Smiling, her eyes dancing, Applewhite came around the front of the car.
'You're a stone-cold bitch,' Ingram said.
Applewhite laughed at her old West Point classmate.
'I didn't want to leave you out of the loop, Tim.'
'You like killing people, don't you, Elaine?'
'This Bureau detail has made you soft,' Applewhite said darkly.
Ingram watched the chopper take off. In two hours Browning's body would be fed into a high-temperature furnace at a primate research laboratory on a southern New Mexico air force base.
'Ashes to ashes,' Applewhite said.
Ingram turned away, drove to his quarters, swallowed a quick double shot of single mash, and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It didn't matter that the hit had been sanctioned by the chain of command, an innocent man was dead. That made it capital murder. In a just world he would be arrested, charged, convicted, and sentenced for the crime.
None of this should have happened. Not to Browning, Terjo, or Stewart.
He turned out the light, wondering what had become of the fresh-faced, idealistic kid from Iowa who'd wanted to be a career officer, a war-fighter, a kick-ass, gung-ho soldier? Could he ever put on the uniform again?
Bobby Sloan's undercover four-by-four Chevy Blazer came with all the customary surveillance goodies, plus the added bonus of a laptop computer linked to federal crime information computers and state motor vehicle data banks. After checking out the vehicle Bobby had clipped a wallet-size photograph of his wife to the visor, just like in his regular unit. Lucy had never been a babe in the Hollywood sense of the word, but she was his babe. The photo reminded Bobby that his first priority on the job was to survive and go home to Lucy when work was done.
Tailing Applewhite to Albuquerque had been a breeze, but he'd been forced to break off contact when she entered Kirtland Air Force Base at a guard checkpoint station. Bobby waited away from the gate and down the street to avoid raising suspicion. Over the years Sloan had trained dozens of new detectives in undercover and surveillance techniques. He'd always hammered away at the mantra to observe, record, take nothing for granted, and get the details. Bobby practiced what he preached.
Only a few cars entered the base while Bobby waited. He used his time spotting license plates through binoculars, running MVD record checks on the laptop, and writing down the information. It was a boring task, but it kept him focused. His interest jumped when a car approached the gate, flashed its headlights, and got waved through without stopping.
Somebody important was in a hurry.
Sloan ran the plate, got the name of the registered owner, and searched motor vehicle files for driver's license information. The likely driver of the car was a. Timothy Ingram. Sloan saved the information, which came with a color photograph of the subject, on a floppy disk.
After spending all night poring over the Mitchell evidence, Kerney allowed himself two hours of rack time and fell asleep immediately. The alarm jarred him awake. He cleaned up, spooned down a bland-tasting bowl of instant oatmeal, and played back Sara's telephone messages.
Message 1: 'You sounded edgy the last time we spoke. Call me. I'm worried about you.'
Message 2: 'Are you busy? Should I cancel the weekend trip? Call me.'
Message 3:
'Nobody at your office knows where you are. I can't spend all day trying to track you down. Dammit, Kerney, where are you! I'm flying in. Meet me at the airport if you can.'
Kerney winced. Sara was justifiably pissed at being ignored. He'd put Molina and Sloan deep undercover. That meant no contact with their families or the department, no disclosure of the assignment, and no communication that could compromise the operation. Stupidly, he'd been operating with the same mindset, which was exactly the wrong thing to do. He needed to act like everything was normal.
Kerney checked the clock. Because of the difference in time zones it was an hour later at Fort Leavenworth. If Sara was true to form, she would be out on her morning run before heading off to classes. He called and left a message. The week had been hellishly busy, he couldn't wait to see her, nothing was wrong, and he was sorry he hadn't called sooner.
He'd pick her up at the airport.
He went to the bathroom, ran the shower, and called Reynaldo Valencia, a professor of Latin American studies at the university in Albuquerque.
Mitchell had phoned the professor a number of times from Brother Jerome's office. He woke Valencia up and explained his reasons for calling. Valencia agreed to meet with him immediately.
His house phone rang before he could leave. He picked up and Helen Muiz asked him if he was ever planning to come into the office again.
'What's up?' Kerney asked.
'Mr. Demora, the city manager, is eager to see you.'
'About?'
'He wouldn't say. But he left three messages last night after six P. M.'
'You're at the office early.'
'Someone has to hold things together in your absence.'
'I have a deputy chief now, Helen.'
'Yes, and thank goodness he's here to assist me. You also have other tasks waiting that need your attention.'
'Can they hold?'
'I suppose so.' Helen sighed.
'Call Demora and ask him if this afternoon would be convenient.'
'And where will you be until then?'
Kerney thought fast.
'I have a doctor's appointment in Albuquerque.'
'Is something wrong?'
'Just the knee acting up again.'
'You should get it looked at,' Helen said sympathetically.
'You've been limping rather badly lately. I'll put you down on sick leave for the morning.'
Even though he had no visible tail, Kerney ditched his unit in front of his orthopedist's office in Albuquerque and called a cab to pick him up at the back of the building. Reynaldo Valencia lived near the university on a street named for one of the early presidents. The house was a fifties post-war, Santa Fe-style single-story residence sheltered from the street by mature shrubs and large trees.
Valencia was a tall man with graying hair that matched the color of his neatly trimmed mustache. He greeted Kerney with a serious, questioning expression and guided him to a family room that proclaimed an enjoyment of books and learning.
Shelves crammed with books filled walls from floor to ceiling, magazines, journals, and newspapers filled table tops and thick dictionaries and atlases rested on pedestal stands.
'I don't know if I can help you,' Valencia said. He gestured at a comfortable chair and took a seat in a rocker. He spoke perfect English with a slight Spanish accent.
Kerney sat down.
'I'm sure you'd like to see Father Mitchell's killer brought to justice.'
'Very much so. But my experience has made me rather distrustful of police officers.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' Kerney said.
'Have you had some bad experiences with the police?'
'Indeed, I have.
For example, it was the police who inadvertently introduced me to Father Mitchell,' Valencia said.
'We met in jail, after having been arrested during a peaceful, nonviolent demonstration at the entrance to Fort Benning. The police roughed us up, handcuffed us, put us in paddy wagons, and locked us in a cell for hours. They had no cause to do it.'
'That doesn't sound pleasant,' Kerney said.
