Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

He used his cell phone to call the electric company and learned that no power outage had occurred in the vicinity of the Terrell neighborhood before or after the holidays. He turned on the windshield wipers and the blades thudded against the wet, heavy snow as he drove out of the parking lot. According to the housekeeper the Stewarts' decision to leave suddenly on an unplanned vacation was completely out of character.

He wondered why, and couldn't dismiss the possibility that it was somehow linked to everything else he'd learned so far about the ambassador and his wife.

He drove the loop that passed in front of the Terrell residence, stopped a hundred yards down the road from the driveway, and studied the electric transformer on the power pole through binoculars. Mounted above the transformer a tiny video camera was trained on the security gate and driveway to the Terrell house.

Kerney turned the truck around. He needed to find out who had put the surveillance camera in place. But more important, now that the possibility of hard evidence existed that could identify Terrell's murderer, he needed to get hold of the videotapes.

Brother Jerome had been unable to give Bobby Sloan any information about a return address on the missing envelope sent to Father Mitchell.

He did recall that the envelope had been addressed by hand, not typed, and postage stamps, not metered mail, had been used to send it. Brother Jerome also noted that the quality of the penmanship was excellent and that the hand was most probably a woman's.

Without a name the information wasn't much help to Sloan's investigation. While he now had a clear-cut link between the priest's murder and the aggravated burglary, he still lacked both a suspect and a viable motive.

He left the last video store on his list, which, like all the others he'd checked, had no customer record on Father Mitchell, and walked glumly through the snow to his unit. Reduced to chasing down tangential shreds of information, Sloan felt the rhythm of the investigation fading into one of those unsolved murder mysteries that ten years down the road would be featured by the local paper in a Sunday edition.

He went back to the college and started another round of interviews that focused on the burglary of Brother Jerome's office, sloshing through the wet snow from building to building, meeting with staff and faculty members who'd been on campus around the time of the break-in.

He finished up with nothing to show for the effort and walked toward the parking lot, passing a blocky two-story building with a stepped-down entrance that looked like a modern version of an ancient Aztec temple.

The building housed the Moving Images Arts Department and construction of the facility had been funded by a famous old movie actress named Greer Garson, who'd lived outside of Santa Fe on a ranch until her death some time back.

Sloan stopped, went inside, and asked the college student working at the desk if he knew Father Mitchell.

The young man, who had stringy shoulder-length blond hair and a nose ring, nodded his head.

"Yeah, he was in here all the time, mostly in the evenings after classes ended. That's when I'm usually here working on my own stuff."

"Did he talk to you about what he was doing?" Sloan asked.

"No, but he spent most of his time in an editing suite, so he must have been producing something. I never saw him in the screening room or in the archives."

"Is there someplace in the building where he might have stored his materials?"

"There are dozens of places like that where we can lock up film, videos, and shooting scripts. All of the post production rooms have built-in locking cabinets, and there are lots of storage lockers for students to use all over the building, on a first come, first served basis."

The kid opened a drawer and pulled out a loose-leaf binder.

"But since Father Mitchell had faculty status, he probably got an assigned locker. Yeah, here it is. One seventy-six. You go past the production rooms and the soundstage down to the end of the hall. You'll find his locker there."

"Who can open it?" Sloan asked.

The kid shrugged.

"Beats me."

"Find out who can open the locker, okay?"

It took ten minutes with the kid calling around and then another ten before a harried-looking female faculty member with big hair showed up carrying a key ring. She immediately asked Sloan why he needed to get into the locker.

Sloan told her to chill out.

"There may be evidence in the locker important to Father Mitchell's murder, and I need to search it now."

"Show me your credentials," the woman said.

Sloan flipped open his badge case.

"Good enough?"

"Follow me."

At no. 176 Sloan held his breath while the woman opened the locker. In it were a briefcase and a stack of videocassettes. He wrote out a receipt, gathered everything up, thanked the woman, and left the building, oblivious to the full-fledged blizzard that had settled over the city.

Kerney made stops at the electric, phone, and cable companies. He asked about a special law-enforcement request to install a surveillance camera on the utility pole near the Terrell driveway. Clerks studied work orders, pulled files, and shook their heads. Security personnel fanned through court orders and shook their heads. Maintenance supervisors licked their thumbs, paged through smudged paperwork, and shook their heads.

He borrowed an office phone and called all local police agencies within the jurisdiction. No one knew anything.

He stopped at Phyllis Terrell's alarm company. Her contract called for burglary and fire monitoring, gate control, and driveway sensors to warn of vehicle approach. No audio or video services were included.

He drove to city hall, parked in his reserved space, and crossed the street to the post office, an ugly 1960s era building that looked incongruous next to the stately old stone federal courthouse.

Once, on one of her long weekends in town, Sara had asked to see something in Santa Fe tourists didn't know about. After an elegant lunch at a nearby restaurant, he'd walked her to the courthouse and shown her the old wooden telephone booth that stood in the lobby.

Sara had laughed, marveling at the sight of it. Then she had pulled him into the booth, closed the accordion door, and pressed herself against him. The guard sitting at the end of the hall had grinned insipidly at them when they emerged.

Kerney found the resident FBI agent, Frank Powers, in his small third-floor suite at the post office building.

"I get to see you twice in one day," Powers said, unwinding his long legs and getting to his feet to shake Kerney's hand.

"Boy, am I one lucky SOB."

In his early fifties, Powers was on his final duty assignment before retirement.

Powers and his wife were ballroom-dance fanatics. Kerney and Sara had watched the couple put on quite a show one Saturday night when they'd stopped at a club for an after-dinner drink.

"As the new police chief I thought it was time to touch base with you,"

Kerney said.

"Yeah, sure," Powers said with a smile.

"What do you really want?"

"Did Perry keep you in the loop on his investigation?" Kerney asked.

Powers chuckled sarcastically.

"Me? You've got to be kidding. All he asked me to do was give him a ring if you paid me a social call, and be the ambassador's bodyguard at the funeral."

"Well, here I am," Kerney said.

"Call him up."

"What for? From what I've heard, the case is closed, the task force is disbanded. That means I'm once again free to assist local law-enforcement representatives such as yourself without dropping a dime on you."

"Can I hold you to that?" Kerney asked.

"Unless I hear otherwise, you can. Why do you ask?"

"Perry is staying in town for a couple more days just to make sure everything's tidied up."