Danny Hobeck was out renewing old acquaintance ships but his sister, Margie, was home. A thin, nervous woman in her late sixties with rounded shoulders and apprehensive eyes, she reluctantly let Kerney in.
He sat with her in a living room entirely given over to her three cats. There were scratching poles in each corner for the tabbies to use. Rubber mice, tennis balls, and pet toys were scattered across the oak floor. Next to the pet door that offered access to and from the front porch, three food bowls were lined up, each inscribed with a name-Frisky, Mellow, and Violet. Framed photographs of the cats were prominently displayed on top of a television set.
The tabbies padded back and forth across the room, tails upright, giving Kerney a wide berth.
'I understand Vernon and Danny were best friends,' Kerney said.
'I wouldn't call it a friendship.'
'What would you call it?'
'Vernon led Danny around by the nose,' she said after some hesitation.
'You don't sound well-disposed toward Vernon.'
'He wasn't a very nice boy.'
'Care to tell me why you feel that way?' Kerney asked.
Margie leaned forward in her easy chair and snapped her fingers. One of the cats turned and jumped into her lap. She stroked it and said nothing.
'How much younger are you than Danny?' Kerney asked.
'Five years.'
'Does he have a family?'
'Two grown children. His wife died last year.'
'And your family?'
Margie recoiled slightly and wet her lips. 'I never married.'
'Will you be attending the funeral services?'
Margie scratched the cat's chin while the ignored felines converged at her feet. 'No.'
'Care to tell me why?'
She patted the arm of the chair and the animals jumped into her lap. 'I don't want to go.' She ran a hand over the yellow cat's back, and it arched and purred.
'Would Danny be able to tell me why you don't like Vernon?'
'He would never do that.' Her tone was biting.
'When will he be back?'
'I don't know.'
'I'll call for him this evening.'
'He won't talk to you.'
Kerney let himself out wondering why so many people in Langsford's life, past and present, needed to keep secrets.
'I remember that call,' Marcos Narvaiz said. He poured Tim Dwyer a cup of coffee at his kitchen table, returned the pot to the stove, and ran a hand over his shaggy, curly gray hair.
'Tell me about it,' Tim said.
'I was the first responder on the scene. The whole thing was a mess. Waxman did the best he could under the circumstances.'
Narvaiz's house was in the high foothills on the highway to Ruidoso. It sat between the village post office and the volunteer fire department. Marcos served as fire chief, a position he'd held for ten years, and his wife ran the post office. Tim had worked many accidents with Marcos and knew him well.
'I know the victim was separated from the bicycle, but Waxman didn't get a photograph of where it came to rest,' Tim said.
Marcos laughed. 'He ran out of film after he did the three-sixty shots of the victim and the skid marks. You should have heard him cursing about it.'
Tim pulled out Waxman's field drawing. 'So where did the bicycle wind up?'
Marcos pointed to a spot. 'About here.'
'You're sure?'
'Yeah. I helped him inventory and bag the bike parts for evidence. He wanted the debris cleaned up fast so he could reopen the highway.'
'How long was the debris trail?'
'The bike shattered on impact,' Marcos said. 'From the rear wheel to the handlebars, I'd say it was a good thirty feet.'
Tim marked the spot on the field drawing Marcos had pointed to and nodded. 'About the same distance Langsford was catapulted over the vehicle.'
'What are you looking for?' Marcos asked. 'It was a clear-cut hit-and-run.'
'The driver's intent,' Tim replied.
'What kind of magic do you use to figure that one out?'
'It's guesswork, and I can't prove it, but I think the driver deliberately ran into that bicycle.'
'What if the driver was drunk?' Marcos countered.
'Even drunks hit the brakes and take evasive action before impact. Their reactions are way too late and slow, but they do it.'
'You got the skid marks from the car,' Marcos said.
'They're front-end yaw marks from a hard turn of the wheels into the cyclist,' Tim said. 'I calculated distance, speed, and zero skid resistance at the scene. The vehicle was traveling at sixty miles an hour. Langsford went flying, landed on his head, and bounced like a deflated rubber ball, according to the autopsy. His internal injuries were equivalent to falling from a three-story building.'
'Jesus,' Marcos said. 'You're saying this was murder, not vehicular manslaughter.'
Tim nodded. 'I'd never be able to prove criminal intent in a court of law, but Waxman blew the investigation, big time.'
After talking with the on-duty motel employees, all of them women except for the manager and the cook in the restaurant, Robert Duran left fairly well satisfied that none had a vendetta against Chief Kerney. Most of them recognized Kerney only as part of the state police contingent staying at the motel, and the few who knew the chief had been responsible for shooting Randy Shockley didn't act distressed about it. On top of that, no one admitted to personally knowing Randy Shockley.
He started working the businesses along the strip across the street from the motel, concentrating on those within easy walking distance.
He stopped in at a fast-food joint, a service station, a package goods store, and a run-down motel that catered to low-budget travelers, and then took a break at a mom-and-pop restaurant. He sat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. When it came he asked the woman if she'd heard any talk about the shooting of Sergeant Shockley.
'Everybody talks about it, but a little less each day,' the woman said.
Maybe pushing fifty, the woman had a pudgy nose and very tiny ears. She swatted at a fly with a counter rag and missed.
'Are people still upset about it?' Robert asked.
'I wouldn't say that. Most of them just think cops are plain stupid.
They steal and then shoot each other. It doesn't make folks feel real safe and protected, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?'
Robert took a sip of his coffee before answering. 'I'm a cop.'
'Hey, I'm not one of those people who badmouths the police.'
