Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

"They're on station," Kerney answered, unwinding from his chair. His knee felt stiff and cranky. He stretched it out to ease the muscles.

"Well, then, have at it," Andy said as he plucked the piece of paper with De Leon Rancho Caballo address from Kerney's hand.

"I'll put a surveillance team on De Leon house."

"Remember, De Leon got diplomatic immunity."

"Yeah, but Vicente Fuentes doesn't. I'll think of a way to get us inside."

"That would be nice."

"Cut the sarcasm, Kerney." senior Patrol Officer Clyde Pratt knew exactly who was inside the art crating shop. Using the onboard computer in his unit, he'd run a record check on the vehicles as soon as each of the two men drove up, parked, and went into the house.

It was amazing what could be learned from a license plate number these days. The registered owners were Skip Cornell and Kiko Segura, and his screen even displayed driver's license photos, which allowed Pratt to confirm their identities.

There were no wants, warrants, or rap sheets on either man, but that didn't mean shit.

A seventeen-year veteran of the force, Pratt had come to appreciate the new technology. It sometimes made it possible to know in advance whom you would be dealing with. Clyde thought that was fucking marvelous.

The more you knew, the less the danger, if you stayed prepared for the unexpected.

He released the thumb snap to his holster as he followed Morris Wadley up the stairs of the loading dock. Prom inside, Pratt could hear the harsh whine of a table saw.

Wadley went in first, carrying a clipboard. As soon as Skip and Kiko saw Pratt, they shut down the saw.

Interior walls in the back of the house had been removed to create an open workspace. Floor-to-ceiling racks along one wall held lumber, and there were various drills and machine tools on stands near the saw. A small office and an adjacent walk-in storage locker ran along another wall.

Pratt noticed a lot of hand tools on tables and workbenches.

Each could be used as a weapon.

"What's up. Officer?" Skip asked as he pulled off his ear protectors.

Clyde smiled and shrugged nonchalantly.

"Nothing to worry about."

He closed in slowly, visually scanning the men for hidden weapons. Both wore blue jeans and T-shirts with no obvious bulges. Exactly as he'd been told to do, Wadley stepped off to one side and waited. Pratt stopped walking when he reached the angle he wanted between the two men. He glanced at the hammer on a table within Kiko's reach and stayed well out of striking range.

"We just need a few minutes of your time," Clyde said.

"What for?" Skip demanded.

Kiko looked ready to bolt for the front door. Pratt put his hand on his holster and Kiko froze. It was time to move Kiko and Skip outside.

"Let's go outside," Pratt suggested.

"I'm allergic to sawdust."

"What in the fuck is this all about?" Skip asked.

"Building inspection," Pratt answered.

"Do you have a problem with that, Skippy?"

Pratt's use of his diminutive nickname, which he hated, made Skip's face turn red.

"You know me?"

"I sure do. I know your friend Kiko, too. Now, let's go outside."

Clyde smiled broadly at Kiko.

"Don't even think of reaching for that hammer."

Outside, Pratt stood them with their backs against the loading dock.

Skip wanted to smoke a cigarette and Clyde suggested he could do without. Kiko kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Every time he moved, Clyde clamped a hand on his pistol grip and Kiko froze.

Finally, Wadley appeared on the dock with a flushed, excited look on his face and looked down at Pratt.

"This place is a building code disaster," he said.

"The first floor has been ruined."

"That's a shame," Pratt replied, staying focused on the two men in front of him.

"There's something I think you should see, Officer," he said.

"I'm no expert, but it looks like drugs to me. A lot of drugs in a hidden basement."

"Don't touch anything." Clyde took his handheld radio out of the belt case and called for assistance.

"Turn around, boys," he ordered, after he ended the transmission.

He cuffed and frisked them while he read them their rights, and sat them both on the ground.

"Are there really drugs inside, Skippy?" Clyde asked as he stepped back.

"I don't know nothing about that shit," Skip replied, his face turning red.

"How about you, Kiko? Do you know anything about drugs?"

"I just build shipping crates. That's all."

"Well, you're both going to have to answer a lot of questions."

"I want a lawyer," Skip said.

"Me too," echoed Kiko.

"Fair enough," Clyde said.

"But first you get a ride in a shiny new police car."

Pratt turned the men over to an arriving patrol officer and waited for the agents to appear. As the arresting officer, Clyde needed to confirm the presence of narcotics in the building. He went in with the agents, and Wadley led them to the storage locker and a built-in shelf that swung open to reveal steps to the secret basement.

Bundles of crack cocaine and heroin were stacked on pallets. It was a hell of a lot of dope, enough to fill the trunk of a full-size car.

The agents did a quick test of the drugs and pegged the street value at a million plus.

"What charges do you want on Kiko and Skip?" Pratt asked.

"Start with trafficking," an agent said, "and then be creative."

Like most of the shops along Canyon Road, Bucky Watson's gallery had once been a private residence.

The interior of the building had neoclassical features accentuated by antique furniture and expensive art in ornate frames. Watson's office continued the theme.

Behind the Shaker table that served as a desk, logs burned in a fireplace bordered by a gilt-edge Georgian surround. An old Mexican grain chest sat on sturdy legs under a window that looked out on the narrow street. On a high shelf over the window was an impressive array of Apache Indian baskets.

Paintings by early twentieth-century Santa Fe artists and a bookshelf of art reference publications completed the decor.

Kerney sat across the table from Bucky. Watson's eyebrows had started twitching the moment he arrived.

He smirked at Kerney's questions, toyed with a ring, and answered impatiently.

"Is all this rehashing necessary?" Watson said.

"Sometimes it can jog a recollection or two," Kerney replied genially.

"Go ahead and finish asking your questions."

"You said Amanda attended the benefit alone. Did you see her arrive unescorted?"

"No. That's just the impression I had. She didn't act like she was with anybody."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she was milling around, mixing, chatting people up."

"Did any of the men at the benefit seem interested in Amanda?"

"Every straight man who meets Amanda is interested in her."

"What about Vicente Puentes? Was he interested?"

Bucky flinched slightly.

"I don't know if he was or not."

"Is Puentes straight or gay?"

"I don't know."

"Can you put me in touch with Fuentes? I'd like to talk to him."

"I don't know how to do that. I've only met the man a couple of times." Bucky ran his finger under the collar of his teal blue linen shirt.

"Doesn't he own a home in Rancho Caballo?"

"He's a member at the dub, so I suppose he does."

"I had the impression you knew him fairly well."

"You're mistaken."

"I understand Fuentes is wealthy. How did he make his money?"

"I have no idea." The phone rang and Bucky grabbed the receiver. He listened momentarily and handed the instrument to Kerney.

"It's for you."

Kerney took the call, and listened as the agent reported that over a million dollars in black tar heroin and crack cocaine had been found in the secret basement.