reputation?”
Helen’s shoulders sagged and her eyes moistened. “Because I can’t help myself. I’ve always done it. Denise was the rebellious child in the family: refusing to go to Mass, staying out late, playing hooky from school, drinking, running away from home. Our father would make her stand in the living room in front of the entire family and switch her legs with his belt. It only made her more defiant. When she left Santa Fe after high school I thought she would be gone forever. Now she is.”
Helen’s tears returned. Kerney had learned long ago to be patient with survivors of loved ones who’d died violently and suddenly. The shock was catastrophic. It magnified grief and caused emotional ripple effects that surged uncontrollably.
After a long crying jag, Helen sniffled into a fresh tissue and forced a brave smile.
“Can you think of anybody Denise might have been sexually involved with?” Kerney asked.
“I’d be the last person to know anything about that. Denise was a very private person in some ways, especially about matters she knew the family wouldn’t approve of.”
“Okay,” Kerney said. “Let’s switch gears. What can you tell me about Tim’s son, Brian?”
“I only met him once. He seemed to be a bit of a free spirit. Several times, Ruben and I invited him to come to dinner with Tim and Denise, but he never did. He didn’t seem interested in Denise’s family, and why should he have been? We were all strangers to him and he didn’t stay in Santa Fe long enough to get to know us.”
“Did Denise mention having any difficulty or problems with Brian while he stayed with them in Canoncito?”
Helen shook her head. “She hardly talked about him at all.”
“Denise may have given him a large amount of cash.”
“What for?”
Kerney shrugged. “We don’t know. But what we do know is that Tim and Denise didn’t have a lot of money to give away. Did Tim talk to you about helping his son financially?”
“No. The only thing Tim said was that Brian’s arrival in Santa Fe had come out of the blue, but they were getting along better than expected and he was hopeful that they might be friends. Why haven’t you asked the boy these questions?”
“We’re trying to find him so we can,” Kerney replied.
Helen paused and studied Kerney’s face. “Do you think he may have killed his father and my sister?”
“We have no reason to believe that.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an uninformed civilian,” Helen said. “I’ve spent thirty-five years working with cops. You’re treating him like a suspect.”
“Of course we are,” Kerney replied, “until we can find him and clear him or book him. Now, I have to talk to you about one more thing, and then we’ll be finished and you can get some rest.”
“What is it?”
“We asked the State Department to give us Denise’s passport records during the years she was a traveling and working outside of the country. They have nothing on file. As far as the federal government is concerned, Denise never even applied for a U.S. passport.”
“That’s impossible,” Helen replied. “She sent me letters from everywhere she lived.”
“Did you keep them?”
“Of course.” Helen pushed the comforter off her lap and stood. “Are you suggesting my sister lied about where she lived and what she did?”
“No, I’m just saying the State Department has no record of her travels. Her letters may go a long way in clearing up the confusion.”
“Many of them were postmarked and stamped in other countries, and as I told you before, she often used her boyfriend’s surnames.”
“I’m sure they will be very helpful,” Kerney said.
“Let me get them for you.”
Kerney rose. “I’d prefer if you would just show me where they are.”
“Are you taking them for analysis?”
“With your permission,” Kerney said.
Helen nodded and moved across the living room. Kerney followed her to a small home office next to the master bedroom. It was as neat and tidy as Helen’s office at police headquarters and just as well organized. Family photographs covered wall space that wasn’t given over to bookcases, and a desk was positioned to give a view out a window, where Kerney could see the vague shape of a thick tree trunk in the weak light of a rising new moon.
Helen opened a desk file drawer which held hanging folders. One thick folder labeled in typed bold caps read “DENISE’S LETTERS.”
Kerney asked Helen for a large manila envelope, put the file inside, and sealed it. “I’ll let you know what we find.”
He walked with Helen back to the living room, where Ruben waited. He shook Ruben’s hand, hugged Helen, said good night, let himself out, and hurried to his unit, eager to get home to check on Sara. He hadn’t spoken to her all day, and even though she’d been in a good mood that morning, he still worried about her. Her bouts of depression could recur at any time.
He called in his on-duty status to dispatch as he left Helen’s driveway, and received a back-channel message from Clayton that he’d gone to Albuquerque in search of Brian Riley and would stay there overnight.
Kerney decided to wait until morning to read Denise’s letters before turning them over to Questioned Documents at the lab for analysis. He also decided he would ignore the speed limit on the drive home, and soon he was on U.S. 285 just about to turn off on the ranch road.
Although it had been a very long day and there were still no clear suspects in sight, Kerney felt possible breaks in the case were looming. He also knew that what looked promising at first glance often came to a screeching dead end after closer inspection. He decided not to get too optimistic.
Up ahead lights inside his ranch house winked down at him from the saddleback ridge. Kerney shut down the cop thoughts rattling around in his head and drove up the canyon, happy to be going home to his wife and son.
Chapter Seven
Hoping to locate Brian Riley quickly, Clayton ran down the cell phone number Riley had given Randy Velarde three months earlier. But the account had lapsed and the address Riley had used when purchasing the phone was nonexistent.
After confirming that Riley had paid cash for the motorcycle, Clayton tried to nail down the source of the money Denise had allegedly given the boy. But Denise’s financial accounts showed nothing more than normal credits and debits from direct deposit of her paychecks and the checks she wrote every month for routine bills and credit card payments. There was no record of her borrowing money or purchasing money orders. Additionally, none of the banks in Albuquerque or Santa Fe showed any accounts opened by Brian Riley.
If Riley had lied about Denise being the source of his money, then where did the cash come from? According to the North Carolina police, it didn’t come from Riley’s mother or any of his high school friends, and a check of pawnshops in Albuquerque and Santa Fe and those in Riley’s hometown also drew a blank. Brian had never done business with any of them.
That meant the source of the cash Brian had flashed to his chum Velarde and used to buy the motorcycle might not have been legit. What illicit activity could have provided Riley’s sudden windfall? Drug dealing immediately came to mind, but winnings from area casinos on tribal land couldn’t be discounted. That theory fell flat after calls to the casinos revealed no payouts had been made to Riley.
Before leaving Santa Fe, Clayton tapped into all the usual resources for tracing runaways and people who’d gone missing. The postal service, public utilities, Internet providers, phone companies, and various municipal agencies he called had no record of providing services to Riley. A more thorough state and national criminal records check showed no arrests, wants, or warrants. Motor Vehicles reported Riley as the owner of a Harley motorcycle bought last summer in Santa Fe. But the current registration listed Brian’s address as Canoncito, which was no help at all. Because Riley owned the Harley outright, there was no lien on the cycle and thus no lender who might know
