“Has anything come up?” Clayton asked hopefully.
“Nope.” Ramona looked over her shoulder and through the window that gave a view of Salgado’s secretary at her desk. “So they’ve put you in this fishbowl to keep an eye on you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t intend to stay here all day every day. In fact, initially I want to keep our interviews with the commissioned personnel informal and low-key. Let’s meet with the deputies in the field, in their squad cars, over coffee, in the break room, or at their homes whenever we can. Have you encountered any male deputies or employees who seem a little skittish to you?”
“No, but based on how this killer went about his business, I wouldn’t expect him to be anything but cool and collected. Do we even have anything more than a hunch that suggests the murderer could be a cop?”
Clayton shook his head. “It’s all theory at this point.”
“Great. Okay, how do you want to do this?”
Clayton said he wanted the first round of interviews to start in the morning. He’d take the brass, the administrative staff, and the civilian office workers. Ramona and her two detectives would divvy up the three shifts, including all officers and the regional dispatchers housed at the facility. The four of them would convene every morning to set their schedule, and debrief every evening.
“Let’s meet here in this office at 8 A.M.,” he said as he stood up and tucked the casebook under his arm.
“You got it,” Ramona said as she got to her feet. “Are you going to see Chief Kerney while you’re here?”
“Yeah, in about thirty minutes. I’m staying at his place.”
Ramona followed Clayton out of the office. “I’m going to miss him when he retires at the end of the month.”
Clayton locked the door. “Raising cutting horses and running a ranch sounds like a pretty good way to retire to me.”
Ramona laughed. She knew the story of how Kerney had inherited his wealth from a famous Southwestern spinster artist who’d been his mother’s best childhood friend and college roommate. “Think I could get to do something like that on a retired sergeant’s salary?”
“Maybe if you supplemented your retirement income as a security guard, you could swing buying yourself a broken-down pony.”
Ramona chuckled. “That’s an ugly thing to say about somebody’s future prospects, Sergeant.”
“I know it,” Clayton replied with a smile.
The sheriff’s office door was closed, Mielke was away from his desk, and the secretary was nowhere to be seen. In the briefing room, Ramona introduced Clayton to her two detectives, Jesse Calabaza and Steve Johnson. He spent a few minutes talking to the detectives about his plans for the next day, before excusing himself.
Outside, the night sky was a low blanket of clouds pushed along by a cold wind that carried the sting of light sleet and the promise of heavy snow. He was northbound on Interstate 25, traveling in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, when the storm hit. He slowed the unit way down, put it into four-wheel drive, and made his way carefully through the whiteout to the exit that would take him to the Galisteo Basin and then on to Kerney’s ranch.
When Clayton arrived, the dashboard clock told him that the snowstorm had more than doubled the time he had figured to reach the ranch. Through the swirling blizzard, the lights from inside the ranch house looked warm and inviting.
He knew that he would be warmly welcomed, and although he didn’t think he deserved such treatment, he would put his pride aside as Grace had suggested and act like a dignified Apache.
He killed the engine and grabbed his luggage from the passenger seat. The outside lights winked on and the front door opened. With his head up and his face chilled by the wind-driven snow, Clayton walked up the path and said hello to his father.
Chapter Five
Kerney’s house wasn’t ostentatious, but it was clearly the home of a well-heeled man and his family. The rooms were large, the ceilings high, and the art on the walls original and highly collectible.
Over the years Kerney had frequently invited Clayton and his family to visit, but they had accepted only once. At Grace’s urging, they’d phoned and been persuaded to come for dinner on the last evening of a long weekend visit to the state capital and several of the nearby pueblos. Although Kerney had repeatedly invited them to stay at the ranch, Clayton, not wanting to impose, had booked the family into a budget motel on Cerrillos Road.
Patrick had just turned a year old at the time, so it had been a good two and a half years or more since Clayton had stepped over the threshold into Kerney’s house. He put his luggage on the floor and shook Kerney’s outstretched hand.
“Welcome,” Kerney said with a warm smile.
Clayton nodded. “Some weather out there.”
“It’s a humdinger of a storm, and desperately needed.”
Clayton removed his leather jacket and draped it over his luggage. “I hope it heads south to Mescalero.”
Before the two men could say more, Patrick scooted between them, stopped in his tracks and gazed up at his half brother.
“You’re Clayton,” he said emphatically.
“That’s right,” Clayton replied.
Patrick stuck his hand out. “Let’s shake hands.”
“Okay.” Clayton bent down and shook Patrick’s hand. When he rose up, Sara was standing next to Kerney. She stepped forward, gave him a quick hug, and released him.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said.
“And you,” Clayton said. “I am happy to see that you are home and recovering from your wounds. Kerney e- mailed me to say you’d been decorated and promoted. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Sara said politely. “I’m so glad you’re staying with us. Since you were last here, we’ve built a guest wing. It’s totally self-contained with its own private entrance, but I do hope you’ll take your meals with us when you can.”
Sara had spoken hurriedly, as though she was trying hard to put him at ease. Or was it that she wished to avoid any conversation about her wartime experiences in Iraq? Clayton decided it was probably a bit of both.
He smiled. “Since I’m not much of a cook, and meals of cold pizza and fast-food burgers get old real fast, I’ll be glad to eat with you when my schedule allows.”
“Good,” Sara said. “We’re big on stews and soups in this household, so there will always be something for you in the refrigerator.”
Before Clayton could protest that he didn’t need any special treatment, Patrick tugged at his hand.
“I’ll show you where you’re going to stay,” he said with the authority of one who knew exactly where he was going. “It’s got a kitchen, a TV, and
“Okay,” Clayton said as he grabbed his luggage and jacket. “Lead on.”
Patrick didn’t move. “Are you really my brother? My dad says you are.”
Clayton dropped down on one knee and looked Patrick squarely in the eye while he continued to hold his hand. “I am your older brother, a Mescalero Apache, and a policeman.”
Patrick nodded in confused agreement. “That’s what my dad told me. He said you were all those things and a father too.”
“That’s true. Wendell and Hannah are my children. They’re a little bit older than you. You’ve only met them a couple of times and you were probably too young to remember. What do you think about that?”
Patrick paused and thought it over. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m too young to be a dad, but someday
Clayton laughed and looked up at Kerney and Sara. “Maybe someday you will be. You’ll have to talk to your parents about that.”
Kerney smiled and slipped his arm around Sara’s waist. “He already has.”
“We’re currently in negotiations,” Sara added. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”
