on the south side of the city, fearing he might be recognized. Instead, he'd gotten to know some of the locals, found his way to a good job with Mrs. Terrell, and met Rebecca.
Life had been good for a while, and now it wasn't anymore.
Released from the county jail, he'd walked to the outlet mall near the Interstate and rented a room for the night at a nearby motel, figuring the police wouldn't look for him there. After a quick trip to the food court at the mall, he'd locked himself inside the room, passed the time watching a Spanish television station, and plotted his escape from Santa Fe. He would go to Tucson where he could blend in easily, find work, and then call Rebecca to tell her that he was all right.
To do it he needed to get to his truck, which was parked at the stables.
A city bus stopped at the mall soon after it opened. He would ride the bus downtown, walk from there to the stables, and, if the police weren't there watching, drive away.
He checked the clock on the bedside table. The bus wasn't due to arrive for another thirty minutes.
Outside his room he heard the sound of a car. It started briefly, sputtered, and then died. Again and again the engine failed to catch.
He went to the window, pulled back the curtain, peeked out, and saw a woman bent over the car's engine compartment. Before he could release the curtain she turned, saw him, and gestured for him to come outside.
Terjo shook his head.
The woman stepped to the window and knocked on the glass. Terjo studied her. She looked frustrated and distressed. He slid the window open.
'Do you know anything about cars?' the woman asked.
'Yes, a little,' Terjo replied.
'Could you please see if you can get it started for me? Please?'
Terjo looked around at the parking lot before replying. He didn't see any police.
'Okay.'
He unlocked the door and it slammed into his face, knocking him backward. The woman and a man with a pistol forced him facedown on the carpet, handcuffed him, and searched him before yanking him to a sitting position.
Charlie Perry cocked his weapon and put the barrel an inch away from Terjo's right eye.
'You've got one minute to tell me who Phyllis Terrell had sex with the night she was murdered.'
'And if I do?' Terjo asked, stammering to get the words out.
'You go home to Mexico and you live,' Perry said.
'But if you ever come back to this country, you die, Ignacio.'
'I'm Santiago, not Ignacio.'
'Drop the game,' Perry snapped.
'You're wasting time.'
'What about Rebecca and my daughter? I need to see them, por favor.
Perry pushed the barrel against Terjo's eyeball.
'That's not an option. Maybe we'll have the Mexico authorities throw you in prison as a drug smuggler. Now you have three choices. Pick one.'
Terjo pulled his head back and looked through watery eyes at the woman, who stared at him without expression.
'His name is Ran dall Stewart. He lives up the hill from Mrs. Terrell, behind Alexandra Lawton's house. He was with her the last time I saw the senora alive. She asked me not to say anything.'
'You're a good boy, Ignacio,' Perry said as he released the hammer to his weapon and turned to the woman.
'Get him out of here.'
Agent Applewhite nodded and pulled Terjo to his feet.
'Don't even think about killing him,' Perry added. Applewhite smiled wickedly and marched Terjo out the door.
At the office Kerney worked his way slowly through a large group of smiling officers and civilian employees who'd gathered for an informal celebration of Larry Otero's promotion. Folks who'd been reserved, distant, or hesitant with Kerney praised his selection. Even two senior captains who'd been passed over for the appointment seemed pleased, as did several sergeants and lieutenants who could now think seriously about the possibility of moving up in rank. But the officers active in the police union were conspicuous by their absence.
Helen had bought a bouquet of flowers that sat on the vacant secretary's desk outside Otero's new office. She'd had a metallic silver banner hung above the door that read in bold letters, CONGRATULATIONS. A large coffeepot and pastries arranged on platters filled an office desk that had been covered with a tablecloth.
With his wife and two adolescent children next to him-a gangly, beanpole boy and an attractive, serious- looking girl-Larry Otero stood in the middle of the room surrounded by well-wishers, his face flushed with quiet pleasure. Otero's wife, a petite woman with a toothy smile, held a camera with a flash attachment in her hand.
Kerney stepped over to Otero, who interrupted the flow of conversation to introduce Kerney to his family.
'Will you do the honors, Chief?' Larry asked as he held out a double set of three stars, denoting his new rank.
'With pleasure,' Kerney said. He pinned the stars on Otero's collar while Larry's wife took pictures, and the room broke into applause.
After more picture-taking and small talk, the event ended as off duty personnel from the graveyard shift who'd stayed over for the party went home and the day-shift workers scattered. When Otero's wife left to take the kids to school and go to work, Kerney invited Larry into his office and sat with him at the conference table.
'Did you catch any flak out of city hall about my appointment?' Otero asked uneasily.
'None at all,' Kerney said, unwilling to start Otero off in his new job on a negative note.
A smile erased a slight tightness at the corners of Otero's mouth and he relaxed in his chair. His eyes seemed to invite further discussion, but he let the topic slide.
'Are you ready for your marching orders?' Kerney asked.
Otero's smiled widened and he nodded.
'Whenever you are, Chief.'
'Let's get to it,' Kerney said, reaching for the paperwork he'd prepared for Otero.
Randall Stewart's hands were cold and clammy, and a persistent impulse to wash them wouldn't go away. Because he was locked in a room at the National Guard armory, handcuffed with his arms between the slats of a straight-backed chair, sitting in the middle of a room, he couldn't do that. Instead, he waited for the special agent to come back into view.
For twenty minutes Stewart had been bombarded with questions. But now the agent constantly circled around the chair, silently scrutinizing him. Stewart felt trapped and vulnerable.
Charlie Perry had intercepted Stewart as he'd parked his shiny new BMW in front of his stock brokerage office. Tall and slim with a full head of curly dark hair, Stewart was at least fifteen years younger than Phyllis Terrell. Perry disliked the man instantly. His carefully tailored, expensive suit, his fancy car, the premium leather attache case he carried, the smug look on his face when Perry approached him, all combined to piss Charlie off.
'Phyllis never talked to you about political matters?' Perry asked, stopping behind Stewart's chair, out of sight.
'Never,' Stewart replied craning his neck in a futile attempt to look at the agent.
'What about the ambassador?' Perry asked.
'Did she talk about him?'
'Only to say she was glad the divorce was going through.'
'What about his work?'
'She didn't talk about that.'
'Never?'
'I knew he was on some sort of a government trade mission, that's all.'
