Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

Clayton spent the next hour faxing the documents to every law-enforcement agency, casino, and gaming establishment in New Mexico, West Texas, and Arizona. As he finished up, Paul Hewitt came into the room and read the advisory.

"You're making some progress," Hewitt said.

"Some," Clayton replied.

"Is Ulibarri a solid suspect?"

"I think so."

"What's your next move?"

"Ulibarri mostly played poker while he was at the casino and won big," Clayton replied. "We need to talk to a few more off-duty poker dealers to learn if he got friendly or talkative with any other customers. Sergeant Quinones and Deputy Dillingham are following up that angle, plus trying to contact two possible informants. I wanted to get the advisory out ASAP in case Ulibarri has already hit the road."

"Makes sense," Hewitt said. "Have you got reports ready for me to read?"

"Not yet," Clayton said. "I'll leave them on your desk before I go home tonight."

Hewitt clapped Clayton on the shoulder. "That'll be soon enough. Good job, Deputy."

Clayton shrugged off the compliment. "I haven't made an arrest yet, Sheriff. Is anything happening with the Montoya case?"

"Not as far as I know. Just stay focused on what you're doing. I'll keep you informed if I hear from Chief Kerney."

Clayton nodded, gave the dispatcher a copy of the bulletin to enter in the national and state crime information data banks, and started in on his reports.

Kerney picked up the paper on his way out the front door and glanced at the front page, which featured the discovery of Montoya's body. The headline read:

MURDERED BODY OF LOCAL WOMAN FOUND

The body of Anna Marie Montoya, reported missing from Santa Fe over eleven years ago, was discovered in the basement of a burned-out building after a recent fire in Lincoln County. According to Deputy Police Chief Larry Otero, autopsy results of the remains indicate a strong possibility that Montoya was murdered. "We're treating it as a homicide," Otero said, "and cooperating with Lincoln County law-enforcement officials in a joint investigation."

He quickly read through the rest of the story, which gave the facts of Montoya's disappearance, and glanced at the sidebar articles. One summarized information about six other women who'd been reported missing from the Santa Fe area over the last decade and never found, and the other quoted the spokesperson of a women's criminal justice coalition, who took the department to task for "not caring enough to provide sufficient resources and personnel to locate these missing women and end the unnecessary suffering of families and friends."

Yeah, right, Kerney grumped silently as he closed the door of his unmarked unit and tossed the paper on the passenger seat. He forced down his irritation. Unsolved missing-person cases, especially those involving women and children, always sparked criticism of law enforcement. Kerney understood people's fears that they would never see their loved ones again, fears that were all too frequently and tragically realized. But it irked him when civilians thought that cops didn't care about the mothers, wives, and children who'd gone missing, never to be found.

At the office, he shut his door and started working the list of Anna Marie Montoya's old friends, colleagues, ex-employers, and graduate student classmates. As he'd suspected, many had moved on, changed jobs or residences, or were no longer living in Sante Fe. He spoke to a few, left phone messages for others, and got leads on a couple of the people who'd moved out of state.

Larry Otero, his second in command, popped in briefly to get approval to hire a new civilian crime scene tech. Kerney signed off on the paperwork. With slightly more than two months in his present position, Otero had been cautiously feeling his way in his new job.

Kerney's decision to appoint Larry had been challenged by the city manager, who for political reasons had tried to torpedo Otero's career shortly before Kerney became chief. He'd placated the city manager by putting Otero in the job on a sixty-day trial period. He'd said nothing to Larry about it, and now the probationary time was up.

"Did we screen, test, interview, and conduct a background investigation on this candidate?" Kerney asked, handing Otero the signed personnel action form.

Larry looked nonplused. "Of course. We do it with every new hire. It's procedure."

"My point exactly," Kerney said. "I'd like to review applications and meet prospective employees once they've been selected. But unless either of us sees a problem, in the future just sign these things yourself."

He leaned back and gave Otero a smile. "From now on, think of your job this way: When I'm not here, you're the chief. When I'm sick or on vacation, you're the chief. When I don't want to be found, bothered, or I'm out of town on business, you're the chief. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Otero smiled back. "I do. What happens when I get my ass in a sling?"

"Then I'm the chief," Kerney said with a laugh, "and I get the privilege of taking full responsibility for all the screwups, including yours and mine."

"So, it's full speed ahead," Otero said.

"Yeah, your honeymoon is over," Kerney replied.

"I can handle that," Larry said. "How's the Montoya case going?"

"I could probably put thirty people on it with the same results," Kerney replied.

"Nothing?"

"Zilch, but there's still a lot of ground to cover," Kerney said.

He waved Otero out the door, made a few more phone calls, and left to visit with Anna Marie's brother and sister, who'd agreed to meet him at their parents' house.

Cars parked along the narrow lane forced Kerney to leave his unit at the corner. A somber group of visitors filled the small porch and spilled onto the lawn in front of the Montoya residence. Kerney approached slowly, wondering what he'd gotten himself into. His uniform drew some questioning looks as he walked up the pathway, and a few people deliberately turned away. Anna Marie's brother waited for him at the door.

"I've come at a bad time," Kerney said, looking into the crowded front room.

"We can talk in my mother's craft studio," Walter Montoya said shortly, "although I don't see what good it will do. My sister's waiting for us there."

Platters of food filled the coffee table, and empty plastic cups littered the lamp tables bracketing the couch. A framed photograph of Anna Marie, surrounded by lit candles, was centered on top of the television. Mr. and Mrs. Montoya sat on the couch in the company of a priest. Kerney paused and paid his respects as friends and family watched.

"I won't take much of your time," Kerney said, after stepping away from Anna Marie's parents.

"Does that mean you have no leads?" Walter Montoya replied, loud enough to hush a couple standing nearby.

"Let's talk privately," Kerney said, touching the man's arm to quiet him down.

Walter pulled his arm back and led Kerney to a small bedroom that had been converted into Mrs. Montoya's studio, where Carmela, Anna Marie's sister, waited. A long worktable with folding legs held neat stacks of fabric, swaths of canvas, and a sewing machine. Within easy reach of a second-hand secretarial chair was a clear plastic four-drawer cart on rollers, filled with yarns, spools of thread, scissors, and embroidery needles.

Both siblings were in their late thirties. Walter, the older by a year, now sported a receding hairline and a mustache that showed a touch of gray. Carmela, who had been married when Anna Marie disappeared, no longer wore a wedding ring. Slim and tense, she shook Kerney's hand reluctantly.

"To have so many show so much sympathy and support must be very heartwarming to you and your parents," Kerney said.

His attempt to be conciliatory fell flat. Carmela nodded tensely as though an invisible wire inside her neck had been pulled, and said nothing.