Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

"Do you think Mr. Cordova would make a competent witness?" Dalquist asked as he hit the stop button to the tape recorder.

"I'm not a psychiatrist," Kerney said.

"But along that same line, has the psychological evaluation on Ms.

Lassiter been completed?"

"The report will be in the judge's hands in the morning," Dalquist said.

"I expect Ms. Lassiter to be released on bail by noon."

"That's good to know."

"Do you plan to force Robert Cordova to corroborate Ms. Lassiter's statement that he saw her leaving the murder scene?" Dalquist asked.

"I don't think I can force Robert to do anything," Kerney replied. wesley marshall waylaid Kerney on his way out of the building.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you planned to interview Robert Cordova? The case fell under my jurisdiction when I signed off on the paperwork. You don't take this kind of action without my approval."

"Robert found me. I didn't go looking for him. Do you want all the facts. Counselor, or just those that will help you win the case?"

"I want them all, of course," Marshall said.

"But you may have given Dalquist an early Christmas present."

"Wouldn't it be helpful to have Robert put Lassiter at the scene of the crime?"

"I'm not railing him as a witness. He's a mental case, for chrissake.

Totally unreliable."

"Then impeach him on the witness stand, if Dalquist decides to use him for the defense."

"Don't do this again, Kerney. This is the second time you've messed with me."

"I think you're fairly new at the game, Mr. Marshall, so let me remind you of the drill. My responsibility to you consists of gathering all the facts, and that doesn't end until a decision is reached in a court of law."

"Whose side are you on?"

"This isn't about taking sides." andy baca was waiting for Kerney when he got back to the office. The clerical staff and most of the civilian workers were gone for the day and the building was quiet.

"You look wrecked," Andy said.

"I am." Kerney flopped on the couch and stretched his right leg. The throbbing in his reconstructed knee felt like sharp hammer blows.

"Bring me up to speed," Andy said as he sat with Kerney.

"What don't you know?"

"How did your meeting with the governor go?"

"I survived it," Kerney answered.

"Springer is determined to keep any hint of staff sexual misconduct buried under the rug. Correction-buried under the carpet."

"He called and gave me the same marching orders."

"Did he sweeten the pot with money to pay for all the overtime we're burning?"

"He did. And he ordered me to reinstate Howell and the security detail to duty immediately."

Kerney grunted.

"Then the only thing I can add is a warning: Vance Howell is in the governor's hip pocket.

Only tell him things you want Springer to know."

"Is it that bad?"

"You bet," Kerney said.

"How did the Lassiter deposition go?"

"Aside from pissing off the ADA, it went well. I turned over a witness statement that the defense counsel loved and the ADA hated. He might call you up and bitch about me. Did Martinez stop by to brief you?"

"Yes. He dropped off some hair samples from Amanda Talley's apartment.

The lab report came in an hour ago. They're a perfect match with the hairs found in the governor's office and the van. You should be pleased. It ties the two crimes together."

"It also means that Amanda Talley is probably dead," Kerney noted.

"So who in the hell is using her name and vacationing in Belize?"

"Beats me. Let's get a search warrant and have Martinez take a closer look at Talley's apartment."

The supervisor of the fingerprint unit, a bookish looking man carrying some papers in his hand, stepped tentatively into the office with a pleased expression on his face.

"Chief Baca. Chief Kerney. Got a minute?"

"What is it, Stan?" Andy asked.

"We got a hit back on a clean thumbprint from the van. The ID didn't come through normal channels.

Army Intelligence made the guy. His name is Carlos Ruiz. He works for a Mexican national named Enrique De Leon who operates out of Juarez.

Interpol says De Leon is a major international smuggler; drugs, an, rare artifacts, anything with a big-ticket value. I've got Ruiz's mug shot and rap sheet."

"I'll be damned," Andy said.

Kerney had gone up against De Leon and Ruiz once before, and Andy knew the case well. He had put a badge in Kerney's pocket when he was the Dona Ana County sheriff, on what appeared to be nothing more than a missing person case involving Kerney's godson.

By the time the dust settled, Kerney had uncovered murders, a major smuggling scheme, and a rogue military intelligence agent in league with De Leon "Bring it here," Kerney said. He took the photograph from the supervisor's hand and studied it. Carlos Ruiz's ugly, pockmarked face stared back at him.

"Can you run the investigation without me for a day?" he asked.

"Where do you think you're going?" Andy asked.

"Juarez. The art theft is just De Leon kind of caper.

Ruiz's involvement cinches it. I need to find out where De Leon is and where the goodies are stashed. I'll need some money."

Andy bit his lip and thought about it. Kerney had tracked De Leon down before using a paid Juarez informant, and he knew the lay of the land better than anyone else.

"Okay," he finally said.

"We got some confiscated drug funds you can use. I'll have you flown to El Paso on our plane. But get some sleep before you cross the border, and for chrissake be careful. De Leon will take you out if he has the chance. You hit him hard in the pocketbook on the White Sands case, and I don't think he's inclined to be forgiving."

"I'm leaving now," Kerney said.

"Call the pilot."

After spending a night at an El Paso motel, Kerney got up early and took a taxi across the border to Juarez. He had the driver pull to a stop at Plaza Cervantine, a bohemian enclave for writers, artists, and community activists. Well away from the Juarez tourist strip, the plaza consisted of a mixture of apartment houses, cafes, artist studios, neighborhood businesses, and offices.

Kerney paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. A street vendor was opening his food cart for business.

The rich smell of tortillas, beans, and dark Mexican coffee filled the air. The business signs, posters, and murals that peppered the walls of the buildings were a riot of hot colors: bright yellow, brash pink, and screaming orange.

The only other person on the plaza aside from the vendor was a man walking a dog. Wearing a wool scarf thrown casually around his neck, a beret set at a cocky angle, and a V-neck sweater, the man hurried his pet into one of the doors of a walk-up apartment building.

Kerney followed a passageway through an office building to a courtyard cafe where several people sat smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the chilly early morning air. From the serving counter under the landing to the second story he could hear the clatter of dishes and the chatter of kitchen workers as they prepared for the breakfast rush.

Upstairs, he found the office to the small weekly newspaper locked. He returned to the courtyard cafe, ordered coffee, and asked the server when Rose Moya usually arrived for work. He was told that she kept to no fixed schedule.

Rose had been a source of information for Kerney during the White Sands case, and put him on the trail to Enrique De Leon An investigative reporter, she had written a series of articles for her left-wing newspaper that exposed government collusion with the Juarez underworld.

While Kerney waited, the patio cafe filled with neighborhood locals, who flashed him inquisitive looks as they sipped cofiee and talked. The man with the beret came into the courtyard without his dog, and joined a group of friends at a nearby table. A lively discussion sprang up on the political importance of street theater.