getting a continuance on the trial until next week. The architect spent all night at home. The wife said he got up at three in the morning when the baby started crying. It was his turn. He didn't leave home for the office until nine. We'll probe more, but it doesn't look promising.'
'Did you get any insight into Terrell from the men?'
'The architect said Terrell liked to sport-fuck-that she had endurance, a really high sex drive, liked it lots of different ways, and wasn't shy about expressing her preferences.'
'Had Terrell broken off relationships with either man?'
'Yeah, with the architect,' Molina said.
'But from what I gather, it wasn't like she had a relationship with either of them. It was more like a sex-on- demand situation, with Terrell calling the shots, so to speak.'
'Any word on Terrell's lover who lives in Ramah?' Kerney asked.
'According to the FBI, Scott Gatlin is Proctor Straley's ranch manager.'
Molina snorted.
'I asked Charlie Perry about that. He said his agent hadn't reported hack yet. While we're waiting to hear, I've got people checking on all deliveries and service calls made to the residence in the last six months, and following up on the list of names we got from Terjo. I've asked the postal service to put an intercept on Terrell's mail. I've also expanded the canvass to a wider area and we're re interviewing the neighbors.'
'What's the status on Terrell's sister and father?' Kerney asked.
'Both are still being questioned by Agent Perry's boys. I don't know when I'll have a chance to get to them.'
'If you get stonewalled, let me know.'
'Terjo walked, Chief. The DA said we didn't have enough to take to an arraignment for either drug dealing or possession.'
'Where is he?'
'I don't know. The jail called me after they released him. He left on foot. I've got an officer stationed at the girlfriend's house in case he shows.'
'Let's hope he's not hitchhiking his way to Mexico,' Kerney said.
'I've alerted the Border Patrol, and I've got units looking for him in the south-side barrios. I'd like to pull in the swing shift gang unit, Chief. They know that area well.'
'Do it, Lieutenant, and from here on out don't slow yourself down waiting to get my permission. You're authorized to use all available plainclothes personnel.
Cancel days off if you need to.'
'I'm not used to having so much latitude, Chief.'
'Well, get used to it, Sal.'
Molina grinned.
'That's not going to be a problem.'
'Where's that background information on the ambassador I asked for?'
'We've got a file of newspaper clips that give a resume version of Terrell's military career and diplomatic appointments, but not much else.'
'What were his major duty assignments after Vietnam?'
'He attended the War College, did an extended tour at the Pentagon in the Defense Intelligence Agency, then assumed command of the School of the Americas at Fort Benning, Georgia. After getting his first star he served as deputy commander for army intelligence. In his final posting as a major general he headed up the army's intelligence and security command.'
Andy Baca had found a link to army intelligence through Fred Brown, and now Sal Molina added another connection that pointed in the same direction.
'Thanks for the update, Lieutenant,' Kerney said.
'Keep me informed.'
Molina nodded.
'Thanks for getting us some help, Chief. I'll give Sloan the word.'
Sal left to call Sloan. Kerney put his head against the chair back, stared at the ceiling, and wondered what set of circumstances might tie Elaine Applewhite to Hamilton Lowell Terrell and his murdered wife.
Fred Browning stood in his office at a west-side Albuquerque computer-chip production plant looking at the copy of the photograph Andy Baca had faxed to him. The woman wasn't particularly attractive, but then most female FBI agents and police officers Browning had known over the years didn't look anything like the actresses who played cop parts in movies and on television. He called Tim Ingram and said he was on the way.
'I'm leaving work a little early,' Tim said.
'Why don't you do the same? Come by the house and I'll buy you a drink.'
'It's a deal,' Browning said.
In the year since Tim Ingrams arrival in Albuquerque a strong friendship had developed between the two men. Both were divorced, and they spent a lot of free time together, meeting for after work drinks, taking off for day-long fishing trips on the weekends, and frequently working on state business for the Society of Professional Corporate Security Executives.
Tim had come west from a job with a Virginia high-tech think tank to take over as chief of security for a Department of Defense contractor that did top secret research and development at Kirtland Air Force Base.
His job required him to live on the base and he'd been given a choice field-grade officer's housing unit.
A guy with a casual style who made friends easily, Tim liked to throw parties and entertain. Fred had been his guest many times, usually sitting in at a regular Thursday-night poker game, or hanging out on Sunday afternoons at the cookouts Tim organized during the NFL season.
Adjacent to the Albuquerque International Sunport, Kirtland began as a World War Two bomber training facility. After the war, part of the Los Alamos atomic bomb project moved to the base, and over the next fifty-odd years, Kirtland grew into a high-security facility for the storage of nuclear warheads and cold-war weapons development and testing.
Sandia National Laboratory, an Energy Department facility, was housed on the base along with an Air Force Test and Evaluation Center and a Space Technology Center. Although much of the work on the post remained secret, the development of satellite and computer based systems for verifying arms-treaty nuclear-weapons reduction had received a great deal of press attention over the last few years.
Construction around the main gate to the base slowed Browning's entry.
He waited patiently for traffic to move, thinking if anyone could confirm the identity of the FBI special agent as a military officer, Tim Ingram could. Tim had spent countless hours during his years back east in Beltway meetings with defense intelligence types, and he loved to tell funny stories about their ineptitude and dull wits. He particularly disliked pedantic military analysts and knee jerk FBI bureaucrats.
The air-police guard stopped him as he rolled up to the checkpoint, consulted his clipboard, scanned Browning's driver's license, and waved him through. He drove toward the officers' housing area wondering why Andy Baca, who hadn't told him much, wanted an ID check on an FBI agent.
Maybe it was tied to the murder of the ambassador's wife up in Santa Fe.
But then again, New Mexico was home to two national laboratories, several high-security military installations, and dozens of defense contractors engaged in sensitive government work. There was always the possibility that one government spy shop or another had some big investigation going on. Any good cop would want to learn what he could about the people who came snooping around in his backyard.
He parked at the curb and rang the bell. Tim opened up right away.
'Hey,' Browning said.
Ingram smiled. About five eight, Tim had a boyish face, curly light brown hair, and the trim frame of a middleweight boxer.
'I'm just about to make myself a drink,' Ingram said.
'It's been a hell of a week so far. Take off your jacket and join me.'
'Gladly,' Browning replied, pulling off his suit coat.
In the kitchen he watched Tim pour generous double shots of his favorite whiskey into tumblers.
'So, you've got a friend who wants some back-door information on a fed,'
