs to be our priority.”

“I understand, but I’d still like to keep working the Montoya case.”

Hewitt smiled sympathetically. “Let’s concentrate on the most recent crime. That’s where we have the greater chance of success.”

“I’d hate to see the Montoya investigation go on the back burner.”

“I don’t think the Santa Fe PD will let that happen.”

“The body was found here. It isn’t their jurisdiction.”

Clayton sounded uptight. Hewitt muzzled a quizzical look. “As far as we know, the crime occurred in Santa Fe. That gives them jurisdiction. Have you got a problem with the PD that I need to know about?”

Clayton shook his head and stopped arguing. “No. I’ll fax everything to them right away.”

Hewitt nodded. “If you need me to grease some wheels in Santa Fe, let me know.”

“That’s not necessary, Sheriff. The officer who originally handled the case is now the police chief.”

“Kerney was the primary? That should get the case some serious attention. Do you know the chief?”

Clayton hesitated. “Yeah, I met him a few times when he was down here working those campground murders.”

“I’ve known Kerney for years,” Hewitt said, relaxing against the back of his swivel chair. “Some may disagree, but I think he’s a good man and a damn fine cop. How do you plan to proceed with the Humphrey investigation?”

Clayton laid it out. He’d make some calls to Veterans Administration employees who had dealings with Humphrey, get as much background information as he could, and then start tracking down others who knew the victim.

“You’re going to have to spend some time in Albuquerque,” Hewitt said.

“I’m going up there today. If the Santa Fe PD sends some people down here while I’m gone, will you ask Sergeant Quinones to keep an eye on them?”

Hewitt kept his tone amiable and his smile bland. “What aren’t you telling me, Deputy?”

“Nothing,” Clayton replied, rising from his chair. “I just want to make sure I stay informed. Who knows? There’s a chance the murders could be linked. I’ll call Santa Fe now.”

“Good deal.”

From the hallway desk, with people brushing past him on their way to and from the supply closet and the access corridor that led to various other county offices in the courthouse, Clayton read through the Montoya autopsy report and called Kevin Kerney.

“What can I do for you, Deputy?” Kerney asked.

“My boss is kicking the Montoya homicide investigation back to your department,” Clayton said.

“That makes sense,” Kerney said flatly. “Update me.”

Clayton summarized the autopsy findings. “I’ll fax you a copy of the report,” he said.

“Get it to me ASAP,” Kerney replied.

“I’ll do that,” Clayton said.

“You ...