Death Song (34 page)

“Which one did you find?”

Kerney described the Saint-Gaudens in detail.

“A very nice gold coin,” Edgerton said. “Probably worth a lot more now than what the insurance company reimbursed me. Don’t send it to me. The insurance company owns it now.”

“I understand that, Mr. Edgerton. Would you mind if we ask you some questions about the robbery?”

“Go ahead, but I’ll tell you right now I’ve been over all of this a dozen times or more and it hasn’t done a bit of good.”

Kerney and Clayton took turns asking Edgerton questions, and his answers were consistent with the facts recorded in the case file. The night of the robbery, Edgerton, a widower, had locked all the doors and windows to his house, armed his home security system, and gone to bed around ten-thirty. Just after midnight, a masked, armed man woke him and ordered him to open the safe in the downstairs library. Edgerton did as he was told and the robber cleaned out the contents, which consisted solely of the coin collection. The robber tied Edgerton up using duct tape and left by a rear door.

“There were two of them,” Edgerton said. “I’m sure of it. When the thief with the gun was leaving my house, I heard a car engine start up. He had a wheelman.”

Clayton smiled at Edgerton’s use of crime story slang. “But you didn’t see the driver.”

“No, and as I said, I didn’t really see the man with the gun. He was masked.”

“In your statement you said he was slender in build and about five-eight or five-nine in height,” Kerney said.

“That’s right. But he was wearing one of those ski masks so I didn’t get to see the color of his hair or any of his features.”

“His eyes?” Kerney asked.

“I was too scared to notice.”

“What did he sound like?” Kerney asked.

“An average bloke,” Edgerton replied.

“Australian?”

“That’s right.”

“Had there been any other recent robberies in your neighborhood?” Clayton asked.

“No. The police who investigated told me that I’d been targeted because of my coin collection. They talked to everyone who knew about it, and that wasn’t very many people as I tend to keep my affairs to myself.”

“A wise thing to do,” Clayton said. “Did anything out of the ordinary occur in your neighborhood prior to the robbery?”

“Out of the ordinary?”

“Door-to-door salesmen coming around, large parties that might have attracted strangers to the neighborhood, people asking for donations to worthy causes.”

“I can’t recall anything like that.”

“Mr. Edgerton,” Kerney said, consulting the list of names that Claire Paley had deciphered from Denise Riley’s letters. “I’d like to read you some names and have you tell me if you either know the person, or if the name sounds familiar.”

“Go ahead.”

“Diane Plumley.”

“No.”

“Debra Stokes.”

“No.”

“Dorothy Travis.”

“No.”

“Anyone who might have used Dot as a nickname.”

“No.”

“How about a Mrs. John Coleman?”

“I don’t know anyone named Coleman.”

“Jann and Jeffery McCafferty?”

“Jeff and Jann are friends, although I don’t see them very often now that they live in Sydney. Jeff’s a senior vice president of a bank.”

“How did you make their acquaintance?” Clayton asked.

“At church. I’ve know them for twenty-five years or more. In fact, Jeff got me started collecting coins as an investment. He’s a serious numismatist.”

Clayton zeroed in on Edgerton’s interactions with the McCaffertys around the time of the robbery. Edgerton had lost his wife to a stroke six months before the theft. To bolster his spirits, the McCaffertys had made him a frequent guest at their dinner parties. Mostly the guest list consisted of bankers and their spouses, but sometimes Jeff threw a beer and pizza party for his serious coin collector friends.

“Think back, Mr. Edgerton,” Kerney prodded. “A few weeks before the robbery, do you remember meeting an American woman at one of the McCaffertys’ dinner parties? She would have been Hispanic looking, attractive, in her early thirties, slender and petite, with dark hair.”

“I can’t recall meeting an American woman like that,” Edgerton replied. “But there was a very interesting couple from Belize Jeff had met at a Brisbane coin show. Belize used to be British Honduras, you know. Part of the Commonwealth. He was a Brit and she was half-English and half-Hispanic. However, I don’t recall their names.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“No, it was years ago and I only met him and his lady friend that once.”

