Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

"You needn't concern yourself with them," Demora replied.

"I'll deal with that problem. But surely you understand that the police officers' union is a political action group. You can't expect them not to use their influence to raise issues, especially with several strong union supporters on the council."

"Was the issue raised by the union?"

"Yes. They feel that Otero's appointment is a step backward."

Kerney chose his words carefully.

"Although the contract gives the union no voice in management issues, I'd be happy to meet with them here in your office to address their concerns."

"I don't think we should open that door to the union," Demora said quickly.

"But I… The mayor does expect you to concentrate on building employee morale. Your decision to promote Otero seems to be having the opposite effect."

"It's my highest priority," Kerney said.

"Every police department needs good morale to do its job of protecting the public and upholding the law."

"How you get to that goal is important, Chief," Demora said smoothly.

"Developing constructive and informed input from employees makes them feel empowered."

"Exactly how does the union view Otero?" Kerney asked, trying to move Demora away from his favorite team-building theory of management.

"He's seen as abrasive, argumentative, and authoritarian."

"Is that your reading of the man?"

"I've found him to be confrontational upon occasion. Unnecessarily so."

Kerney thought back to the purged documents about Officer Herrera that Helen Muiz had saved from destruction. None of Otero's memos had showed evidence of distribution outside the department. Had Demora been behind the cleansing of Herrera's personnel jacket and the decision to destroy Otero's career? Captains not slated for promotions were frequently buried in technical-duty slots, far away from the operational-command assignments that were crucial for advancement.

Perhaps Demora had assumed Kerney would overlook Otero because of his career-ending posting.

Kerney decided to push the issue.

"Can you give me more details?"

Demora ran a hand over a horseshoe-shaped bald spot.

"I'd rather not get into specifics, but it was a situation requiring subtle handling, and Otero failed to realize that."

"I see."

"It's not too late to withdraw Otero's appointment. Doing so could win you some allies on the city council."

"Allies would be nice to have," Kerney said.

"But caving in to that could be perceived as union pressure might not be wise. When the union contract comes up for renegotiation, they'll be clamoring for a voice in management."

Demora nodded vigorously.

"Yes, of course, you're exactly right. Do you have an alternative suggestion?"

"Otero is eligible for retirement in sixty days. If he fails to do a competent job or conduct himself professionally, I'll ask him to put in his papers and retire."

Demora smiled with pursed lips.

"Very well. Sixty days, then, and you'll keep me advised of his performance."

"Of course," Kerney said. And you'll advise me if any additional concerns are lodged about his promotion?"

"Absolutely," Demora replied. His smile widened as he showed some teeth.

"It's essential that the two of us maintain a free-flowing communication. There's no need to hold anything back. With that in mind I do want Otero carefully supervised."

"That won't be a problem."

Demora nodded.

"I hope not. Now, fill me in on the murder investigations so I can brief the mayor. This isn't the kind of national exposure Santa Fe needs."

"It certainly isn't," Kerney said, holding back on the somewhat snide thought that criminals really should be more sensitive to the chamber-of-commerce vision of a picture-perfect retirement and playground community for the well-to-do and outright rich. The murder of a prominent citizen was unseemly, only served to tarnish the city's image, and caused hand wringing for both the boosters and the local politicians.

He forced down his anger at having his first major decision as chief challenged for the sake of petty politics, and began to explain the status of the investigations.

Growing up poor in Mexico, Ignacio Terjo had learned the hard way the importance of money. His first border crossing into America had driven the point home even more thoroughly. After arriving in Santa Fe he'd gone hungry and had slept under a bridge, covered only by newspapers and cardboard, until he found his way to a homeless shelter. Vowing never to be so needy again, Terjo now kept two hundred dollars sewn in the inside lining of his winter coat or tucked into the watch pocket of his jeans during warm weather.

Wary about his false identity, Ignacio had avoided becoming too friendly with the Mexican nationals who lived on the south side of the city, fearing he might be recognized. Instead, he'd gotten to know some of the locals, found his way to a good job with Mrs. Terrell, and met Rebecca.

Life had been good for a while, and now it wasn't anymore.

Released from the county jail, he'd walked to the outlet mall near the Interstate and rented a room for the night at a nearby motel, figuring the police wouldn't look for him there. After a quick trip to the food court at the mall, he'd locked himself inside the room, passed the time watching a Spanish television station, and plotted his escape from Santa Fe. He would go to Tucson where he could blend in easily, find work, and then call Rebecca to tell her that he was all right.

To do it he needed to get to his truck, which was parked at the stables.

A city bus stopped at the mall soon after it opened. He would ride the bus downtown, walk from there to the stables, and, if the police weren't there watching, drive away.

He checked the clock on the bedside table. The bus wasn't due to arrive for another thirty minutes.

Outside his room he heard the sound of a car. It started briefly, sputtered, and then died. Again and again the engine failed to catch.

He went to the window, pulled back the curtain, peeked out, and saw a woman bent over the car's engine compartment. Before he could release the curtain she turned, saw him, and gestured for him to come outside.

Terjo shook his head.

The woman stepped to the window and knocked on the glass. Terjo studied her. She looked frustrated and distressed. He slid the window open.

"Do you know anything about cars?" the woman asked.

"Yes, a little," Terjo replied.

"Could you please see if you can get it started for me? Please?"

Terjo looked around at the parking lot before replying. He didn't see any police.

"Okay."

He unlocked the door and it slammed into his face, knocking him backward. The woman and a man with a pistol forced him facedown on the carpet, handcuffed him, and searched him before yanking him to a sitting position.

Charlie Perry cocked his weapon and put the barrel an inch away from Terjo's right eye.

"You've got one minute to tell me who Phyllis Terrell had sex with the night she was murdered."

"And if I do?" Terjo asked, stammering to get the words out.

"You go home to Mexico and you live," Perry said.

"But if you ever come back to this country, you die, Ignacio."

"I'm Santiago, not Ignacio."

"Drop the game," Perry snapped.

"You're wasting time."

"What about Rebecca and my daughter? I need to see them, por favor.

Perry pushed the barrel against Terjo's eyeball.

"That's not an option. Maybe we'll have the Mexico authorities throw you in prison as a drug smuggler. Now you have three choices. Pick one."

Terjo pulled his head back and looked through watery eyes at the woman, who stared at him without expression.

"His name is Ran dall Stewart. He lives up the hill from Mrs. Terrell, behind Alexandra Lawton's house. He was with her the last time I saw the senora alive. She asked me not to say anything."