Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

When Sloan got home late he always left the living room lights off and used the small bathroom at the far end of the house so he wouldn't disturb Lucy. He ran the towel over his balding head, brushed his teeth, turned off the light, saw a thin glow seeping under the bathroom door, and silently cursed. He'd woken Lucy up anyway.

He padded down the hall to the living room, ready to apologize, only to find Lucy sitting on the couch in her nightie staring at Special Agent Applewhite with wide, startled eyes.

Applewhite's coat was pulled back behind her holster to expose her semiautomatic. Her FBI credentials dangled from a cord around her neck.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing here?" Bobby asked.

"Official business," Applewhite said, extending the piece of paper in her hand.

"I have an order from a federal judge requiring you to turn over all evidence pertaining to the murder of Father Joseph Mitchell."

Sloan tore the document out of Applewhite's grip, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Citing what legal authority?" he asked.

"Read the order, Detective," Applewhite responded, "and then give me what I came for."

Sloan read the paperwork. Sections of federal laws Bobby had never heard of were cited. It had national security written all over it. The name of the federal judge and the signature looked valid.

"The order has a no-knock provision," Applewhite said.

"But your wife was kind enough to let me in."

"Get screwed," Sloan said.

"First I'm going to call my chief."

"Go ahead, Detective," Applewhite said, looking around the room while Sloan dialed Kerney's number. The couch, a recliner model facing a large-screen television, had a center console designed to hold remote controls and beer cans.

The wall held cheap, poorly matted prints in do-it-yourself frames. A particularly gaudy image showed a bright pink pony grazing in a blue pasture against a sunflower-yellow sky.

"Nice place you've got here," Applewhite said to Sloan's dumpy, chubby-faced wife.

"Fuck you," Lucy replied sweetly.

The phone brought Kerney out of a deep sleep. He listened to what Sloan had to say and told him to resist Applewhite's attempt to take possession of the evidence until he could speak directly with the judge who'd signed the order.

After confirming by phone that the order was valid, he called Bobby back, told him to comply, and hung up fuming.

He sat in the small living room of his South Capitol cottage, stared at the pencil drawing of Hermit's Peak that Sara had given him as a surprise gift just before they were married, and fought down the impulse to roust Charlie Perry out of his hotel bed and bounce him off the wall a few times. That wouldn't accomplish anything.

In a way Perry and Applewhite had done him a favor. Kerney no longer had any doubt that the two homicides were connected. But that certainty failed to cheer him. He was into quicksand up to his neck, confronting an incredibly sophisticated intelligence apparatus with unlimited resources that could easily squash him.

The red light on his answering machine blinked at him. He'd forgotten to check for messages when he got home. He pushed the play button.

Sara had called wanting to know why he hadn't phoned her as promised.

Kerney stared at the telephone. Calling her back would only make him miss her more than he already did. In truth, the relationship felt like a long distance love affair, not a marriage. When they were together, everything was perfect. But he wanted more than just a weekend or two with her every month.

He went into the bedroom, thinking that it would be best to keep Sara in the dark about his current entanglement with the FBI, especially since he now knew for certain he was under surveillance. Applewhite's appearance at Bobby Sloan's house had made that abundantly clear. Was it directed at him alone, or were other members of his investigative staff getting the same treatment?

He looked around the cramped bedroom. What in the hell was he doing still living here when he could easily afford so much more? And what in the hell was he doing running a police department in need of a major overhaul when he could be settled on a beautiful piece of land living the good life of a gentleman rancher with the freedom to spend more time with Sara? A baby was coming. He should feel happy. Instead, he felt crabby.

He turned out the light, got into bed, and fell asleep, still grouchy.

An early riser, Kerney woke before dawn. His grumpiness lingered as he set up the coffeepot and tromped outside to get the morning newspaper.

Through the bare branches of the trees the sky was a quilt of puffy low gray clouds except on the eastern horizon, which slowly flushed vermilion before quickly turning gold and fading away.

He passed by his landlord's house, which faced the quiet street, found the newspaper on the snow-covered walkway, pulled it out of the protective plastic sleeve, and scanned the front page. There was nothing in the headlines that he absolutely needed to know about.

Never a fan of the daily local press-so much of what got reported was yesterday's canned news from other sources-Kerney subscribed anyway, figuring that as chief he needed to stay current on what did filter into it about community issues.

Inside, he sat at the small table in the galley kitchen, drank the one cup of coffee that his shot-up gut could tolerate in the morning, and quickly roamed through the paper. A wire-service report from Red River caught his attention. Randall Stewart, a Santa Fe stockbroker on a skiing vacation with his family, had been reported missing.

Search-and-rescue, along with the state police, had been called out, but a heavy snowstorm had blanketed the mountains and stalled overnight efforts to find him.

To have Santiago Terjo go missing was one thing. But to lose a second possible informant in the Phyllis Terrell homicide seemed highly improbable.

He called Glenn Bollinger, the Red River town marshal, who'd served under Kerney back in the days when he'd been chief of detectives.

Bollinger told him that although Stewart had yet to be found, the storm had broken and a search team had just started moving up the mountain.

After asking Bollinger to check carefully for foul play, Kerney left a voice message for Helen Muiz at the office to cancel all his appointments. The phone rang when he hung up.

"You've been busy this morning," Sara said.

"I've been trying to get through to you for the last ten minutes."

"The joys of the job," Kerney said.

"Everybody wants to talk to the police chief. I'm sorry I didn't call you back last night."

"You're forgiven. Are we still on for the weekend?"

"I think so."

"That's not a firm answer, Kerney."

"I'll free up some time for you."

Sara laughed.

"That's very considerate. Do you know what love is, Kerney?"

"Tell me."

"The inability to keep your hands off your sweetie pie. Gotta run.

Another class is about to start."

"I miss you."

"Rest up for the weekend," Sara said.

Sara disconnected and Kerney took off for Red River. *** The curving snow-packed road that followed the Rio Grande River north to Taos made for slow going. Greeted by a clear blue sky, Kerney topped out on the high plateau south of Taos where white-capped mountains dominated to the east and to the west the river cut a deep gorge in the high plains. Snow had rolled down the foothills, cloaked the rangeland, bathed the forest, and drifted against the brown adobe buildings lining the narrow main street that cut through the old part of Taos.

Kerney kept his radio tuned to the state police frequency and monitored the search-and-rescue team's progress. At Questa, a small village economically hammered by the closing of a molybdenum mine, he made the turn for the last ten-mile stretch to Red River just as the report on the state police band came in that Stew art's body had been found. He keyed the microphone, identified himself, and asked the somewhat startled state police officer to leave the body untouched and keep the area clear. Glenn Bollinger cut in at the end of Kerney's transmission and said he had the scene secured.