Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

At five o'clock in the morning, as Kerney packed for his trip, Paul Hewitt, Clayton, sheriff's deputies, and state police agents were arresting Norvell and his "guests" at his ranch, which had reopened for business several weeks ago. Six prominent men, including a foreign diplomat and the head of a national charity, were about to become front-page news.

Last night, Hewitt had called Kerney to say he was planning to give Clayton a sergeant's shield and commendation for the work he'd done as soon as the cases were wrapped.

In Albuquerque Detective Pino, Sergeant Vialpando, and APD vice officers were rounding up Bedlow, Tully, Deacon, and all the known working girls, while IRS agents served search warrants on State Senator Leo Silva and Representative Gene Barrett to seize their financial and corporate records.

At seven o'clock, Kerney drove to his early therapy session on a perfect May morning just about the time federal agents were shutting down all the out-of-state prostitution operations, except El Paso, which would be the last to fall.

In an hour, after getting confirmation, Sal Molina was scheduled to make a personal visit to Walter and Lorraine Montoya to tell them that their daughter's murderer had been arrested.

Back home at ten after a long session with his physical therapist, Kerney showered, changed, and left for the Albuquerque airport. On the way he called Larry Otero and found that the schedule was holding: bank examiners and state investigators were just then seizing the records of Norvell's various Ruidoso enterprises.

Kerney checked the time as he boarded his flight. By now DEA agents should be picking up the Denver drug dealer who'd been supplying dope to hookers and their clients throughout the four-state region.

Later in the day around evening time, Clayton and agents from the Texas Special Crimes Unit would take down Rojas and Narvaiz on murder charges, when surveillance reported Rojas back in town and at home. Recorded conversations between the two men clearly showed that Rojas had ordered the murder of Felix Ulibarri.

From his first-class window seat, Kerney could see the snow-covered crests of the Rocky Mountains, an awesome, remote barrier that spawned rivers, cut canyons, studded high valleys with lakes, and threw domes and sharp-edged peaks into the pale blue sky.

The plane turned east toward the prairie, and the spine of the mountains that had filled his eyes gave way to a panorama of open range, bending rivers, ribbons of paved roads dotted by farm villages surrounded with checkerboards of irrigated green fields and pale yellow pastures.

The change in the landscape below strengthened Kerney's resolve to be more open and more attentive to Sara. It was time to remove the self-imposed barriers that, over so many years of living alone, had eroded his ability to express his feelings.

He closed his eyes and touched his jacket pocket. In a jeweler's gift box was a pair of diamond earrings. Tonight, when they were alone, he would give them to Sara and tell her again all the reasons why he loved her.

With a no-knock warrant in hand, Clayton made assignments: three agents to the rear of the house, three to the front door with a battering ram, and two officers with him up the outside stairs over the garage to Narvaiz's apartment.

The house looked unoccupied, but Clayton knew better. Surveillance reports put Rojas and Narvaiz inside the compound, but where exactly the men were was another matter.

The team went in low and fast, using palm trees along the driveway as cover. Clayton hit the staircase at a full run, two steps at a time. He heard the sound of the battering ram against the heavy front door as he reached the landing. Narvaiz appeared suddenly in a doorway, semiautomatic in hand, blazing away. The first loud round hit Clayton's vest, spun him sideways. The second round knocked him on his back. His chest felt like a freight train had hit it. He lifted his head, spread his legs, raised his weapon, and watched Narvaiz walking toward him, grinning and firing at the agents crouched on the stairwell behind him. The officers returned fire, bullets screaming above Clayton's head.

He emptied his magazine at Narvaiz. Rounds from three weapons tore into Fidel's flesh and gouged holes in the open door on the landing. Blood splatter from a neck wound arched over the wrought-iron railing and cascaded down to the driveway below.

Clayton fed in another clip, aimed his weapon, and watched Narvaiz fall. He heard rounds shattering glass and pulverizing plaster walls inside the house and sent the two agents to lend support.

The firing stopped before they got down the stairs. They went in calling out names on their handheld radios, asking for status and location.

Clayton got to his feet on unsteady legs and walked to Narvaiz's body. He counted twelve bullet holes, all leaking either dark fluid or viscous gray matter. Was it adrenaline or just plain fear that had him shaking?

He waited for a feeling of revulsion to overwhelm him, but nothing came except an emptiness that made him feel dark and bleak.

His handheld hissed his call sign. Feebly he keyed the microphone and answered. Rojas was down, probably dying, and one officer had a superficial leg wound.

He stepped back from the body and ordered ambulances and crime scene techs to roll. Would he ever be able to tell Grace about this? Really tell her?

He doubted it. But maybe one day he could tell Kerney. Please read on for a special preview of Michael McGarrity's next thrilling Kevin Kerney novel Everyone Dies Jack Potter, perhaps the most successful and best-known attorney in Santa Fe, had recently attended a gay rights costume ball dressed as Lady Justice. The following morning a photograph of a smiling Potter wearing a shimmering frock and a curly wig, and holding the scales of justice and a sword, appeared on the front page of the local paper.

Today Jack Potter wore a tank top, shorts, and a pair of expensive running shoes that looked brand-new to Detective Ramona Pino. He was faceup on the sidewalk with a bullet hole in his chest. He'd bled out in front of his office across from the county courthouse early on a warm July morning. From the blood trail on the sidewalk, Pino saw that Potter had crawled a good fifty feet before turning over on his back to die.

Ramona was more than slightly pissed at the man who'd discovered Potter. Alfonso Allesandro had spotted the body as he passed by in his newspaper truck, and called the city editor on a cell phone before dialing the cops to report the crime. As a result, a photographer had hurried over from the newspaper offices a few blocks away and walked through the blood trail to take pictures before the scene was secured.

Both men were now waiting in the panel truck with a uniformed officer while Pino cordoned off the entire block and worked the crime scene with the techs, searching for a shell casing and anything else that looked like evidence.

Dozens of little orange markers were placed at every cigarette butt lying in the gutter along the street, the broken toothpick found a step away from Potter's body, and the small puddle of fairly fresh crankcase oil in a vacant parking space. One tech dusted all the parking meters for fingerprints while another worked on the door and front porch to Potter's office.

Ramona inspected the small lawn in front of the building for any signs that shrubbery and grass had been disturbed or that fibers, threads, or hair had been transferred by contact. Finding nothing, she sent the tech who'd finished taking snapshots of the bloody footprints over to the panel truck to secure the photographer's shoes so a comparison could be made. The man opened the truck door, pulled off his shoes, and shot Ramona a dirty look as he handed them to the tech.

Ramona smiled, but not at the photographer. The newspaper's truck bore an advertising slogan, "Everyone Reads It," and in black spray paint someone had added: "And Wonders Why"