Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

"So, I'm out of my league. Is that what you're saying?"

"Put your ego away, Kerney. I want a life for us and our baby. Maybe I'm being selfish, but that's what's important to me right now."

"That matters to me just as much," Kerney said.

"Then act like it. I called Andy after I checked in. He thinks you've taken it as far as you can go. You're over the line."

"Maybe so, but it seems to be working. I've made some people very nervous."

"Congratulations," Sara said.

"I can use that as part of my eulogy for you, and I'll tell your child what a hero you were. Can't you ever just back off?"

"All I'm doing is listening and watching, Sara. There's not much risk to that."

"People get killed all the time because of what they know," Sara said.

"I'll be careful not to let that happen."

Sara swung off the couch, turned on her heel, went to the window, and stood with her back to Kerney. She thought about his hard-nosed bullheadedness, and the image of Jim Meehan's face floated through her mind. Meehan would have raped and killed her in the ruins of an old Mexican hacienda, if Kerney hadn't crossed the line, beaten a drug dealer's henchman almost senseless, and shown up in time to stop the action.

"You're a stubborn man, Kerney," she said.

"I know that."

Sara turned, squared her shoulders, and put on a determined look.

"Okay, there's work to be done. From what I've read, there are two big gaps in your investigation: no follow-up with Randall Stewart's widow, and no contact with Proctor Straley or his daughter."

"That's right," Kerney said, unwilling to say anything that sounded like an excuse.

"What else has been left hanging?"

"There's a remote surveillance video camera on a utility pole across from the Terrell residence. The FBI had denied any knowledge of it. I have an idea where the tapes might be, but I'm not certain. If I can pinpoint the location of the tapes, I might be able to ID the killer."

"Okay, that's three things that need doing," Sara said on her way into the bedroom. She came out with a blanket and a pillow and tossed them on the couch.

"In the morning we talk to Mrs. Stewart, pay a visit to Proctor Straley, and locate the videotapes."

"We?" Kerney said.

"That's what I said. Someone has to keep an eye on you. You get the bed, Kerney.

I'll sleep on the couch."

"That's not the best way for us to spend a night together in a four-hundred-dollar hotel suite."

Sara pointed at the open bedroom door.

"Go. I've got a little more digging I want to do and I need to use the laptop."

Kerney got to his feet. Sara stepped up and gave him a quick kiss.

"I'll be sick in the morning. It's not a pretty sight."

"You're not well?"

"Morning sickness, Kerney, that's all."

"You didn't tell me."

"I figured you'd find out about it firsthand this weekend. Go to bed, you look exhausted."

Sara ushered Kerney into the bedroom, gave him another kiss, closed the door, and started surfing the Internet looking for Proctor Straley.

When Applewhite arrived at the Santa Fe Airport without Charlie Perry, Sal Molina stayed put while Bobby Sloan tailed her. Later in the night Ingram showed and Molina followed him to the federal courthouse. He parked next to the pink-colored stone Scottish Rite Temple, where he had a clear view of the back entrance, and waited.

The temple confused tourists who thought it had to be either a church or a museum. Although it was a Santa Fe landmark, Molina knew very little about it. A guild or some sort of Freemason society owned it, and supposedly an old dead guy was buried beneath the front steps.

Time dragged for Molina. To keep awake he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, hummed songs to himself, and kept the window open to let cold air circulate through the minivan. Ingram finally emerged.

But instead of going to his vehicle he walked toward the plaza.

Molina put his hand on the door latch and hesitated. There wasn't a person other than Ingram on the sidewalk and traffic was nonexistent.

Ingram turned the corner. Molina hurried on foot to the end of the block and slowed his pace when he saw Ingram making his way down the sidewalk.

He stayed well back. Ingram led him into the historic La Fonda Hotel, which touted itself as the inn at the end of the Old Santa Fe Trail.

Ingram peeled off into the bar adjacent to the reception area. Molina kept moving, counting one bartender, a waitress, and three customers as he passed by.

He walked down a corridor, through the entrance to the parking garage, and took up a position outside the hotel that gave him a view of the two main entrances.

The wind was biting cold and the temperature way below freezing. That suited Molina; he wasn't sleepy anymore.

Tim Ingram sat at the end of the bar, slugged down a single malt, and ordered up another. The television was off, the bar almost empty, and the silence deafening. It was too damn quiet and genteel. He needed a raucous dive that would force him to stop thinking — He rubbed his head and twisted his trunk in an attempt to loosen up the muscles in his back. He'd failed to call in a report on Sara Brannon, hadn't put her hotel room under electronic surveillance, and hadn't told anyone that his cover had been partially penetrated.

That still needed to be done. But not until he could think of an untraceable, safe way to warn off Lieutenant Colonel Brannon. She deserved that much consideration.

He decided on a plan, asked the bartender for a phone book, and paged through it until he found what he wanted.

Ingram left the La Fonda Hotel. Molina paralleled him from one street over to the courthouse. He got to the minivan just in time to see Ingram's vehicle with the broken license-plate lights cruising away from downtown toward St. Francis Drive. He hauled ass through a red light to keep Ingram in range.

Traffic lights showed green down the quiet thoroughfare that led to the Interstate, and Molina grouchily wondered if Ingram was heading back to Albuquerque. He didn't relish the prospect of making the drive.

Ingram turned off on St. Michael's Drive and stopped at a twenty-four-hour-a-day franchise copy service and print shop.

Molina took some blank property receipt forms off his clipboard, went inside, ran them through a self-serve copier, and watched Ingram fill out a form and hand it to the clerk. The clerk fed it into a fax machine and rang up the charges. Ingram paid the clerk, shredded the paper, and walked out.

Molina waited until Ingram left the parking lot. The vehicle tracking monitor and Global Positioning System would give him a fix on his travel direction.

He went to the clerk and flashed his shield.

"Did you see who that fax was sent to?" he asked.

"We're not supposed to look," the kid said, wide eyed.

"Did you look?"

The kid, no more than eighteen, shook his head.

"No."

"Can you call the fax number up on the machine?"

"I guess so."

"Well, do it," Molina said.

The kid came back with the number. Molina dropped a five dollar bill on the counter, went to the minivan, and got a fix on In gram's direction from the state police agent manning the tracking devices. He was heading back downtown.

Molina cross-checked the phone number in the city directory. It didn't show, but the next number down listed a downtown hotel.

Molina hung a turn onto the street, called the hotel night clerk, and identified himself.

"You just received a fax. Who was it for?"

"Colonel Sara Brannon. It's being delivered now."

Lights ran red up and down St. Francis Drive. Molina busted through them and picked up Ingram passing by the last downtown turnoff. He slowed and watched Ingram pull into the parking lot of Applewhite's hotel on the north side of town.