Kerney prodded.
'For me.' Andy cranked the engine and slid into a Harper Springer twang.
'But, hell, son, we all work for the people of this great state. So let's recover the goodies and catch the bad guys before the governor's opposition starts slinging mud at him.' since Andy's information on the robbery was preliminary and sketchy, Kerney was up to speed in the three minutes it took to reach the Roundhouse.
'What kind of vehicle would it take to move the artwork out of the city?' Kerney asked as he opened the passenger door of the cruiser.
Andy handed him the list of the stolen items.
'Nothing big; a panel truck, van, or small rental trailer would do it.'
'Any idea when the break-in occurred?' Kerney asked as he scanned the inventory.
'Not more than three or four hours ago. What do you have in mind?'
'If the stuff's not airborne it's either stashed somewhere or on the road. How about telling the district commanders to have their patrol officers do some selective traffic stops? Give them a profile of what kind of vehicle to look for. We might get lucky.'
'I should have thought of that,' Andy said, reaching for the microphone as he drove away.
Kerney was braced for an ID by a uniformed female officer on duty in the reception area of the governor's suite. Her black uniform with gray piping had no chevrons on the sleeves and the collar insignias were silver, which identified her as a junior patrol officer.
He showed her his badge while he read the brass nameplate over her right shirt pocket. Patrol Officer Yvonne Rasmussen stiffened and pulled in her chin. No more than five-four, about twenty-five years old, with short brown hair and light gray eyes, everything about Rasmussen's bearing told Kerney that the young woman was ex- military.
'Chief,' the officer said.
In spite of himself, Kerney liked the way his new title sounded.
'How soon can you get someone to relieve you?'
'Ten minutes, sir.'
Sending Yvonne Rasmussen to Fletcher's door would probably bring a chuckle from the old man the next time Kerney saw him. He handed the officer the list of stolen merchandise, and asked her to make a copy as soon as she was relieved, get photographs from the museum of all the items, and take everything to Fletcher's house. He gave her the address.
'I'll take care of it, sir,' Rasmussen said as she folded the list and slipped it in her pocket.
'Can you have my vehicle picked up and brought to me?' he asked as an afterthought, fishing for his car keys.
'It's at the same address.'
'Can do, sir.'
'Great,' Kerney said, handing over the keys.
'Thanks.'
'No problem, sir.'
'Who is in command of the crime scene investigation?' he asked.
'Lieutenant Marcella Pacheco, sir.'
'Where is she?'
'Meeting with the governor's chief of staff.'
'Have her report to me in Captain Howell's office when she's finished.'
'Yes, sir.'
Kerney gave Officer Rasmussen a smile and limped away, thinking his blown-out knee needed rest.
Vance Howell's office was a small room right off the reception area.
Yellow crime scene tape blocked passage down the corridor that led to the governor's suite. Kerney could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner and the voices of the crime scene technicians as they worked the area.
He toured the crime scene before heading to Howell's office, where he found Lieutenant Pacheco waiting for him.
A blowout on the interstate just north of the Truth or Consequences exit slowed down De Leon men.
With the Border Patrol checkpoint station only a mile up the road, it was a bad place to get a flat tire. Custom agents, state cops, and Border Patrol officers were thick as flies along this stretch of highway, and Nick Palazzi flinched every time a patrol unit cruised by.
He watched Emilio and Facundo change the tire while he stood guard at the back of the van, next to the green-and-white highway sign that announced the Truth or Consequences exit. Nick had spent many nights in local motels waiting for the Border Patrol checkpoint to shut down so he could move De Leon drugs safely up the pipeline, and he knew the town had been named for an old television show from the fifties. To Palazzi's way of thinking, it was a stupid name for a town.
Emilio had been the driver, Pacundo the muscle, and Nick the trigger-man on the Santa Fe job. De Leon information and planning had been good, so nobody had gotten hurt except for the dead woman in the back of the vehicle.
Nick was nervous about the body, and he had his hand wrapped about the grip of the handgun inside his windbreaker pocket just in case a curious cop decided to stop and check them out.
He knew better than to try to hurry along the two men. An American, Nick had spent four years rotting in a Mexican prison and the past two years working for De Leon Both experiences had only hardened his prejudice against Mexicans, especially the mixed bloods, who were about one baby step out of the fucking Stone Age.
He stamped his feet against the cold. An Arctic low pressure system had entered the state, and the morning was dismal under a dreary sky.
Creosote bushes sprinkled over the desert sand hills fluttered in a stiff breeze that swirled and lifted small dust plumes into the sky.
Just as Emilio tightened the last lug nut on the spare, a state police cruiser rolled into view at the top of the hill.
Nick told Facundo and Emilio to stay put as he watched the black-and-white patrol car coast to a stop ten feet behind the van. He waved with his free hand and smiled at the officer, who waved back, keyed the handset to his radio, and started talking. Nick figured the cop was calling in the license number, which was cool since the van wasn't stolen and had valid Texas plates.
Nick started to move toward the cop car, but the officer motioned him to stop. He shrugged and complied, watching as the pig waited for a response to his radio inquiry on the van. Finally, the cop opened the driver's door and stood behind it for cover. Not a friendly sign, Nick thought as his finger found the trigger of the weapon concealed in his windbreaker.
'Just a flat, Officer,' Nick called out in a friendly voice.
'We've got it fixed and we're ready to roll.'
Officer Jerry Rogoff kept all three men in view.
There were no wants or warrants on the vehicle.
'Heading home?' Rogoff asked.
'Trying to,' Nick replied with a smile.
Nothing looked out of the ordinary to Rogoff, but the special bulletin on the Santa Pc art theft made a closer inspection necessary. He nodded, stepped around the open cruiser door, and walked toward the three men. The Anglo man stood near the rear door to the van, while the two Hispanics waited quietly at the rear left fender, a tire and jack at their feet.
'Mind opening the rear door?' Rogoff asked the Anglo man, stopping six paces away, out of striking distance.
Nick smiled.
'Not at all.' He pulled on the latch and swung the door up.
As the cop switched his gaze to the van. Nick shot him twice through the pocket of his windbreaker, the rounds punching into Rogoff's bulletproof vest.
Slammed back by the impact, Rogoff pulled at his sidearm.
Nick put a bullet in the cop's forehead before he could free the weapon. pa lazzi studied the road map while
