Michael McGarrity - The Judas judge

Working a lobby phone, Kerney tracked down the women who'd been sent to Langsford's room, and got basically the same story: Eric liked to play Peeping Tom, wanted to be called "Daddy," avoided any actual sexual contact, and always asked for blondes.

Other than Ronda, none had received any surprise gifts in the mail. Or if they had, weren't admitting to it.

Eric's disappearance from Roswell, the inconsistencies in his alibi, his hatred of his father, and his proximity to the crime scenes added up to strong circumstantial evidence against him. But Kerney wanted some tangible proof of Eric's guilt, either in the form of physical evidence or a voluntary confession. He preferred both if possible.

Through the hotel lobby window he watched a parking attendant wheel a new Jaguar to the curb, where a slightly pudgy man in an expensive suit stood waiting. The car had Mexican license plates. That was the third luxury car in a row the attendant had parked, all with Mexican tags, all for men in expensive suits.

Business in the border city was obviously profitable, and Kerney didn't think for a second that all of it was legitimate.

As the most junior agent on the team, Mary Margaret Lovato got the drudge work assignments. Ordered back to Carrizozo, she'd spent the morning on a door-to-door canvas of every business and government office in town, showing photographs, asking questions, and trying to find one witness who could put any of the possible suspects in the area before the first homicide at the Valley of Fires campground. No one Mary Margaret spoke to was able to ID Kay Murray, Penelope Gibben, or Linda and Eric Langsford.

Situated at the north end of the Tularosa Basin, Carrizozo was bracketed by mountain ranges, some near and some distant. While the landscape was lovely to look at, the winds were constant, swirling out of the mountains from all directions.

After a few minutes of small talk with the county sheriff outside the county administration building, Mary Margaret went to her unit, ran a comb through her hair, and wrote up her field notes. Her next scheduled stop was the village of Tularosa, fifty miles south.

She doubled-checked her list against the local phone book to make sure every possible contact had been made, crossed out the names of businesses no longer in existence, and noted down for later followup the few places where she'd been unable to speak to anyone.

The phone book included listings for the village of Capitan, a short twenty-mile drive southeast into the mountains. Famous as the birthplace of Smokey Bear, Capitan had not been canvassed. Mary Margaret cranked the engine. It was worth a shot.

She arrived in the village and made a quick tour. Nestled in a valley with mountains to the south and rolling hills to the north rising to a high range that extended in an easterly direction, it took its name from the peak that dominated the skyline. Businesses were concentrated along the highway and on several short blocks of side streets.

In the town center was the Smokey Bear Historical State Park, which celebrated the rescue fifty years ago of the famous Forest Service icon from a nearby wildfire.

Behind the somewhat quaint main drag, residential streets crisscrossed a narrow flat area for a few blocks before giving way to open grassland.

Mary Margaret swung back on the main drag, stopped at a mom-and-pop motel, placed photographs on the office counter, and showed them to a slow-moving overweight woman who had emerged from the apartment behind the office.

The woman jabbed a finger at Eric Langsford's photo. "He stays here."

"When was the last time?" Mary Margaret asked.

The woman paged through her register. "Last month."

"Was he alone?"

"He checked in as a single." She picked up Kay Murray's picture. "But this woman meets him here," she said, waving the photo at Mary Margaret.

"You're sure?" Mary Margaret asked.

"Uh-huh. I've seen them both before. They just stay in his room for a while and then go to the restaurant next door."

"How often do they meet here?"

"Three, four times a year. It's been going on for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"At least four years."

"Does the room get used?"

"You mean for sex? Not unless they do it in the shower. The bed is never mussy.

"They arrived in separate cars?"

"Yes."

"How long do they stay?"

"No more than an hour or two," the woman said, nodding at the office window. "I can see all the vehicles in the parking lot from here."

"What name does he use when he checks in?"

The woman put the photo down and studied the register. "Eric Langsford. He pays in cash."

Mary Margaret tapped Kay Murray's photo. "Has he ever met with anyone else besides this woman?"

"Not so far as I know."

Mary Margaret passed her hand over Penelope Gibben's and Linda Langsford's photographs. "What about these two?"

"I've never seen either of them."

"I need the dates of all his previous stays," Mary Margaret said.

"For this year, that's easy. Anything before that, I'll have to dig out the guest books. It will take some time."

"I'll wait."

The woman huffed in frustration about the inconvenience and retreated into her apartment. A smile lit up Mary Margaret's face and she clapped her hands together in delight.

The uniformed officer sent to Ruidoso to find Kay Murray and bring her to Alamogordo called in a five-minute ETA. Kerney complimented Mary Margaret for a job well done, left the command trailer, and waited for Murray in the district captain's office.

His decision to have Murray picked up and escorted to him was calculated to make her feel vulnerable and at risk.

Murray knocked at the open door, and Kerney studied the papers on the desk for a minute before looking up. She glared at him when he motioned for her to enter, and stalked in with her back straight, her chin set, and a cutting look in her eyes.

"What is this all about?" she demanded.

"Sit down," Kerney said.

"I will not."

"You refuse to cooperate?"

"Why did you drag me down here?"

"Are you willing to cooperate?" Kerney said.

"I've done that already."

Kerney pushed the phone across the desk. "Call a lawyer, Ms. Murray."

"What for?"

"I may be filing conspiracy charges against you."

"Conspiracy to do what?"

"Colluding with Eric Langsford to kill his father and five other innocent people."

"That's ludicrous."

Kerney nodded curtly at the empty chair. "Sit down and cooperate."

Murray sat in cold silence, her expression frozen in restrained anger.

He decided to change tactics. He moved his chair to the side of the desk, closer to Murray, and smiled. "This doesn't have to be that difficult."

"What, exactly, do you want me to confess to?"

"Let's back up a bit. You were seen with Eric Langsford at a motel in Capitan less than a month before the murders. What was that all about?"

"I'd rather not say."

"You've met with him eleven times over the past four years in the same motel."

"Is that a crime?"

"Not necessarily."

Murray's laugh was brittle. "You think I'm a slut, don't you?"

"I'm not assuming your meetings with Eric had anything to do with sex."

"How generous of you."

"But I do believe the killings were planned and executed to conceal the fact that Vernon Langsford was the principal target. Your rendezvous with Eric, so close to the time of the murders, brings the possibility of your participation into question."

"I did not meet with Eric to help him plan a murder."

Kerney's skepticism rose. People who denied accusations quickly always made him more leery. "I'd like to believe that."

"Then by all means do."

"Why are you protecting Eric?"

"I'm not. Eric can take care of himself. I'm protecting my right to privacy."