Death Song (12 page)

As Clayton and Mielke approached, Salgado turned off the machine, wiped the sweat from his face with a gym towel, stepped off the treadmill, and gave Clayton a hearty handshake.

“Glad you could come up and give us a hand,” Salgado said, flashing a politician’s sunny smile.

“It’s good to be here,” Clayton said. “I think this case is going to take our combined efforts to get it solved.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” Salgado said. “I want you to use the training and planning lieutenant’s office in the administrative wing so you can have quick access to me if you need it.”

Clayton didn’t like the idea at all. It would immediately create ill will for him. “I’d rather not inconvenience the lieutenant. Isn’t there someplace else you can put me?””

“It’s a done deal,” Salgado said. “The lieutenant will double up with one of the patrol commanders while you’re here. Don’t worry about it. Everybody’s on board to catch this killer. That’s the important thing. You need something, you tell me and I’ll get it for you. Where do you want to start?”

“With you,” Clayton replied. “I’d like to interview you as soon as possible.”

Salgado looked at his watch. “First things first. Major Mielke will get you settled in, and Sergeant Pino and her P.D. detectives are coming in from the field to meet with you. I’ll see you in my office in the morning. Just let my secretary know what time you want to meet.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Clayton said, not sure if Salgado was a dim bulb as Paul Hewitt had said, a wily old street cop, or a bit of both.

Salgado slapped him on the back and headed for the showers. Outside the gym, Clayton and Mielke fell in behind two officers who were sauntering down the corridor engrossed in conversation.

“Maldonado was in the briefing room when that sheriff’s sergeant from Lincoln County showed up,” the first officer said.

“So what did he think?” his buddy replied.

“He said he almost cracked up when he first saw the guy. Said he was dressed like some Apache Johnny Cash wannabe all in black.”

“He’s Apache?”

The first deputy nodded. “I bet his first name is probably Geronimo or something like that. Maldonado says wait until you see him. He’s got long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.”

His buddy laughed. “Maybe he’s a New Age Indian who chews peyote buttons and has spirit visions. And this guy is the hotshot investigator who’s going to find a killer among us? I almost wish the sheriff had asked the state police to do the internal investigation.”

“You got that right, bro.”

From the corner of his eye, Clayton could see Mielke watching him, waiting for a reaction. Clayton cleared his throat loudly, and the deputies turned their heads at the sound and didn’t recover their composure quickly enough to mask their surprise.

“Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” Clayton said as he passed them by.

Mielke didn’t say a word, but he wasn’t smiling either. He led Clayton to the L-shaped administrative wing and showed him his assigned office. It was next door to where the major hung his hat and in clear view of Sheriff Salgado’s corner suite, the chief deputy’s adjoining office, and a reception area where the sheriff’s executive secretary resided. It offered zero privacy for people coming and going, and with a large glass window, with no venetian blind, that looked out on the reception area, it put Clayton and whoever was with him under constant observation.

Mielke introduced Clayton to the sheriff’s secretary so he could make an appointment to interview Salgado in the morning. The secretary, a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Joanne Castillo, consulted her daily planner and gave Clayton an early morning appointment with the sheriff. She handed Clayton a key to his new office and made him sign for it.

Accompanied by Mielke, Clayton unlocked the door and looked around. One wall of bookshelves held bound reports, training manuals, and some law enforcement textbooks. On the wall behind the desk was an assortment of framed certificates that its usual occupant had received for completing training and recertification courses.

The lieutenant had cleared out his desk and provided an empty metal filing cabinet for Clayton to use. On top of the desk was a three-ring binder casebook which Mielke told him was up-to-date except for the field reports that were still being prepared.

“Have you arranged for lodging?” Mielke asked. “There are several decent motels that offer reasonable rates for law enforcement officers.”

“It’s all taken care of,” Clayton replied, unwilling to be more specific about where he was staying and why.

“We’ll need to know how to reach you.”

Clayton found a ruled writing tablet in the top drawer of the desk, wrote down a number, and handed it to Mielke. “Call my cell phone.”

