Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

"I wouldn't want to damage Senator Norvell's reputation by starting rumors that have no basis in fact," Kerney said.

"It's gotta be something."

"Yes, it does."

"Cops," Perkins said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. "They never tell you anything. Hang on, I'll pull the file."

Perkins came back with a name and address. "Alice Owen," he said. "She was a jewel. One of the best of the office staffers."

"Was?" Kerney asked.

"Retired," Perkins replied. "Hasn't worked the sessions for five, maybe six years. I see her around town every now and then. She's doing the grandmother thing and some charity work."

Kerney rang the bell at Alice Owen's house. The door opened partially, and a petite woman, probably in her seventies, with warm, intelligent brown eyes and gray hair cut short peered out at him.

"Yes?"

"Alice Owen?" Kerney asked, showing his shield. "May I ask you a few questions?"

"About?" Owen opened the door wider.

"Tyler Norvell."

"I really don't know the Senator very well," Owen replied. "I only worked for him during the session right after his first election."

"That's the time frame I'm interested in."

"Do you suspect that he's done something wrong?" Owen asked.

"Would it surprise you if he had?"

Owen hesitated. "We didn't hit it off particularly well. He was a young man who seemed quite full of himself. I've never found such people to be entirely trustworthy. What are your questions?"

"I'm trying to determine if he had any contact with a woman named Anna Marie Montoya."

Owen shook her head. "Oh my, I couldn't begin to know. So many people visit during the sessions, it's really quite chaotic. Constituents and lobbyists just stop by and mill about hoping for a few minutes of a legislator's time, or they drop off a letter or ask to use the telephone or make an appointment."

"You kept no records of visitors?" Kerney asked.

"Of course I did," Owen answered. "I maintained the appointment calendar and logged in all phone calls. But that didn't include people who left no messages or were simply dropping something off."

"Where would those records be?" Kerney asked.

"I have them," Owen replied, "for all the sessions I worked over the years."

She left Kerney waiting in the living room to search through some boxes. He spent his time looking at the photos of smiling children and grandchildren that were carefully grouped on tables and shelves around the room.

It made him think of the mess in his own family life, particularly Sara's scolding and Clayton's coldness. He tried to will back his headache to block off an overpowering desire to brood. Alice Owen saved him from the effort. She handed over a leather-bound appointment book and a loose-leaf binder. In the book he found an appointment for Anna Marie Montoya with a line drawn through it and a notation that the meeting had been canceled by TN. In the margin were the letters WMPC. Two copies of phone messages from Anna Marie were in the loose-leaf binder, both requesting that Norvell call her. All three were dated within weeks of her disappearance, but the canceled appointment was most recent.

With his finger on the appointment entry, Kerney showed it to Owen. "What do these letters mean?"

"Oh, that's my personal shorthand," Owen said. "They stand for 'will make personal contact.' "

"Who will make personal contact? You?"

"Oh, no. It meant that I didn't have to bother calling back to reschedule, the senator was going to do it himself."

With the evidence in hand and resisting an impulse to hug Alice Owen, Kerney called Bill Perkins on his way to his unit and asked where he might find old telephone records from Tyler Norvell's senate office.

"Tell me what you want specifically," Perkins said, "and I'll pull it from the financial accounting archives."

"It's for one month only," Kerney replied, giving Perkins the date. "Fax it to my office."

"When do you need it?"

"About eleven years ago," Kerney said.

"What?"

"ASAP, Bill, and thanks."

Jeff Vialpando's second interview with Sally Greer resulted in the full name and address of the other woman Ramona had seen in the hotel bar the night she'd tailed Greer from her apartment. The woman was Stacy Fowler, and she lived in a town-house complex in the North Valley close to the Rio Grande bosque a few miles from Old Town, site of the original Hispanic settlement founded during the Spanish reign in the Southwest.

After arranging protective custody at a safe location for Greer, Jeff and Ramona paid a visit to Fowler's residence, only to find her gone. They decided to stake out the town house and wait for Fowler to show.

Jeff took the first watch while Ramona catnapped, her head resting on her bundled-up jacket, which she'd wedged between the window and the car seat. He watched her sleep, studied her pretty face, and wondered what it would be like to wake up next to her in the morning. It was a pleasant thought that kept him occupied until he fell asleep.

The sun was in Jeff's face when Ramona shook him awake.

"She's here," Ramona said.

"How long have I been dozing?"

"An hour," Ramona replied. "You look cute when you're asleep. That goes on the plus side of the ledger."

"You're keeping score on me?" Jeff said, rubbing his face.

"You bet. Let's go."

An unhappy Stacy Fowler let them in and stood in the living room with her arms crossed, her chin stuck out in a pose of sassy defiance. Her round eyes protruded slightly, giving her face a baby-doll appearance.

"I don't know any Sally Greer," she said.

"That's funny," Ramona said. "There's a picture of you with Sally on the Internet."

"You got a warrant?" Fowler asked.

"We don't need one," Ramona replied. "You let us in, remember?"

"So now get out," Fowler said, casting her gaze at the door.

"We would all have to leave together," Ramona said.

"Why?"

"Jail," Vialpando said.

Fowler was silent for a minute, then she flipped her dark hair with a toss of her head. "Okay, let's go."

"This isn't a prostitution bust, Stacy," Ramona said.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"We're talking about murder," Jeff said.

Fowler's plucked eyebrows arched. "That's crazy."

"It's not even a stretch," Ramona said. "You were with Greer in Ruidoso. We know she told you about the john that beat her up and got iced for it."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"That makes you a material witness."

Fowler gave Ramona a suspicious look. "What kind of bullshit is that?"

Ramona bluffed. "The kind that would make a judge agree to put you in jail without bail if you refuse to cooperate. You'd stay there until you talked."

"We can avoid all of that," Vialpando said.

"Talking to you wouldn't be good for my health."

"Not talking could make things worse for you," Jeff said.

"How's that?"

"We'll spread the word that you're our snitch."

"Jesus," Fowler said.

"You're new in town," Jeff said. "Did Tully bring you here, or was it Norvell?"

"Or Rojas?" Ramona added.

The names cracked Fowler's composure a bit more. She uncrossed her arms and put her hands out as if to ward off an attack. "What are you after?"

"The people who run the organization," Vialpando answered.

"They'd crucify me if I talked to you," Fowler said, her eyes searching for an escape. "You don't know how powerful they are."

"We know how powerful they think they are," Ramona said. "But unless you help us bring them down, you really don't have much of an option."

Vialpando stepped to Fowler and touched her arm. "Help us, and we'll help you," he said gently. "Sit down and talk to us."

Fowler nodded, reconsidered her decision, put on a false smile behind a scared expression, and said, "I do couples. Maybe…"