was heading to the district headquarters anytime soon. He got an affirmative reply, and asked if she'd carry some evidence to Gundersen.
'Roger that,' Raney said. 'Give me a twenty and I'll meet up with you.'
Clayton told her where he was, and within five minutes Ulibarri's boots were in the trunk of Raney's unit on the way to Alamogordo. He arrived at the office to find Sheriff Hewitt waiting.
'Dispatch tells me you located Humphrey's car last night,' Hewitt said.
As far as Clayton could tell, there was no censure in the sheriff's voice. 'One of Moses Kaywaykla's security people spotted it in the resort parking lot,' he said. 'I didn't even think to look for it there.'
'The best mistakes we make are the ones we learn from,' Hewitt said with a small chuckle. 'How did the vehicle search go?'
'I've got more than enough to ask for a murder-one arrest warrant,' Clayton said. He quickly filled Hewitt in.
'Very good. Do the affidavit, update your advisory bulletin, and get me a progress report when you can. I'll call the DA and tell him you're going to need his sign-off and a judge's approval right away. Now that we know Ulibarri isn't driving Humphrey's car, how do you think he's traveling?'
'Don't know.' Clayton replied. 'But I'm going to call around to every car dealer and rental company in Ruidoso as soon as I get the warrant signed.'
'Good idea,' Hewitt said. 'What if Ulibarri isn't traveling?'
'I've thought about that, and I've asked Sergeant Quinones and Von Dillingham to start phoning area motel and hotels, ASAP.'
'Work it hard,' Hewitt said, waving Clayton out of his office.
Kerney started a new day still looking for the 'doctor' who had called Walter Montoya asking for Anna Marie. Yesterday, he'd checked with the licensing boards for physicians, psychologists, counselors, chiropractors, optometrists, and practitioners of Chinese medicine. The few names he got wound up as dead ends.
After making no progress at the state nursing board, he put in a quick appearance at the office and then paid a visit to the state department of education, asking about any recent appointments of a male PhD in area school districts. He scored another zero.
He moved on to the local colleges, hoping perhaps a midyear faculty vacancy or an administrative position had been filled by someone matching the scanty information Walter Montoya had provided. That failed, so he went back to the office and expanded his search by phone, calling colleges in Albuquerque and some nearby area branch campuses, on the chance his unknown party commuted to work from Santa Fe, as more and more people did these days. The hunt fizzled out quickly.
The more Kerney worked to find the mystery caller, the more he began to realize that he still had a lot of ground to cover. The number of specialties, professions, and disciplines offering doctoral degrees had mushroomed over the last thirty years. There seemed to be PhD programs for virtually every occupation. Academia had apparently become a head-count growth industry, much like the private prisons that were springing up all over the country.
He called churches looking for newly installed reverend doctors, local high-tech think tanks asking about recently hired scientists, and state and local civil service personnel offices, hoping to locate any PhDs who were newly employed in the public sector. Zip, zilch, zero, nada.
He dropped the phone in the cradle and grunted in frustration as Helen Muiz, his office manager, walked in.
'My, my,' Helen said. 'Should I warn the troops that you'll be short-tempered and testy today?'
'You are cursed with a wicked sense of humor, Mrs. Muiz,' Kerney said with a laugh.
In her fifties, Helen was a grandmother who didn't look like one. Always well dressed, today Helen wore tan slacks and a red silk top. Years ago she'd served as Kerney's secretary when he was chief of detectives. He was delighted to have her working with him once again.
'I like to think of it as a survival skill,' Helen said, 'made necessary by working in a male-dominated, testosterone-charged environment. That issue aside, Mr. Walter Montoya is waiting to see you. He says it's about his sister.'
'Send him in,' Kerney said.
Montoya entered, looking a bit sheepish. 'First, I'd like to apologize about yesterday.'
Kerney stepped from behind his desk and raised a hand to cut him off. 'There's no need. I wish the world was more perfect, Mr. Montoya, so that nobody had to go through what you and your family have experienced.'
Montoya nodded and gave Kerney an opened envelope. 'This came in yesterday's mail at my parents' house.'
Kerney read the return address. He'd spent hours trying to come up with the information that had just been dropped in the palm of his hand. He waved the envelope at Montoya and smiled. 'I take it this is from the man who called looking for your sister?'
'Yes.'
Kerney nodded. It got him one step closer to talking with someone who might have new information. 'This could be very helpful.'
Montoya shrugged, paused, and spoke slowly, the words coming with difficulty. 'Or not, I suppose, given what few facts you have to work with.'
'If this doesn't pan out,' Kerney said, tapping the envelope with a finger, 'we won't stop looking for your sister's killer,' Kerney said. 'I promise you that.'
'I believe you,' Montoya said. 'Still, I want to apologize for our behavior yesterday.'
'That's not necessary. It's perfectly natural to get frustrated when a police investigation stalls, no matter what the circumstances.'
'Blaming you or your department serves no purpose. My sister and I talked; we won't cause you any problems.'
'I appreciate that.'
Montoya solemnly shook hands and departed. Kerney knew the sudden resurgence of goodwill might well be fleeting. The need to finger-point and blame could easily return. He'd seen it happen time and again with family survivors, who could go from feelings of numbing anguish to blistering outrage within a matter of minutes.
He read the return address and the enclosed sympathy note, called information, and got a new residential listing for Kent Osterman in Los Alamos. He dialed the number, identified himself to the woman who answered, explained the reason for his call, and learned that Osterman was at work. The number she gave him at the Los Alamos National Laboratory yielded Osterman's voice mail.
He hung up without leaving a message. On his way out of the administrative suite he paused at Helen's desk and told her where he was going.
'Did you know more people with PhD degrees live in Los Alamos, per capita, than anywhere else in the country?' she said.
Kerney nodded. 'And most of them are pursuing peace in our time by designing new, improved weapons of mass destruction. Doesn't that give you a warm, fuzzy feeling?'
'That's the other thing about working with cops,' Helen said with a laugh.
'What?'
'You're all so cynical.'
'Only about people,' Kerney replied.
Los Alamos was coming back from a major forty-thousand-acre forest fire that had burned down hundreds of homes and scorched the adjacent national forest with heat so intense that large swaths of ground were barren of growth. On ridgelines random exclamation points of blackened timber stood as silent reminders of the catastrophe. During the summer months, monsoon rains eroded canyon slopes, buckled roads, broke sewage lines, flooded streets, and seeped into basements.
But with the damage and destruction confined to several heavily forested residential areas, the urban core of the city still looked tidy. High in the Jemez Mountains on a narrow plateau, it was thirty-five miles from Santa Fe. For all practical purposes, it was a corporate town with one industry, a national research laboratory created by the legacy of the atomic bomb. No matter how the chamber of commerce or the town fathers tried to soften the image, Los Alamos remained a place of scientists, spies, and secrets.
