Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

Halfway into the run Kerney broke the silence.

"What have you learned?"

"It's mostly a rehash of what I mentioned yesterday.

We should be talking to gallery owners who deal in the works of the artists on the list," Fletcher explained.

"Particular attention should be paid to recent new clients looking to either buy or sell. Some of the more intelligent thieves will approach dealers before they pull the job to get a feel for what the market will bear once the objects are in hand. Others, who have no idea what they have stolen, will do the same after the fact."

"I'll put somebody on it," Kerney said, slowing down a bit to accommodate Fletcher's pace. In the cold morning air, his breath turned to frost.

"No need," Fletcher said.

"I've been doing it myself.

I've spoken to a. number of dealers by phone, and left messages for others to call me."

"Has anything interesting come up?"

"Not as it pertains to the investigation. This morning I plan to visit a number of galleries. Fortunately, whoever chose the collection for the governor's office had good taste. I won't have to go into those vile places on the plaza and Canyon Road that sell romanticized cowboy and Western sleaze art."

"You don't like cowboys?"

"I love cowboys," Hetcher responded as he turned the corner, keeping a steady, slow pace.

"But I hate bad taste. By the way, you need to be more attentive to my wishes."

"How so?"

"That young officer you sent over with the inventory and photographs had the right sexual orientation, but she was the wrong gender."

"I'll keep that in mind next time. Did you get any additional feedback from the research foundation and the Art Loss. Register?"

"Yes, indeed. It could be that the works were stolen to fill an order, but that's considered unlikely. Most thefts are done by uneducated crooks who have no appreciation of what they've stolen. In other situations, it may be a curator who can't resist an opportunity to steal, an art lover who is obsessed with a certain work, or a professional criminal who knows how to sell the item."

"That's not much help."

Pletcher shrugged a shoulder as he ran comfortably at Kerney's side.

For a man in his mid-seventies, he was in remarkably good physical shape.

"Over two hundred and fifty works by Picasso are listed as stolen.

Signed paintings, prints, etchings, and lithographs-worth a fortune.

Art theft is not an easy crime to solve."

"Anything else?" Kerney asked, thoroughly discouraged by Fletcher's report.

"The market in stolen fine art is global. What was taken from a church in Spain might wind up in a Brussels gallery five years later. Georgia O'Keefie's work is admired worldwide, and much in demand.

Certain collectors are not terribly concerned about the legality of the purchases they make."

"Did you get any names of potential local buyers?"

"Not yet," Fletcher answered, slowing to a walk. His face was rosy from the exertion of the run. They were within sight of the dirt lane at the end of the street that led to the house.

"However, people who buy high quality stolen art are typically rich, influential, and usually avoid prosecution."

"We need something to break soon," Kerney said.

"According to the newspaper, this mischief has put some egg on the governor's face. Is it trickling down to you?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure he'll pass it on soon enough," Kerney predicted. captain Vance Howell slouched down in the chair across from Kerney, reached for a coffee cup on the conference table, picked it up, and took a sip. The call to meet with Kerney early in the morning forced Howell to dress hurriedly and miss his second cup of coffee. In civilian clothes while on administrative leave, he wore a pullover crew neck sweater that made him look big and beefy, a pair of blue jeans, and work boots. His long legs were stretched out under the table.

Howell studied Kerney as he took another sip.

Kerney's congenial expression gave nothing away.

Howell smiled back at the new deputy chief, took one last sip, and put his cup down.

"Has Internal Affairs finished their investigation on my team?" he asked. For ten fucking hours yesterday, he had been put through the wringer by two hotshot, button-down IA agents, and he didn't relish undergoing a repeat performance with Kerney.

"Not yet," Kerney answered.

"Is there a problem?"

"None that I know of. I'm more interested in some crime scene evidence I'd like to ask you about."

"Ask away," Howell said.

"The technicians discovered female pubic hairs in the governor's suite.

Would you consider that unusual?"

"I don't think so. A lot of staff members use the governor's bathroom when he's out of the office. The door stays unlocked most of the time.

It could be the first lady, for all I know."

"The first lady isn't a blonde," Kerney replied.

"That's right, she isn't," Howell said.

"But blond pubic hairs found in the bathroom don't seem like substantial crime scene evidence to me."

"Evidence is evidence," Kerney said, wondering why Howell seemed to think that pubic hairs were only found in bathrooms.

"Governor Springer was out of the office for a week until yesterday."

"That's correct."

"How frequently are his offices cleaned when he's away?"

"When he leaves town, the janitors will shampoo the rugs, wash the walls, and clean the place top to bottom.

After that, it's just a quick wipe down until he gets back."

"Was that done last week?"

"Yeah, the day after the governor left. Why all the cleaning questions. Chief?"

"The pubic hairs we found were from the carpet in front of Governor Springer's desk."

Howell tried to stifle his reaction, but grinned anyway.

"I'll be damned. Somebody's been getting their rocks off in the old man's office."

"Possibly," Kerney said.

"Work up a list of names for me, Captain. I want to know the identity of every blond female who might have had access to the governor's office last week. That includes staff members, any visitors, girlfriends, wives, or friends. Everybody."

"I'll do what I can, but it won't be inclusive," Howell said.

"I have no idea who comes and goes when he's not there."

"Ask people," Kerney said flatly, thinking Howell needed to stop worrying about covering his ass and get with the program.

Howell nodded and got up from his chair.

"Am I back in harness. Chief?"

"This is a special assignment, nothing more. I'll let you know when you're cleared to return to regular duty."

The conference room telephone rang as Howell made his exit. Kerney picked up the receiver to find Judge Ross-Gorden's clerk on the line.

Nita Lassiter's arraignment had been set for one o'clock. He hung up and went into Andy's office.

"What's happening?" Andy asked hopefully.

"Nothing. I'm grasping at straws, or pubic hairs, to be more exact."

"Is this a Clarence Thomas joke?" Andy asked.

Kerney explained his comment.

"This could create a bad news day for the governor if word of it leaked out," Andy said.

"It won't. But I'll bet even money Springer will hear about the pubic hairs from Captain Howell."

"Why do you say that?"

"I put a tail on Howell yesterday evening after IA finished interviewing him. He went straight to the governor's ranch. I believe the captain may have divided loyal des Andy pressed his lips together tightly before responding.

"Let's see what plays out before we jump to conclusions.

But if Howell does tell the governor, Springer won't like it. He's a conservative Republican who beats the family values drum every chance he gets. He may want me to put the brakes on the inquiry."

"What do you want me to do?" Kerney asked.