Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

The top-floor presidential suite at the Hotel San Marcos consisted of a sitting room, bedroom with master bath, fully equipped and stocked galley kitchen, and study. Furnished with high-quality reproductions of Spanish Colonial pieces and decorated with original lithographs of well-known New Mexico artists, it had corner fireplaces in each room, hand-troweled plaster walls, and Mexican tile accents in the kitchen and bath.

Ambassador Hamilton Lowell Terrell stood gazing out the sitting-room window with his back to Charlie Perry. The narrow street was empty of foot traffic and only a few cars remained parked at the curbs. From his vantage point he looked down on a line of flat-roofed buildings that housed retail shops, all closed for the night. At the corner of the block rose a three-story building. It had two rows of old-fashioned wood sash windows evenly spaced above the ground floor, some with broken glass, others with damaged screens. Although two stores, a gift shop, and a boutique operated at street level, the rest of the building looked empty and unused.

"You're quite certain everything is set?" Terrell asked, turning to face Perry, who stood in the galley kitchen stirring sugar into a freshly poured cup of coffee.

"We should be able to wrap it up tomorrow," Perry said as he dropped the spoon into the sink.

Terrell moved to the kitchen, rinsed and dried the spoon, and put it in the proper drawer.

"I don't like this probing by the local authorities into Applewhite's cover."

"That has been contained," Perry said, moving away from Terrell.

"It better be," Terrell said as he dried his hands.

"Is Proctor Stra ley on board?"

Perry sat on the couch facing the fireplace where pinon and cedar logs crackled in a warm blaze, and sipped his coffee.

"Along with his daughter Susan. They know about the affair between your wife and Straley's ranch manager. Mrs. Terrell made no effort to hide it, and both were well aware of Mrs. Terrell's appetites."

"Give me the specifics," Terrell said.

"As we discussed, you'll be the grieving husband."

Terrell stared at Perry, a cocky young man he didn't much like.

"I know my role.

What about the preparations for Scott Gatlin, the ranch manager?" he said.

"It's better if you don't know, Ambassador."

Terrell walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands.

"Don't presume to coddle me, Agent Perry."

Perry's smile vanished.

"Gatlin has been on vacation, fortunately traveling alone with no set agenda. He's due to return late tonight. He'll be intercepted as he arrives, taken to Gallup to be interviewed, and then released. He'll go home, get drunk, write a suicide note confessing to the killing, and put a bullet in his head."

"Is there anyone staying at the Straley ranch?"

"No, and there aren't any nearby neighbors."

"How will you make the confession stand up?"

"Threatening letters from Gatlin to your wife, vowing to kill her if he couldn't have her, were recovered by the FBI last night at her residence. A packet of letters written by Mrs. Terrell to Gatlin demanding that he stop harassing her will be found among his personal effects. Gatlin will be portrayed as a fixated, mentally ill stalker who killed his ex-lover."

"Straley isn't a stupid man," Terrell said, "and my sister-in-law has never liked me. Are you sure this will work?"

"Both of them know Gatlin as a lady's man with a temper and a jealous streak.

With the proof we'll provide there should be no reason for them not to buy it."

"Which is?" Terrell demanded.

"That Gatlin raped your wife the night of her murder. If necessary, we'll produce witnesses who saw him in Santa Fe before the crimes were committed."

Terrell nodded.

"I hope this Kerney fellow is as inept as you say he is."

Perry snickered.

"Kerney? Absolutely."

"I've read Kerney's background file, Agent Perry. His credentials as an investigator are strong, and he's made some impressive arrests over the years."

"I've worked with him before, Ambassador. Believe me, he's a loose cannon.

Besides that, he's running a department filled with shit-for-brains detectives."

"I don't think Chief Kerney remembers I was his commanding officer for a time in Vietnam."

"I didn't know that," Perry said.

"You didn't serve in the military, did you, Perry?"

"No, sir."

"Too bad. Ben Franklin once said that there is no such thing as a 'little enemy." The politicians didn't keep that in mind when we fought in Vietnam.

Don't make the same mistake with Chief Kerney, Agent Perry."

"I won't. We'll continue monitoring the situation."

"Very good. See that you do."

Perry left and Terrell moved to the writing desk, turning his attention to funeral arrangements. He thought about Phyllis as he began making a list: private services at the cathedral, burial at the national cemetery, invitations limited to a small group of government officials and the immediate family.

Aware of Phyllis's loose reputation, he'd married her anyway, because it allowed him access to Proctor Straley's sphere of considerable influence. At the time Straley had almost swooned with delight to see his tramp daughter finally so well wed. The great sex she gave Terrell until the marriage soured had been an enjoyable bonus.

Phyllis would be alive today, if she hadn't been so damn nosey. He paused and looked at his list. A letter of condolence to Proctor Straley from the President was in order. He made a note to call the White House in the morning.

Kerney sat in an office chair and watched the smile on William Demora's face fade as he settled behind his large executive desk and tidied an already neatly stacked set or documents. Last night, without giving a reason, the city manager had called Kerney at home and asked for an early morning meeting. And it was very early indeed; workers at city hall weren't due to show up for another hour.

The city offices were housed in an old school building a block from the plaza.

In spite of extensive renovations the wide hallways, far wider than a modern office building would allow for, made it feel like a place for junior high students, not city bureaucrats. Kerney could remember the days when noisy, boisterous kids spilled out of the school to spend lunch hour on the plaza.

"Aside from carrying out the mayor's goals," Demora said, weighing his words carefully, "my job, as I see it, is to act as a buffer between my department heads and members of the city council. In other words, to keep politics from interfering with our daily operations. But I can't always shield my people from controversy. Especially if I find myself caught unaware."

"What's come up?" Kerney asked, maintaining a neutral tone.

Demora ran a hand over his closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard.

"The issue of your appointment of Captain Otero as deputy chief has raised some concern among several council members."

It wasn't the issue Kerney expected, but he held back his surprise and stayed silent.

"I thought we had an understanding that you'd run key appointments through my office first," Demora said.

"No," Kerney said evenly, "The understanding was that I would have full authority on all personnel matters and would keep you advised in a timely fashion."

"So why am I placed in the position of learning about Otero's promotion secondhand through the grapevine?"

Kerney checked his watch.

"Otero's promotion orders were cut less than twelve hours ago, after city hall closed for the day. You would have gotten a call from me in about an hour. But to answer your question more specifically, the reason you heard about it through the grapevine is because I have inherited a department filled with people who are accustomed to undercutting the chain of command whenever it suits their purpose to do so. Who are the unhappy council members?"