“That’ll work.” Mielke pocketed the note and glanced at his wristwatch. “Sergeant Pino and her detectives should be here in a few. If you need me, call dispatch. Until these murders are solved I’m available twenty-four/seven.”

Mielke left and Clayton settled behind the desk. He opened the casebook and started reading, but he couldn’t shake the thought that Salgado and Mielke’s cooperation was a pretense.

To hide what
? Clayton asked himself just as Ramona Pino stepped through the door and gave him the first authentic smile he’d seen since arriving in Santa Fe.

“It’s good to see you, Clayton,” she said as she stepped to the desk and shook his hand.

“You too. Where are your detectives?”

“We just got in.” Ramona took a seat in the chair next to the desk. “They’re doing their reports.”

“You heard that Denise was three months pregnant?”

Ramona nodded. “And that the daddy couldn’t be Tim Riley.”

“Did you know him?” Clayton asked.

“In passing. He seemed competent. A quiet guy, not the macho type.”

“Any scuttlebutt about why he left the Santa Fe S.O.?”

“None that I heard.”

“What has Mielke had you doing?”

“Interviewing and re-interviewing the Rileys’ neighbors. We’ve talked to most of them twice, but several are out of town and unavailable. One guy is a long-haul trucker who isn’t answering his cell phone, and there’s a retired couple who are vacationing somewhere in Mexico in their motor home.”

“Has anything come up?” Clayton asked hopefully.

“Nope.” Ramona looked over her shoulder and through the window that gave a view of Salgado’s secretary at her desk. “So they’ve put you in this fishbowl to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t intend to stay here all day every day. In fact, initially I want to keep our interviews with the commissioned personnel informal and low-key. Let’s meet with the deputies in the field, in their squad cars, over coffee, in the break room, or at their homes whenever we can. Have you encountered any male deputies or employees who seem a little skittish to you?”

“No, but based on how this killer went about his business, I wouldn’t expect him to be anything but cool and collected. Do we even have anything more than a hunch that suggests the murderer could be a cop?”

Clayton shook his head. “It’s all theory at this point.”

“Great. Okay, how do you want to do this?”

Clayton said he wanted the first round of interviews to start in the morning. He’d take the brass, the administrative staff, and the civilian office workers. Ramona and her two detectives would divvy up the three shifts, including all officers and the regional dispatchers housed at the facility. The four of them would convene every morning to set their schedule, and debrief every evening.

“Let’s meet here in this office at 8
A.M
.,” he said as he stood up and tucked the casebook under his arm.

“You got it,” Ramona said as she got to her feet. “Are you going to see Chief Kerney while you’re here?”

“Yeah, in about thirty minutes. I’m staying at his place.”

Ramona followed Clayton out of the office. “I’m going to miss him when he retires at the end of the month.”

Clayton locked the door. “Raising cutting horses and running a ranch sounds like a pretty good way to retire to me.”

Ramona laughed. She knew the story of how Kerney had inherited his wealth from a famous Southwestern spinster artist who’d been his mother’s best childhood friend and college roommate. “Think I could get to do something like that on a retired sergeant’s salary?”

“Maybe if you supplemented your retirement income as a security guard, you could swing buying yourself a broken-down pony.”

Ramona chuckled. “That’s an ugly thing to say about somebody’s future prospects, Sergeant.”

“I know it,” Clayton replied with a smile.

The sheriff’s office door was closed, Mielke was away from his desk, and the secretary was nowhere to be seen. In the briefing room, Ramona introduced Clayton to her two detectives, Jesse Calabaza and Steve Johnson. He spent a few minutes talking to the detectives about his plans for the next day, before excusing himself.

Outside, the night sky was a low blanket of clouds pushed along by a cold wind that carried the sting of light sleet and the promise of heavy snow. He was northbound on Interstate 25, traveling in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, when the storm hit. He slowed the unit way down, put it into four-wheel drive, and made his way carefully through the whiteout to the exit that would take him to the Galisteo Basin and then on to Kerney’s ranch.

