Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

"Hardly," Clayton said.

"Will he tell us what he knows, if we agree to drop the matter?" Hewitt asked.

"Yes, with the proviso that you don't pursue any illegal gambling charges against him."

"What else is he willing to do?"

"Mr. Staggs feels it is time for him to move on. You've damaged his reputation among his friends. He no longer feels comfortable living here."

"When?" Clayton asked.

"As soon as possible," Tredwell replied.

"With no more friendly card games until he goes?" Hewitt asked.

Tredwell nodded.

"So how do we unarrest him?"

"At the time Deputy Istee detained my client, he had what appeared to be a potentially dangerous situation involving a murder suspect. Mr. Staggs is quite willing to think that your deputy restrained him solely to keep him from harm's way."

"Yeah, that's why I cuffed him and read him his rights," Clayton snapped.

Tredwell shook his head sadly. "You made a false arrest, Deputy. I've advised my client that he has a strong civil rights case, should he choose to pursue it. We can either meet at some later date in court, or act today in a cooperative spirit."

Tredwell gave Hewitt his best billboard smile. "Lincoln County would have to pony up out of the public coffers if we won the suit, which I believe we would. I doubt voters would like seeing their taxes going to pay Mr. Staggs for Deputy Istee's mistake."

"Deputy Istee was only protecting Mr. Staggs from a dangerous situation," Paul Hewitt said without hesitation.

"Very good," Tredwell said, turning away. "I'll let my client know we've reached an understanding."

Clayton stared silently at Tredwell's back until he disappeared inside. Never in his years as a cop had he been accused of making a false arrest. "I screwed up, big time," he said, unwilling to look Hewitt in the eye.

Tredwell appeared in the doorway and beckoned them to come in.

"You aren't the first cop to make a bad arrest," Hewitt said as he started toward the porch. "Don't let it eat at you."

"Do you think Tredwell could win a civil rights suit?" Clayton asked as he caught up with Hewitt.

"Oh, yeah."

Cassie Bedlow lived in a fashionable foothills neighborhood near a popular national forest picnic grounds at the bottom of the west slope of the Sandia Mountains. The large house was sited to give views of the West Mesa, where Albuquerque's sprawl petered out and five extinct volcanos rose up from the high desert plateau.

There was no answer at the front door, so Kerney talked to some neighbors and learned that Cassie Bedlow lived alone, kept to herself, had no children, and owned the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency. He called the business and got a telephone answering service. The operator gave him the agency's street address and noted that Ms. Bedlow was not expected back in her office until morning.

The agency, located on a side street near the university, was closed when Kerney got there. A sign on the glass door announced that a new modeling class would be starting in two weeks. At the contemporary art gallery next door, a one-man show was in progress. The artist specialized in paintings reminiscent of Marc Chagall. But unlike Chagall, who often portrayed men, women, and angels floating above villages and landscapes, the artist on display went in for flying automobiles, dishwashers, and other major appliances, all with gossamer wings.

Kerney spoke to the owner, a thirty-something male with dyed blond hair. The man told him Cassie had taken her current crop of budding fashion models out of town to do a show and a location fashion shoot, but he didn't know where.

"How many models went with her?" Kerney asked.

"Eight or ten," the man replied. "That's usually the number of students she enrolls in each class."

"Men and women?"

"Oh, yes," the man answered. "But most of them are girls."

"Does she have any employees?"

"Not really. There's a freelance photographer she uses for portfolio and location work. Other than that, she runs the business by herself."

"Is she successful in getting her models professional work?" Kerney asked, his eye wandering to a large canvas that showed a flying television set with rabbit ears hovering above the Golden Gate Bridge.

"I'd say she's very successful. A lot of the local ad agencies use her students, she has all the major department store contracts for fashion events, and she's in demand as a casting agent for extras and walk-ons when film companies come to town."

"Sounds like a thriving enterprise."

"Yes, I'd say so." The man walked to the picture of the floating TV. "You seemed drawn to 'Ascending the Airways to Heaven.' If you look closely at the distorted picture on the television screen, you can see a weeping Jesus. Miligori's paintings are allegorical statements of the religious fervor of crass consumer consumption in contemporary Western society."

"I can see that," Kerney said.

"Aren't they marvelous?"

"Remarkable," Kerney said, playing it safe. The comment won him an agreeing smile.

Kerney left after allowing the art dealer to give him a brochure on the Miligori exhibit. Outside on the sidewalk, he used his cell phone to call the APD vice unit. The supervisor told Kerney the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency wasn't a vice unit target.

"Have any complaints been filed against Bedlow or have any arrests for solicitation been made that involve the agency?" Kerney asked.

"Nary a one," the officer responded laconically. "But it's always good to get a heads up on any new escort services. They come and they go. Are you suspicious of something, Chief?"

"Not yet," Kerney replied.

"Have you got hookers' names or aliases I can run through my data bank?"

Nary a one ran through Kerney's mind. Instead he said, "No."

"Well, Bedlow looks clean from our end, but you never know. Now if it was Honey Pot Escorts you were asking about, that would be a different story."

"Sounds like a classy outfit," Kerney said.

"HIV city, Chief. We call it the get-laid-and-die hooker service. Dial one-eight-hundred dead sex."

Harry Staggs sat on the daybed with a smug look on his face. He glanced at Clayton, gestured at Tredwell, and then addressed Paul Hewitt. "My lawyer says you and Tonto agreed to my terms."

Clayton stiffened in anger. Hewitt stepped in front of the deputy. "There's no need to be disrespectful," he said.

"It's just a word," Staggs said offhandedly, sucking in cigarette smoke. "I don't mean nothing by it. We've got a deal?"

"If you cooperate," Hewitt replied.

"You're just investigating a murder here," Staggs replied, stubbing out the cigarette. "Nothing else, right?"

"That's the deal," Clayton said. He took a tape recorder out of his briefcase, placed it on a poker table, and told Staggs where to sit.

Hewitt and Tredwell joined them at the table. Clayton punched the record button and said, "When I ask you a question, answer it verbally."

"Okay," Staggs said.

Clayton noted the reason for the interview, the persons present, and the time, date, and place. He gave Staggs his full attention, hoping Tredwell and the sheriff wouldn't interrupt him too much.

"Did Ulibarri play poker here last night?" he asked, studying Staggs's face, which remained expressionless.

Staggs caught himself nodding. "Yes."

"Did he win or lose?"

"He came in the game with ten thousand, the house minimum, and cashed out at twenty-five thousand. I counted the chips myself."

Staggs maintained his bland air. Clayton figured he had his poker face on, which made sense given his occupation. "What time did he leave the game?"

"It broke up at five in the morning. That's when everybody left."

"How many players?" Clayton asked.

"Six, including me," Staggs replied. "Ulibarri and the other two guys that were staying here went back to their cabins. Everybody else took off."