Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

"Well, let's see the picture."

Browning reached for his coat jacket, fished out the fax, and handed it over.

"This isn't Major Elaine Cornell," Ingram said.

"You're sure?"

"Positive," Ingram replied snapping a finger against the fax paper.

"Compared to Cornell this woman looks halfway decent. I think the major is one of the 'don't ask, don't tell' soldiers."

"Good enough," Browning said, retrieving the fax.

"Stay for dinner." Ingram picked up the cordless phone from the end table and tossed it to Browning.

"Call your friend with the news while I get the grill cranked up. You like your steak medium rare, right?"

"Hey, you don't have to feed me," Browning said.

"No bother, amigo," Tim said as he made his way to the kitchen.

"Besides, I need some company."

After a few more drinks, a steak and potatoes dinner, and an hour of laid-back conversation, Browning left. Ingram took his cordless phone into the study, used the redial key to access the number Browning had called, and identified its location using a software program on his laptop computer. Then Special Agent Ingram called Charlie Perry and gave him the news.

"What's the state police chief mucking around in this for?" Perry grumbled.

"Not my problem, Charlie. You can tell Applewhite-who in hell came up with that name? — that her cover is intact. Make sure you put a lid on this so it doesn't spread any further."

"Yeah, sure," Perry said.

"I know what to do."

Ingram's next call went to the executive who managed the operations of the computer-chip facility.

"At the end of the week, downsize Fred Browning," he said.

"In the meantime keep him completely out of the loop."

"He doesn't know anything in the first place," the man replied.

"Care to tell me why?"

"Double up on production security and be prepared for a complete facility shakedown next week."

"I still need a reason."

"Make one up."

"He'll put up a stink about it."

"Not if you give him a generous severance package and recommend him for a new job with another company," Ingram said.

"I'll get back to you with the specifics."

"Do we have a leak?"

"Unknown at this time," Ingram answered.

"Your new security chief will report to you on Monday. Assessing any security breach will be his first assignment."

"And who exactly is that person going to be?"

"Someone with impeccable credentials."

Ingram's last call of the evening went to a Silicon Valley company vice president. He hung up after making sure Fred Browning would have a job in California with more money and greater responsibilities, at least for a while.

That should keep Browning from pondering too carefully the events of the week or jumping to conclusions.

If not, stronger arrangements might be necessary.

Kerney stayed in his office well past quitting time, half expecting to get a phone call summoning him to city hall to explain his decision to pull Officer Herrera off the streets. According to Helen Muiz, Herrera had stormed out of police headquarters at the end of his shift after receiving his transfer papers, saying he had no desire to be a paper shuffler or a desk jockey. She gave Kerney five-to-one odds that Cloudy had gone directly to his uncle, the city councilman, to complain. So far, there had been no repercussions, but that could change quickly.

His meeting with Captain Larry Otero had gone better than expected, and Helen was typing up the promotion order and the personnel paperwork for Kerney's new deputy chief.

Before leaving his office she predicted the deep-freeze reception Kerney had received as chief was about to thaw rapidly. She gave him twenty-to-one odds on it, along with a big smile of approval.

Ten minutes into his talk with Otero, Kerney knew he'd found his second-in-command. The captain was smart, level headed, and a good fit with his temperament and management style. Otero agreed not only to take over supervision of day-to-day department operations, but also to spearhead the completion of the five-year strategic plan that had been left hanging by the last administration.

Andy Baca's call to report that Special Agent Applewhite wasn't an army intelligence officer had left Kerney questioning whether he'd been paranoid or just way off the mark about his gut reaction to the woman.

He still felt uneasy. While he had no reason to doubt the national security implications of the case, he found it hard to understand why Applewhite had fed him a line about her State Department assignment.

Kerney knew he would never be given all the facts or reasons, regardless of the outcome, and that galled him.

He was equally bothered by his thirty-year-old recollections of Hamilton Lowell Terrell, aka the Snake, Kerney's first in-country commander. He had not been a man to be trusted.

Under Terrell's command routine patrols were reported as inserts into enemy territory, every skirmish became a major firefight, any setbacks in field operations were blamed on the attached ARVN units, and body counts were always inflated. But old grievances about Terrell probably had no bearing on the present situation.

Because he saw no point to it, Kerney had opted out of attending a task-force debriefing session currently in progress. He already knew that Terjo was still missing and that the special agent sent to Ramah had yet to locate or interview Proctor Straley's ranch manager, Scott Gatlin, alleged to be the third of Phyllis Terrell's recent lovers. He also knew that Sal Molina hadn't been allowed anywhere near Proctor Straley or his daughter Susan, who were sequestered in a Santa Fe hotel suite with FBI bodyguards.

Meanwhile, Detective Bobby Sloan and the three agents on loan from Andy Baca were wading knee-deep through interviews in the Father Mitchell slaying with nothing substantial to report.

Kerney leaned back in his desk chair and looked around the stark office.

He'd done nothing to decorate it since moving in, and he wasn't inclined to hang up framed certificates, plaques, or other memorabilia from his law enforcement career as most other police chiefs did. He'd read recently that such a "trophy wall" was standard equipment for corporate VIPs and Capitol Hill politicians.

Now that he was a bigwig, maybe he should get with the program. If nothing else, it would spark some amusing sarcasm from Helen Muiz. And Sara would never let him hear the end of it, he thought with a smile.

Sara was coming in from Fort Leavenworth this weekend. After they toured the land in Galisteo that was up for sale, maybe she'd help him pick out a few prints he could have framed for the office.

Because of his hectic week and the intensity of her class schedule at the U. S. Army Command and General Staff College, he hadn't spoken to her for days. He missed the sound of her voice, the updates about the progress of her pregnancy, and all their exciting talk about building a home and starting a family.

With Larry Otero on board as deputy chief, unless something major broke in the homicide cases, the weekend would be his to spend with his bride.

He'd married Sara less than a year ago, soon after her return from a tour of duty in Korea, where she'd been decorated and promoted for crushing a North Korean assassination plot against the visiting secretary of state.

Although he saw her infrequently, she'd made Kerney feel far happier about his life than he ever could have imagined. The considerable wealth he'd recently inherited from the proceeds of Erma Fergurson's land bequest paled in comparison to the rich texture of his relationship with Sara. He couldn't imagine loving someone other than smart, sexy, feisty Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon.

He left his office, signed the paperwork for Otero's promotion Helen had waiting for him on her desk, said good-night, and drove to his cramped quarters, thinking it was time to get serious about building a new house.