“Thank you,” Kerney said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

A smiling Matt Chacon stood in the open doorway. Kerney waved and pointed to an empty chair. Matt entered and sat.

“I hope you catch the bugger who stuck that gun in my face and stole my property,” Edgerton said.

Kerney promised to do his best, said good-bye, disconnected, and turned his attention to Chacon. “Why the smile?”

“Because the thumbprint on the plastic coin sleeve belongs to one Archie Pattison, a citizen of the United Kingdom. He is also known as John Culley, Denise Riley’s employer.”

“By chance does Mr. Pattison have any ties to what was once known as British Honduras?” Clayton asked.

Matt looked surprised. “Yes, he does. He was born there. When British Honduras became the independent country of Belize, he retained his British citizenship and emigrated to London. He served in the Royal Marines and disappeared from sight after his discharge.”

“What else do you know about Mr. Pattison, aka John Culley?” Kerney asked.

“Other than he’s in this country as a permanent resident under a false identity with a forged passport, that’s it for now,” Matt replied. “What do you know about him, Chief?”

Kerney stood. “Culley and Denise Riley, posing as a married couple, probably pulled off that coin heist in Australia. Let’s go pay Culley a visit. Where’s Sergeant Pino? She needs to be in on this.”

“She’s on her way here,” Matt replied.

Kerney headed for the door with Clayton and Matt at his heels. “Tell her to meet us at Culley’s house.”

“Roger that, Chief,” Matt replied.

Chapter Twelve

John Culley lived on a hill off a dirt lane near Acequia Madre. The area hadn’t yet become completely gentrified, but the upscale Santa Fe–style estates already outnumbered the tiny, dilapidated casitas with peeling paint, rickety doors, and tumbledown concrete block walls owned by the
plebe
.

The deep snow and heavy drifts on the unplowed side streets made the trip to Culley’s road a thirty-minute adventure. The three officers arrived at the bottom of the hill to find Ramona Pino parked and waiting in her unmarked unit. They stood with her in front of her vehicle and gazed at the steep, impassable lane.

“Did anyone remember to bring snowshoes?” Ramona asked.

Kerney looked down at his petite sergeant and smiled. “I don’t think it’s quite over your head. We’ll pull you to safety if it is. How far up the hill does Culley live?”

“I don’t know,” Matt replied. “I only met with him at his place of business.”

“I’ll break trail,” Clayton said.

“Lead on,” Kerney agreed.

They started out in single file behind Clayton, with Ramona and Matt bringing up the rear.

“Do we even know if Culley is at home?” Ramona asked Matt.

“Nope. On a day like this with everything shut down, the chief thought it best to make an unannounced visit so as not to raise any suspicions.”

“So what’s the plan when we get there?”

“We surround the house, while Chief Kerney and Sergeant Istee knock at the front door and introduce themselves.”

“That should work.”

Up ahead, Clayton and Kerney paused to look at street numbers on some mailboxes that were poking up above the snow level at curbside.

Ramona was happy to take a break. Trying to keep up with her long-legged companions had turned into quite a chore. “Do you think Culley was the father of Denise Riley’s unborn child?” she asked.

Matt gulped down some cold air that freeze-dried his throat. “I had the distinct impression that he was gay. But maybe he’s bi.”

“There was no mention in your notes that you talked to Culley’s alleged lover.”

“Never did,” Matt said. His legs were aching from pulling each foot free from the deep snow and plunging on. “At the time of my interview, Culley was a source of information, not a suspect.”

Ramona’s breath iced up in the air. “Maybe Culley’s housemate, lover, or whatever you want to call him, is a beard.”

“Could be. Do you think Culley killed her because she was pregnant or because she had appropriated some of their ill-gotten gains without his knowledge?”

Ramona’s nose was runny. She wiped it with a tissue. “Rage is one possible motive. Greed, jealousy are others.”

“Maybe Culley, his lover, and Denise Riley were a ménage à trois.”

“That’s an interesting notion.” She stuffed the tissue in a coat pocket.

Twenty feet ahead, Kerney and Clayton stood at the front of a driveway where two vehicles sat under a carport. Neither the walkway to the house nor the driveway showed any sign of foot or vehicle traffic. There were lights on inside the residence.

