'Our friendship has cost him so much. Is he okay?'
'You saw him there, didn't you?'
Nita bit her lip and nodded.
'Tell me about your relationship with Paul Gillespie.'
'Paul was my classmate in high school.'
'Was he a friend?'
'Hardly that.'
'You didn't like him?'
'I couldn't stand him.'
'You wanted to confront him about Addie. I can understand that. He raped your daughter.'
Nita laughed harshly.
'Addie was Paul's daughter, too, Mr. Kerney. I left town when I found out I was pregnant. He never knew about Addie and Addie doesn't know about him.'
'You're leaving something out, Nita. Finish the story.'
Nita's shoulders sagged further.
'Paul raped me during my senior year in high school. Robert saw it happen.'
'When did you decide to kill him?'
'When Addie told me what Paul had done.'
Kerney sidestepped around the door so he could have a dear view of Nita.
'Tell me how it happened.'
'He was cleaning his pistol when I went to see him. I had a gun in my handbag. I was just going to kill him and leave. But I got scared. He grabbed me before I could walk out and gave me this hug-grinding himself against me. I felt like I was being raped all over again. I pushed him away, picked up his pistol from the desk, and pulled the trigger.'
'Get out of the truck,' Kerney said softly.
'Lurline called me right after you went to see her. I knew you would find me.'
'Step out of the truck.'
Nita shook her head. She turned her back to Kerney and her left hand disappeared into the center console between the bucket seats.
'Put your hands in plain view and get out of the truck.' Kerney unholstered his weapon and leveled the nine- millimeter at Nita.
'I'm not a very good murderer,' Nita said. As she turned to face Kerney, her hand came up holding a pistol.
She pressed the muzzle against her temple.
'Too much of a conscience, I guess.'
'Drop the gun,' Kerney said.
Nita shook her head and began to squeeze the trigger.
Too far away to make a grab, Kerney fired once. The bullet caught Nita below the shoulder and jarred her arm a fraction of a second before she squeezed the trigger.
The round went through the roof of the truck.
He was on her before she could recover. He yanked the gun away, pulled her out of the truck, stretched her on the ground, opened her shirt, and examined the wound. It was bleeding freely but was not life threatening. He had never shot a woman before and it wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.
'Why didn't you just kill me?' she asked.
'Too much of a conscience, I guess,' he replied.
West of Santa Fe, in a subdivision exclusively for the very rich, Enrique De Leon waited in his expansive living room. Pinon logs crackling in a stone fireplace at the far end of the room provided the only light.
De Leon watched the reflection of the flames flickering in the large glass windows, which by day afforded a stunning view of the Sangre de Cristo foothills and mountains.
De Leon checked his wristwatch; it was twenty minutes to first light, and according to the timetable he had established, Carlos Ruiz should already have returned.
He was about to become annoyed when headlights came into view at the bottom of the private road and paused briefly at the security gate. He watched the vehicle travel up the hill and turn into the driveway.
When he heard the quiet whir of the garage door opener from the lower level of the house, he smiled and closed his eyes. carlos Ruiz hurried up the stairs. The job had gone well, but he was late. And the jefe expected his instructions to be followed exactly, no matter what got in the way. He walked through the kitchen and slowed his steps down the long gallery hall to the living room. The hand-carved doors stood open, and at the far end of the room a fireplace glow cast just enough illumination for Carlos to see De Leon shape in the chair.
'Shall I turn on a light, patron?' Carlos asked. He spoke in English as De Leon ordered during any visits to the United States.
'That would not be wise,' De Leon replied.
Only two other houses had a line of sight to De Leon property. Both were million-dollar vacation homes staffed by full-time caretakers, who, if awake, might find it unusual to see lights on at such an odd time.
'All went well,' Carlos said, stepping into the room.
His heels clacked on the polished flagstone floor.
'What delayed you?'
'The private elevator was small, patron. Extra trips were required to move the items out of the offices to the garage. The access code to the underground garage had not been changed, so we had no trouble gaining entry to the building.'
'Unseen?'
'Yes, patron.'
'No one was in the building?'
'Two janitors. Both were on the first floor, cleaning the rotunda.
They did not see or hear us. I had Palazzi watch them throughout the operation, with orders to kill them should they become suspicious.'
Carlos took a deep breath before continuing. If he left out details, De Leon would become displeased. The patron frequently complained about the slowness of his mind.
'We wore gloves, hats, and masks as you ordered,' Carlos noted.
'No lights were on, and we disabled the security cameras in the reception area without detection.'
'Did you get everything?'
'Yes, patron,' Carlos replied.
'The walls are bare.'
'Store everything in the wine cellar,' De Leon ordered as he stood up.
'It is being done as we speak. The men will leave for Juarez as soon as they are finished.'
'Have them wait.'
'Yes, patron. And the woman?'
'In a few minutes,' De Leon answered as he walked past Carlos.
The curtains in the master bedroom were closed and die track lights dimmed low. De Leon looked down at the beautiful, heavily drugged face of Amanda Talley.
He would remember Amanda fondly for a very long time. Her hunger had matched his own, up to a point.
He lifted a strand of blond hair away from her cheek and stroked her face. Amanda did not respond.
De Leon had promised Amanda a vacation in Belize.
A pity she'd never know what she was missing. Her luggage and passport were in Belize right now, at the hotel where one of De Leon most trusted currency couriers-a woman of theatrical temperament who enjoyed playing roles and living well-had registered in Amanda's name. The woman would establish a fleeting presence in the midst of a great many witnesses, and then fake a drowning on a boating excursion, the body never to be found.
It was Amanda who had told De Leon how easy it would be to steal millions of dollars of American art.
