'Does he fly out ofjuarez?'
'No. El Paso. It is much less suspicious to the norteamericanos for him to do so.'
'I understand he owns houses in many countries.
Can you get me exact locations?'
'Your friend at Customs asked for the same information, and as much as I tried, I was unable to supply it. It is my belief that whatever property De Leon owns outside of Mexico is not in his name.'
'You have no sources of information that you can tap into?' Kerney prodded.
'There must be some information on his whereabouts floating around.'
'Do you wish to have us killed, senor? De Leon has bought more than diplomatic immunity from our government with his riches. He now has former federal intelligence agents on his payroll. Simply asking questions could make us both targets for assassination. And if the former ruraks didn't murder us, either De Leon gangsters, the Juarez policia, or one of your corrupt Drug Enforcement Agency operatives surely would.'
'That's not what I want to hear.'
Juan raised his hands in an expression of helplessness.
Frustrated, Kerney changed the subject.
'There may be a shipment of stolen art moving into Mexico sometime soon.' Kerney handed Juan the inventory.
De Leon is behind the theft. Will you keep your eyes and ears open?'
'That, I will gladly do,' Juan replied.
Kerney extracted an envelope and laid out three thousand dollars.
Juan's long, dark eyelashes fluttered.
'You pay me more than my normal fee,' he said, 'and I have given you very little in return.'
'Use what you need to buy information, and consider the balance a retainer.'
'As you wish, senor.'
'You may be questioned about my visit.'
'Do you have a cover story you wish me to use?'
'Tell them about the art theft, but try not to disclose that I'm looking for De Leon 'I will do my best to maintain the confidentiality of our conversation.' the road to the Rancho Caballo clubhouse where the O'Keefie Museum fund-raiser had been held was barred by electronic security gates.
Gilbert Martinez pulled to a stop next to the guard station. A young Hispanic male wearing a green sweater and khaki pants popped out of the small building, flashed Gilbert a big smile, and informed him that he needed a visitor's pass to get in.
Gilbert flashed his shield in response. After a few minutes of bickering with the kid over whether or not he had the right to proceed with police business on private property, Gilbert got testy. He made dear the implications of interfering with an officer in the performance of his dudes, and the guard grudgingly opened the gate.
Gilbert drove a mile down a paved private road to the clubhouse and coasted to a stop, his mind disbelieving what he saw. The clubhouse had a two-story central core with single-story wings that stretched out on either side. At the front of the building, stone walkways wandered through landscaped rock gardens to a wroughtiron bridge that spanned a man-made pond. A flagstone driveway led to a portal reserved for valet parking.
Behind the clubhouse, the lush green of a fairway flowed up to pinon-studded hills. With a Spanish-tile pitched roof, the place had the feel of a Palm Springs resort. It was uncommonly glitzy looking, and the fact that Santa Pc had become just another trendy resort destination for the wealthy depressed Gilbert.
The sprinklers were on, pumping fine streams of water in arches over the golf course, and the grass glistened in the soft light from a hazy sun. As he parked and walked toward the entrance, Gilbert wondered what bureaucratic idiot had approved such a waste of water. Arid New Mexico survived on groundwater and snowpack runoff; it was not a commodity to be wasted on a rich man's playground.
Before he reached the entrance, the door opened and a stylish woman in her late forties stepped out to meet him. Her blond hair was carefully curled and tinted. She wore a long Santa Fe-style dress that accentuated her trim figure and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. She held a cellular telephone in her hand.
'I'm afraid we're closed today,' she said, before Gilbert could introduce himself.
'I need to speak to the concierge,' he replied.
'I'm the concierge,' the woman replied with a casual glance at Gilbert's badge and ID.
'I can't talk to you right now. I'm very busy.'
'I'd like to ask you about the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum benefit event held here last month.'
'What do you want to know?'
'Who attended the function?'
'I'm sorry, I can't help you.'
'Don't you keep a guest list?'
'Of course we do. But this is a private club. We don't release any information without the permission of the board of directors.'
'Your cooperation would be helpful,' Gilbert replied.
'Could you bend the rules this time?'
'Certainly not,' the woman said.
'If you want access to any information, you'll have to talk to our legal counsel. If your request is approved, I'll be glad to cooperate with you.'
'And who is that?'
'Cobb, Owens, and Mackintosh.'
'Is there anyone else besides your lawyers who might be able to help me?'
'The staff at the Museum of New Mexico Foundation co-sponsored the event and sent out invitations to their members. You might want to talk to them.'
'Would they have a complete list of all the guests?'
'Only the museum foundation members, I would imagine,' the woman said.
'A blanket invitation went out to all Rancho Caballo residents through our monthly newsletter.'
'I'm particularly interested in talking to a gentleman with a Hispanic surname. Supposedly, he owns a home here. He may be Spanish or Mexican.' Gilbert consulted his notebook and read off the description Prank Bailey had provided him.
'Do you know anyone like that?'
'As I said before, I'm afraid I can't help you.'
Gilbert got the concierge's name, thanked her, and walked back to his car. Nothing about this case seemed to come easy. He checked the time. First, he would try the two women Roger Springer had admitted taking on late- night tours of the Roundhouse. He had been unable to reach either of them yesterday. After that, he would stop at the county assessor's office and get a listing of who owned lots and homes in Rancho Caballo.
He doubted that too many Hispanic surnames would pop up on the tax records for the subdivision. gilbert's interviews with the women confirmed Roger Springer's account of impromptu, innocent after hours tours of the governor's suite. But Gilbert came away with the sense that he'd heard a canned, rehearsed story from each woman. Neither had struck him as the type who would be thrilled by the opportunity to have just a private tour of the Roundhouse. He couldn't help but harbor the suspicion that Springer and the women might have had a completely different agenda for the late-night visits-like having sex on the floor in the governor's private office.
It wasn't all that kinky. Once, when investigating a report of fraud at a state agency, Gilbert had walked in on a manager who had forgotten to lock his office door while he was performing oral sex on his girlfriend.
He walked down the long wide hallway of the old county courthouse, a lovely WPA building two blocks from the plaza. The hand-carved beams, finely crafted corbels, delicate tin light fixtures, and the sweeping staircases had been retained, but the guts of the building had been ripped out and modernized after the district court and sheriff's department had moved to other locations.
As a child, Gilbert had occasionally accompanied his father to the courthouse when it still housed all the county services. Back then, his father knew most of the people who worked there on a first-name basis. Gilbert knew none of the workers he passed in the hallway, and it only deepened his feeling that he was a stranger in his hometown.
Maybe it had been a mistake to take the promotion to sergeant and move back to Santa Pc. So far, it had
