Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“I doubt it,” Kerney said. “I need to know where George is buried.”

“At the Fort Bayard National Cemetery in New Mexico,” Parker said. “At least what could be found of him.”

“Meaning what?”

“The bodies had basically been incinerated in the crash. Identification was made primarily by dog tags, remnants of uniforms, and dental records.”

“Who supplied the dental records? The military or the family?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were all the victims’ identities verified?” Kerney asked.

“You’re asking me for information I don’t have,” Parker replied. “Remember, this happened long before my time. I do know that after the divorce, Alice wanted George’s remains disinterred so that a DNA test could be made. She wanted to use the latest technology to prove that he was still alive. But Clifford stopped it by getting a judge to rule that both parents would have to agree to the exhumation.”

“Who was the judge?”

“I don’t remember his name, but he was located in Silver City, New Mexico, near the cemetery where George was buried. I typed all the original correspondence. Alice’s lawyer should have the particulars.”

“I’ll need those,” Kerney said. “Would Alice be willing to resubmit a request to disinter the body and also provide a DNA sample for comparison purposes? A simple cotton swab for saliva inside her mouth should be all that’s required.”

“I’m sure she’ll want to cooperate.”

“Give me her lawyer’s name and phone number and I’ll get the ball rolling.”

“How quickly do you plan to act?” Parker asked, after reading off the information.

“I’d like to move fast and get the skeletal remains tested and compared to Alice’s DNA as soon as possible,” Kerney replied. “We can use a private lab in Albuquerque to do the analysis. How soon can you get Alice in for a mouth swab?”

“Her doctor makes house calls,” Parker said, excitement rising in her voice. “I’ll see if he can come out right away. Otherwise, I’ll make an appointment and take her to his office as soon as possible.”

“Tell him exactly what the swab is for and ask him to handle it like evidence. He’s to wear gloves and seal the swab in a clear plastic bag. Have him send it to me by overnight air express.”

“Should I tell Captain Chase about this?” Parker asked, after Kerney gave her his mailing address. “He called a day ago asking if I’ve spoken to you again.”

“Please don’t tell him anything.”

“You make it sound like a conspiracy,” Parker whispered delightedly.

Kerney sidestepped the remark. “You’ll get a call later today from a New Mexico judge who will want to verify Alice’s willingness to have the body exhumed. Make sure she’s prepared to give consent.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“If you have a fax machine at the house, give me the number and I’ll send you an exhumation request form. Fax it back as soon as Alice signs it.”

“What are you planning to do to the body?”

“We’ll take a bone sample from the skeleton and have it compared to Alice’s DNA. Also, I’ll ask for fresh X-rays of the teeth.”

“Who will do the examination?” Parker asked.

“A forensic anthropologist,” Kerney replied.

“How long will this take to accomplish?”

“Disinterring the body can be done quickly,” Kerney said. “Using a private lab for the testing will cut the turnaround time significantly. We should have results and some answers within a matter of a few weeks, if not sooner.”

“I’d better go get Alice ready for all of this,” Parker said.

“Thank you, Ms. Parker.”

“Please, it’s Penelope,” Parker replied with a girlish, teasing tone. “Although I must say I like a gentleman with good manners.”

Kerney laughed politely, got the fax number, disconnected, and called Alice Spalding’s lawyer.

Ramona Pino and Matt Chacon rolled up to Griffin’s house to find the front door ajar and nobody home. They did a quick visual room check, and found clothes missing from the master bedroom closet and a laptop computer gone from a desk in the home office.

Ramona stood in the middle of the living room and gazed out the open front door. “Okay, he’s running,” she said. “But why? What for? And where?”

Chacon wandered around the room pulling furniture away from the walls, kicking over scatter rugs, pummeling the pillows on the eight-foot-long couch. “Drugs,” he said. “It’s gotta be drugs.”

Ramona walked to the telephone, punched in the code to connect to the number of the last incoming call, listened to a clerk answer at a local building supplier, and disconnected. “He’s dealing pharmaceuticals and weed,” she said. “What else?”

“Harder stuff,” Chacon suggested, “or maybe a heavy volume of grass.”

“Ten pounds isn’t exactly lightweight.” Ramona listened to the messages on the answering machine. One from a slightly pissed-off homeowner, demanding to know why Griffin hadn’t yet fixed the tile caulking on the kitchen backsplash, caught her attention.

“But let’s assume,” she said, “he has a really big stash warehoused somewhere. Do we know where Griffin is building houses? Supposedly, it’s nearby.”

Chacon shook his head. “There are new houses going up all around La Cienega.”

Ramona played back the message again, wrote down the irate homeowner’s number, called, and got a busy tone. “Think upscale houses,” she said as she flipped through a phone book. The homeowner wasn’t listed.

“Willow Creek Estates,” Chacon said, “near the interstate.”

Ramona dropped the phone in the cradle. “No listing.” She pawed through a file drawer in the desk and pulled out a copy of the construction contract for the homeowner. “The guy who called Griffin lives on La Jara Way.”

“Which means scrub willow in Spanish,” Chacon said.

Ramona headed for the door. “Let’s take a tour of Willow Creek Estates.”

The subdivision covered a lot of territory and was so new none of their maps included it. They divided it up into halves, and cruised the paved streets. Once a ranch owned by a former governor, it was slowly being transformed into a gated residential community. There were large faux adobe houses on five- and ten-acre lots. Some were nestled along a tree windbreak that shielded the highway from view, while others were tucked out of sight behind low hills. Occupied homes were scattered here and there between houses in various stages of construction. All of them were typical Santa Fe style, with flat roofs, enclosed courtyards, portals, earth-tone stucco finishes, two or more fireplaces, and attached garages. Although not as expensive as the more exclusive foothills houses favored by the very rich, Ramona figured they had to be selling in the mid-to-high six-figure range.

She topped out on a hill and saw four unmarked vehicles, all with emergency lights flashing, parked in front of an unfinished house covered in a plaster scratch coat. Griffin’s pickup truck stood next to a small construction trailer. Men wearing Windbreakers were going in and out of the house and trailer.

By radio, she gave Matt Chacon the word, gave dispatch her twenty, and asked what was up at her location.

“We have no reported activity in your area,” dispatch replied.

“Well, get ready for some.” Ramona hit her emergency lights and drove toward the house. The man who stopped her at the driveway had a DEA ID attached to a lanyard around his neck.

“This is as far as you go, Sergeant Pino,” Special Agent Evan Winslow said.

“What a surprise,” Ramona said. “Shouldn’t you be at the brokerage office managing wealth for your clients? I need Mitch Griffin.”