'It's your call,' he said.
Pearson's slight nod of agreement gave Kerney no sense of satisfaction. She had the look of a small animal about to be eaten by a predator.
'Come inside the house,' she said.
It took an hour for Pearson to tell her story. Part confession, part rationalization, it spanned the years just before Norvell's return to New Mexico and his election to his first term in office. Pearson had been the number-one girl in Norvell's Denver stable; the most expensive, the most in demand, the one with the most repeat customers.
She had made money, spent money, gotten high, lived the good life: designer clothes, weeks at luxury resorts with wealthy men, extravagant gifts, world travel. She explained what it had meant to a girl from a dysfunctional family who'd felt worthless and stupid.
She told him how watching Norvell's older girls get dumped as they lost their bloom made her realize she had to do something with her life before it was too late. How coming to Santa Fe on working weekends to be with clients, she found a place where she thought it would be possible to turn things around.
Kerney didn't interrupt. He heard her out as she talked about breaking away from Norvell, moving to Santa Fe, going into therapy, apprenticing with a clothing designer, opening her business, meeting her future husband, starting a family. Finally, she stopped, exhausted by the outpouring. But her eyes looked clearer, less troubled.
Kerney decided not to press too much for specifics. That would come later in an in-depth interview. He brought up Adam Tully and Luis Rojas and got confirmation that both were Norvell's partners. He learned that Rojas lived in El Paso. She had no knowledge of Cassie Bedlow, Gene Barrett, or Leo Silva.
'We'll need to meet again,' he said. 'You can pick the time and place, but it must be soon.'
'How did you find me?' Pearson asked.
'Luck,' Kerney replied.
'Here at the house is best, in the mornings after eight. My husband goes to work and drops the children off at preschool on his way.'
'Tomorrow, then,' Kerney said. 'I think we can wrap things up in one session.'
Pearson's eyes bored into Kerney with the hardness of a con who'd been trumped. 'You suckered me with this bullshit about the grand jury, didn't you?'
'Not necessarily,' Kerney replied. 'I'll try to work something out on your behalf.'
She snorted in disbelief. The sound stripped away the last shred of her sophisticated veneer. 'Yeah, right. Son of a bitch. Have you got a cigarette?'
'I don't smoke.'
'Neither do I.'
'If you change your mind about tomorrow, our deal is off.'
'No kidding,' Pearson said.
Outside, the glare of sunlight bounced off the roofs of the houses in the valley below, washed out the roughness of the mountains beyond, and pulled most of the color from the sky. Kerney drove away from Helen Pearson thinking that the siren call of Santa Fe had always drawn searchers, dreamers, nonconformists, and oddballs looking to transform their lives. Why not a hooker? Considering everything, Pearson had done a damn good job of it.
His cell phone rang. At Kerney's request, the fiscal officer who kept the records of legislators' travel and per diem reimbursement payments had searched Senator Norvell's old files. Norvell had attended a three-day meeting of a joint-house finance committee in Santa Fe that coincided with the date Anna Marie Montoya had disappeared.
Kerney now had motive and opportunity, but he needed more. He decided a trip to Lincoln County would be worthwhile. That was where Montoya's body had been found and where Norvell and his buddy, Adam Tully, had grown up. The connection between the two was too strong to dismiss.
He checked the time. The architect was waiting for him at the building site with a survey crew, and Sara was standing by at Fort Leavenworth for his call. This was the day the site for the house would be spotted and staked. It was the last chance before the contractor broke ground to make sure everything was as it should be. He would talk Sara through it as the survey crew and the architect laid out the footprint for the house.
He wondered if Sara would reinvent herself once the baby came and the house was finished. Could she give up her career and be satisfied with the role of wife and mother? It was all still undecided.
He called the architect, said he was on the way, and pressed the accelerator.
There had been something not quite right about Clayton's meeting with Detective Brewer. After a few worthless hours of trying to get a handle on Harry Staggs, Clayton ate a quick meal at a family-style diner and tried to sort it out. For starters, Brewer hadn't shown any interest in Clayton's investigation, hadn't asked any questions about what a deputy sheriff from Lincoln County was doing down in El Paso seeking information about local prostitutes.
Was that because he simply didn't care, or because he already knew about it? If he knew, how did he know? Had the El Paso police captain who'd given Rojas a clean bill of health passed the word to the troops about him nosing around?
Brewer had held on to the paperwork, showing Clayton none of it, instead reading little excerpts. Was there something he didn't want Clayton to see? Clayton doubted that offense reports of solicitation for the purposes of engaging in prostitution held much in the way of sensitive or confidential information a brother officer would be reluctant to share. Or maybe they did.
Clayton had two bits of information, the names and photographs of the prostitutes. He looked at the women's pictures. Both were young and very attractive. Not what Clayton considered to be typical street-walkers, although he'd only actually met one: Sparkle, the hooker who'd fingered Ulibarri in Albuquerque.
He decided to spend some time visiting the best El Paso had to offer in the way of expensive hotels. There were only a few, if the yellow pages were anything to go by. Maybe he could find out if Brewer had been holding something back.
After three stops with no results, he made his way downtown, which had one nice hotel near the plaza. The area looked like an urban redevelopment project that had gone down the tubes when the money ran out. Around the spruced-up plaza were old commercial and retail buildings in need of attention. One, which had obviously been a flagship department store, sat empty. Two public works buildings, a public library, and an art museum were nearby. Behind the plaza several Victorian homes sat forlornly on a small hill surrounded by vacant lots. There was no life to the place, few people, and Clayton didn't see many customers inside an eatery steps away from the hotel.
Modern in design, the hotel towered over the district in startling contrast to the bleak, shabby-looking street that cut a straight line to the Rio Grande and the Mexican border.
Inside, the lobby was empty. At the reception desk, Clayton asked for the hotel security chief, and was soon greeted by a slender man in a suit and tie who introduced himself as Bob Rigby.
'Yeah, I know these two,' Rigby said as he looked at the photos of Victoria and Sandy, the two hookers.
'Have you seen them lately?'
'Yeah, a couple of weeks ago they were here in the restaurant dining with two of our guests. Then they went up to their rooms.'
'You're sure of that?'
Rigby nodded. 'I'm sure. Those two are in the hotel three, maybe four times a month, sometimes more. I know why they're here, but I'm not a cop. Whatever guests do in their rooms doesn't matter to me, as long as they don't cause a commotion, trash the place, skip out on their bill, or steal the towels.'
'What about the cops?' Clayton asked.
'They don't care either, unless they get a complaint. We try to avoid that, if possible.'
'Bad for business, I suppose,' Clayton said, wondering what else Detective Brewer might have lied about. He handed Rigby the rest of the photographs of the women he'd collected at the motor vehicle office.
'All of them have been here at one time or another,' Rigby said. 'All of them are working girls.'
'Including this one?' Clayton asked, pointing to Deborah Shea's photo.
Rigby nodded. 'But I haven't seen her in quite a while.'
'Do you know who these women work for?'
'That, I don't know.'