Using hand signals, Kerney motioned for Ramona to cover the front of the house and Matt to take the back.

“I doubt Culley is going to try make a getaway under these conditions,” Matt said as he checked his semiautomatic and returned it to its holster.

“You’re such a spoilsport, Chacon,” Ramona said as he moved off.

Culley’s house was one of those old adobe casitas that had been renovated, expanded, and made into a seven-figure property. It had a squat profile, rounded parapets, recessed windows in the double adobe walls, two chimneys spewing piñon smoke into the cold sky, a wide flagstone portal, and a tall, hand-carved antique Mexican front door.

Kerney rang the doorbell and brushed snow off his soaked pant legs with a gloved hand while he waited. Clayton stood to one side of the door stomping his feet to loosen snow from his boots. He had his hand in his jacket pocket, gripping his semiautomatic.

The door opened to reveal a slender, middle-aged man wearing a crewneck wool sweater, fleece sweatpants, and bedroom slippers. He had rather tiny feet. Size eight, Clayton guessed.

“John Culley?” Kerney asked.

“Yes, indeed.” Culley glanced from Kerney to Clayton with what appeared to be amused interest. “Surely you’re not new neighbors, unless someone has moved away from the lane within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Surely, we’re not, Mr. Culley.” Kerney stepped through the doorway before Culley could react. “Or should I call you Archie Pattison?”

Culley’s lighthearted expression vanished. “You’re cops?”

“Indeed we are. Is there anyone in the house besides you?”

“My partner is in the library.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Very good. Where is the library?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The library, Culley,” Kerney demanded.

“Straight through the living room and turn left at the hallway.”

Kerney nodded to Clayton, who went to round up Culley’s partner.

“Why are you barging in here?” Culley asked.

“We’re arresting you on five counts of murder one.” The death of Denise’s unborn child counted as a separate homicide. Kerney spun Culley around, pushed him up against a wall, cuffed his hands at the small of his back, and recited the Miranda rights.

“That’s absurd.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you killed them, Culley? You’re going to prison anyway for illegal entry, false identity, and whatever else the feds decide to throw at you.”

Culley’s eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to say to you, and I want to call a lawyer.”

“All in good time.” Kerney used his handheld to call Ramona and Matt into the house. When they arrived, he turned Culley over to them and went to find Clayton, who was talking to a nervous man in the library.

“This is Proctor Whitley,” Clayton said.

Whitley looked to be about Culley’s age. He was stout and had a long narrow chin that quivered slightly.

“Are you going to arrest him?” Kerney asked.

“Whatever for?” the man asked in a quaking voice.

Clayton shrugged. “He says he wants to cooperate.”

“Okay, see what he has to say. Matt and Ramona will work with you. I’ll tell them to get started on a search warrant.”

“Where are you going?”

“Culley doesn’t want to give up his Miranda rights, so I’m taking him to jail. Check in with me when you’re done here.”

“Will do.”

At the front alcove, Kerney told Culley he was going to jail and pushed him out the door.

“There’s three feet of snow out here,” Culley said. “At least let me put my shoes on and get a coat.”

“It’s not that far down the hill,” Kerney said as he yanked Culley off the portal face-first into the deep snow. “You’ll make it just fine.”

During the drive to the county detention center on Highway 14 outside of town, Culley didn’t say a word. He didn’t even bitch about being forced to walk through the snow in his bedroom slippers without a coat. He sat silently in the backseat shivering and staring out the window with a blank look on his face.

At the jail, Kerney asked Culley if he wanted to change his mind and talk without an attorney present. Culley gave Kerney a scornful look and shook his head. Kerney put him in a holding cell and went to do the paperwork. Just as he was finishing up, Sid Larranaga, the district attorney, sat down next to him.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Kerney said.

Sid removed his hat and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. “This is your last major case before you retire, and I want to make sure you get it right.”

Kerney smiled. Sid had publicly announced that he would not stand for reelection two years hence, and there was talk among the local politicos that he planned to run for state attorney general instead. The Culley case, if won, would be a feather in his cap as a true crime fighter.

“That’s awfully good of you, Sid. Do my people have a search warrant?”