Meanwhile, Detective Bobby Sloan and the three agents on loan from Andy Baca were wading knee-deep through interviews in the Father Mitchell slaying with nothing substantial to report.
Kerney leaned back in his desk chair and looked around the stark office.
He'd done nothing to decorate it since moving in, and he wasn't inclined to hang up framed certificates, plaques, or other memorabilia from his law enforcement career as most other police chiefs did. He'd read recently that such a 'trophy wall' was standard equipment for corporate VIPs and Capitol Hill politicians.
Now that he was a bigwig, maybe he should get with the program. If nothing else, it would spark some amusing sarcasm from Helen Muiz. And Sara would never let him hear the end of it, he thought with a smile.
Sara was coming in from Fort Leavenworth this weekend. After they toured the land in Galisteo that was up for sale, maybe she'd help him pick out a few prints he could have framed for the office.
Because of his hectic week and the intensity of her class schedule at the U. S. Army Command and General Staff College, he hadn't spoken to her for days. He missed the sound of her voice, the updates about the progress of her pregnancy, and all their exciting talk about building a home and starting a family.
With Larry Otero on board as deputy chief, unless something major broke in the homicide cases, the weekend would be his to spend with his bride.
He'd married Sara less than a year ago, soon after her return from a tour of duty in Korea, where she'd been decorated and promoted for crushing a North Korean assassination plot against the visiting secretary of state.
Although he saw her infrequently, she'd made Kerney feel far happier about his life than he ever could have imagined. The considerable wealth he'd recently inherited from the proceeds of Erma Fergurson's land bequest paled in comparison to the rich texture of his relationship with Sara. He couldn't imagine loving someone other than smart, sexy, feisty Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon.
He left his office, signed the paperwork for Otero's promotion Helen had waiting for him on her desk, said good-night, and drove to his cramped quarters, thinking it was time to get serious about building a new house.
The top-floor presidential suite at the Hotel San Marcos consisted of a sitting room, bedroom with master bath, fully equipped and stocked galley kitchen, and study. Furnished with high-quality reproductions of Spanish Colonial pieces and decorated with original lithographs of well-known New Mexico artists, it had corner fireplaces in each room, hand-troweled plaster walls, and Mexican tile accents in the kitchen and bath.
Ambassador Hamilton Lowell Terrell stood gazing out the sitting-room window with his back to Charlie Perry. The narrow street was empty of foot traffic and only a few cars remained parked at the curbs. From his vantage point he looked down on a line of flat-roofed buildings that housed retail shops, all closed for the night. At the corner of the block rose a three-story building. It had two rows of old-fashioned wood sash windows evenly spaced above the ground floor, some with broken glass, others with damaged screens. Although two stores, a gift shop, and a boutique operated at street level, the rest of the building looked empty and unused.
'You're quite certain everything is set?' Terrell asked, turning to face Perry, who stood in the galley kitchen stirring sugar into a freshly poured cup of coffee.
'We should be able to wrap it up tomorrow,' Perry said as he dropped the spoon into the sink.
Terrell moved to the kitchen, rinsed and dried the spoon, and put it in the proper drawer.
'I don't like this probing by the local authorities into Applewhite's cover.'
'That has been contained,' Perry said, moving away from Terrell.
'It better be,' Terrell said as he dried his hands.
'Is Proctor Stra ley on board?'
Perry sat on the couch facing the fireplace where pinon and cedar logs crackled in a warm blaze, and sipped his coffee.
'Along with his daughter Susan. They know about the affair between your wife and Straley's ranch manager. Mrs. Terrell made no effort to hide it, and both were well aware of Mrs. Terrell's appetites.'
'Give me the specifics,' Terrell said.
'As we discussed, you'll be the grieving husband.'
Terrell stared at Perry, a cocky young man he didn't much like.
'I know my role.
What about the preparations for Scott Gatlin, the ranch manager?' he said.
'It's better if you don't know, Ambassador.'
Terrell walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands.
'Don't presume to coddle me, Agent Perry.'
Perry's smile vanished.
'Gatlin has been on vacation, fortunately traveling alone with no set agenda. He's due to return late tonight. He'll be intercepted as he arrives, taken to Gallup to be interviewed, and then released. He'll go home, get drunk, write a suicide note confessing to the killing, and put a bullet in his head.'
'Is there anyone staying at the Straley ranch?'
'No, and there aren't any nearby neighbors.'
'How will you make the confession stand up?'
'Threatening letters from Gatlin to your wife, vowing to kill her if he couldn't have her, were recovered by the FBI last night at her residence. A packet of letters written by Mrs. Terrell to Gatlin demanding that he stop harassing her will be found among his personal effects. Gatlin will be portrayed as a fixated, mentally ill stalker who killed his ex-lover.'
'Straley isn't a stupid man,' Terrell said, 'and my sister-in-law has never liked me. Are you sure this will work?'
'Both of them know Gatlin as a lady's man with a temper and a jealous streak.
With the proof we'll provide there should be no reason for them not to buy it.'
'Which is?' Terrell demanded.
'That Gatlin raped your wife the night of her murder. If necessary, we'll produce witnesses who saw him in Santa Fe before the crimes were committed.'
Terrell nodded.
'I hope this Kerney fellow is as inept as you say he is.'
Perry snickered.
'Kerney? Absolutely.'
'I've read Kerney's background file, Agent Perry. His credentials as an investigator are strong, and he's made some impressive arrests over the years.'
'I've worked with him before, Ambassador. Believe me, he's a loose cannon.
Besides that, he's running a department filled with shit-for-brains detectives.'
'I don't think Chief Kerney remembers I was his commanding officer for a time in Vietnam.'
'I didn't know that,' Perry said.
'You didn't serve in the military, did you, Perry?'
'No, sir.'
'Too bad. Ben Franklin once said that there is no such thing as a 'little enemy.' The politicians didn't keep that in mind when we fought in Vietnam.
Don't make the same mistake with Chief Kerney, Agent Perry.'
'I won't. We'll continue monitoring the situation.'
'Very good. See that you do.'
Perry left and Terrell moved to the writing desk, turning his attention to funeral arrangements. He thought about Phyllis as he began making a list: private services at the cathedral, burial at the national cemetery, invitations limited to a small group of government officials and the immediate family.
Aware of Phyllis's loose reputation, he'd married her anyway, because it allowed him access to Proctor Straley's sphere of considerable influence. At the time Straley had almost swooned with delight to see his tramp daughter finally so well wed. The great sex she gave Terrell until the marriage soured had been an enjoyable bonus.
Phyllis would be alive today, if she hadn't been so damn nosey. He paused and looked at his list. A letter of condolence to Proctor Straley from the President was in order. He made a note to call the White House in the morning.
