Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

Norvell looked skeptical. "This is all happening too close to home."

"I told you to let me handle Montoya."

"There wasn't time for that," Norvell said. "She was going to bring everything down."

"Burying her body in a fruit stand in Lincoln County wasn't very smart," Rojas said. "I never should have listened to you when you said it was taken care of."

"She was fine just where she was, until a drunk got killed and the place was torched. I don't want to argue with you, Luis."

"So, stop. Do we have problems anywhere else in the organization? No. Everything is cool at Cassie's, at Tully's, and at your place. Things are running fine in Denver, Houston, San Antonio, Phoenix, and here. Nobody's questioning Silva or Barrett, Staggs is taken care of, Sally Greer is playing ball, and the Indian cop has nothing but the names of two whores who will be across the border as soon as I talk to Deborah."

"We should move Sally Greer," Norvell said.

"Fine. Have Cassie send her to Houston. The oil men will love her, especially the Arabs."

Norvell nodded agreement. "And neutralize the cop."

"I'll send Fidel up there tomorrow to kill him," Rojas said. "He'd like that."

Norvell's eyes widened. "You're joking, right?"

"Yes, I'm joking." Rojas stood, patted Norvell on the shoulder, and put his half-empty mug in the sink. "Killing cops isn't smart. Let's say we make him look dirty. Plant some money in his house that he can't explain away and make an anonymous tip to the state police."

"That would just make him more suspicious," Norvell said, sliding his empty mug across the kitchen island.

Rojas refilled it and pushed the mug back to Norvell. "Or get him fired. We don't do it right away. Give it a month, maybe two."

"Meanwhile, what?" Norvell asked as he reached for the sugar.

"We stay alert."

"That isn't good enough. We need to be proactive."

"Save the speech making for your constituents, Tyler," Rojas said. "If you're that worried, cancel the bookings at the ranch."

"I've already done it, and the clients aren't happy. Some of them made reservations up to a year ago."

"They'll come back," Rojas said. "We offer the best damn sex venue in the Southwest. We've got judges, lawyers, politicians, doctors, corporate executives, and celebrities from all over the country who come back year after year to be with their mistresses or favorite whores."

With a worried look still firmly in place, Norvell sipped his coffee and said nothing.

"What else do you want to do, Ty?" Rojas asked.

"Keep tabs on the Indian cop," Norvell said. "That way we stay on top of the situation."

"That's not a half-bad idea."

"It has to be low-key, below the radar."

"I'll have Fidel do it," Rojas said. "But just for a couple of days. I'll send him up there tonight."

"I have to go," Norvell said.

"Stay in touch," Rojas said as he walked with Norvell to the front door.

Norvell drove away and Rojas went to find Deborah Shea. He found her in Fidel's bed, riding him hard with obvious pleasure. She was a true nympho, who took her fill of Fidel every chance she got.

Rojas watched for a moment before interrupting. "When you two are finished," he said, "come to the kitchen."

Deborah nodded her head up and down vigorously without losing her rhythm.

By sunset Clayton had settled into a shallow gully that gave him adequate concealment and a clear line of sight into Rojas's driveway. The house sat at the boundary of the Franklin Mountains State Park, the largest range in Texas, all of it contained within the city limits.

The highest peak, pale pink in the last flicker of light, rose three thousand feet above the city. Rocky and treeless, from a distance the desert mountains looked barren, but through his binoculars Clayton had seen hawks circling in the sky and a wide range of different types of cactus plants on the hillsides.

Landscaping pretty much blocked Clayton's view of the house, although he could see a light from a room above the garage and another in the main residence.

The clear sky darkened, sapping away the heat of the day. Clayton pulled on his gloves and his ski mask, zipped up his sleeping bag, and adjusted his night-vision scope to draw in the maximum ambient light from the rising quarter moon. Above, he heard the distinctive sound of a bat winging by.

A car exited the driveway. Clayton locked in on the plate as it turned onto the road, and he almost let out a whistle. The vehicle carried the distinctive New Mexico license plate of the state senator from Lincoln County.

Clayton checked the make of the vehicle as it sped away. It was Senator Norvell's vehicle, for sure. Clayton had seen it often on the highways traveling in and out of Ruidoso. What was Norvell doing with Rojas? Could it possibly have anything to do with the investigation? Maybe yes, maybe no, but certainly worth looking into.

He broke out a canteen and some trail mix from the backpack and waited to see what happened next. Within an hour two cars drove away from the house. He got license plate numbers, makes, and models, but couldn't see inside to spot the drivers.

Clayton waited, hoping for more action at the house. Except for an occasional vehicle passing by, everything stayed quiet. Finally, he decided to call it quits, drive home, catch some sleep, and check in with Sheriff Hewitt in the morning. He packed up his gear, belly crawled until the slope of the hill gave him enough cover to rise, and made a beeline for his unit.

Jeff Vialpando held the money out to Sally Greer-three hundred bucks-which was a fair price for an hour of her time, given her good looks and knockout body. When she slipped the bills in her clutch purse, he showed his shield and told her she was busted.

With a poor-me, dismayed look on her face, Greer sat on the hotel-room bed and tried hard not to cry, holding it back in small, tight gasps. Her reaction surprised him. Most hookers either played it nonchalant or put on the tough cookie role with cops.

Vialpando looked down the front of her skimpy dress. She wasn't wearing a bra, and there were faint bite marks on her breasts. The bruises on her arms had turned yellow, and makeup covered the mouse on her face.

"I have to call a lawyer," Greer said.

Vialpando sat next to her, thinking about her interesting choice of words. Why not need to or want to? That's what most of the working girls said when faced with arrest. Greer was a rookie.

Vialpando looked at her face. There wasn't anything hard about it, just a vacant sadness. He smiled sympathetically. "That might not be the wisest thing to do. It makes your situation more complicated."

"I can have a lawyer, can't I?" Greer asked pleadingly.

"Have you ever been arrested before?" Vialpando asked.

Greer shook her head.

"Here's the way it goes," Vialpando said. "I haven't read you your rights yet. If I do that, then you really are busted and I have to book you into jail. First off, you'll be strip-searched. They never show that part on TV. All your body cavities will be probed. Then you'll be dressed out in jail coveralls, fingerprinted, photographed, and locked in a tiny holding cell while I do the paperwork. It's got a concrete bunk, a toilet, a light that never goes off, and a small window in the door so you can be watched at all times. When I'm finished, you get to make one phone call. It's late by then, so the chances are good it will take the lawyer a couple of hours to arrange for your bail. Do you want that?"

Again, Greer shook her head.

"Let's say you get out on bail," Vialpando continued. "You'll still have a court date. If you show up, I'll make sure the newspapers cover it, especially your hometown paper. If you skip out, you become a fugitive from justice, which always carries jail time. While I'm waiting to see which way you decide to go, I'll put twenty-four-hour surveillance on you. Each time you meet a client, you'll get busted. See how complicated it can get when you ask for a lawyer?"