When Clayton arrived, the dashboard clock told him that the snowstorm had more than doubled the time he had figured to reach the ranch. Through the swirling blizzard, the lights from inside the ranch house looked warm and inviting.

He knew that he would be warmly welcomed, and although he didn’t think he deserved such treatment, he would put his pride aside as Grace had suggested and act like a dignified Apache.

He killed the engine and grabbed his luggage from the passenger seat. The outside lights winked on and the front door opened. With his head up and his face chilled by the wind-driven snow, Clayton walked up the path and said hello to his father.

Chapter Five

Kerney’s house wasn’t ostentatious, but it was clearly the home of a well-heeled man and his family. The rooms were large, the ceilings high, and the art on the walls original and highly collectible.

Over the years Kerney had frequently invited Clayton and his family to visit, but they had accepted only once. At Grace’s urging, they’d phoned and been persuaded to come for dinner on the last evening of a long weekend visit to the state capital and several of the nearby pueblos. Although Kerney had repeatedly invited them to stay at the ranch, Clayton, not wanting to impose, had booked the family into a budget motel on Cerrillos Road.

Patrick had just turned a year old at the time, so it had been a good two and a half years or more since Clayton had stepped over the threshold into Kerney’s house. He put his luggage on the floor and shook Kerney’s outstretched hand.

“Welcome,” Kerney said with a warm smile.

Clayton nodded. “Some weather out there.”

“It’s a humdinger of a storm, and desperately needed.”

Clayton removed his leather jacket and draped it over his luggage. “I hope it heads south to Mescalero.”

Before the two men could say more, Patrick scooted between them, stopped in his tracks and gazed up at his half brother.

“You’re Clayton,” he said emphatically.

“That’s right,” Clayton replied.

Patrick stuck his hand out. “Let’s shake hands.”

“Okay.” Clayton bent down and shook Patrick’s hand. When he rose up, Sara was standing next to Kerney. She stepped forward, gave him a quick hug, and released him.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said.

“And you,” Clayton said. “I am happy to see that you are home and recovering from your wounds. Kerney e-mailed me to say you’d been decorated and promoted. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Sara said politely. “I’m so glad you’re staying with us. Since you were last here, we’ve built a guest wing. It’s totally self-contained with its own private entrance, but I do hope you’ll take your meals with us when you can.”

Sara had spoken hurriedly, as though she was trying hard to put him at ease. Or was it that she wished to avoid any conversation about her wartime experiences in Iraq? Clayton decided it was probably a bit of both.

He smiled. “Since I’m not much of a cook, and meals of cold pizza and fast-food burgers get old real fast, I’ll be glad to eat with you when my schedule allows.”

“Good,” Sara said. “We’re big on stews and soups in this household, so there will always be something for you in the refrigerator.”

Before Clayton could protest that he didn’t need any special treatment, Patrick tugged at his hand.

“I’ll show you where you’re going to stay,” he said with the authority of one who knew exactly where he was going. “It’s got a kitchen, a TV, and
two
bedrooms. My uncle, aunt, and cousins stay there when they visit. So do my grandma and grandpa.”

“Okay,” Clayton said as he grabbed his luggage and jacket. “Lead on.”

Patrick didn’t move. “Are you really my brother? My dad says you are.”

Clayton dropped down on one knee and looked Patrick squarely in the eye while he continued to hold his hand. “I am your older brother, a Mescalero Apache, and a policeman.”

Patrick nodded in confused agreement. “That’s what my dad told me. He said you were all those things and a father too.”

“That’s true. Wendell and Hannah are my children. They’re a little bit older than you. You’ve only met them a couple of times and you were probably too young to remember. What do you think about that?”

Patrick paused and thought it over. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m too young to be a dad, but someday
I’d
like to be an older brother.”

Clayton laughed and looked up at Kerney and Sara. “Maybe someday you will be. You’ll have to talk to your parents about that.”

Kerney smiled and slipped his arm around Sara’s waist. “He already has.”

“We’re currently in negotiations,” Sara added. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be ready,” Clayton replied as Patrick led him away.