Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“Do you have Mrs. Spalding’s Santa Fe address?”

“My ranch manager should. He made the arrangements to have the horses she keeps in Santa Fe transported there.”

Jardin glanced at his wristwatch, an expensive, wafer-thin gold timepiece that probably cost more than Lowrey’s personal vehicle.

“Just a few more questions,” she said, “and then we’ll be done.”

Kerney waited on the porch outside the office with the ranch manager, Ken Wheeler, and watched the coroner come and go. No longer a jockey, Wheeler had still managed to keep weight off his wiry frame. He sported a wide mouth that seemed ready-made to break into easy smiles, and had tiny ears that lay flat against his head. At six-one, Kerney towered over the man.

Wheeler told Kerney that he had two twelve-year-old halterbroken mares, four three-year-old geldings that didn’t seem to have the heart to race, and a young stud named Comeuppance available for sale.

Wheeler thought the mares, once saddlebroken, would serve well for pleasure riding, the geldings were sure-footed and quick enough to be good cutting horses, and the stallion would do just fine at stud, if the new owner didn’t expect fast runners from his lineage.

Kerney knew, if he decided to buy it, the stud horse would be his most expensive purchase. “Is that his only flaw?” he asked.

“I believe so,” Wheeler replied, his deep baritone voice quite a contrast to his diminutive size. “But you’ll get to see for yourself. He’s got good bloodlines, but none of his yearlings or two-year-olds look promising for the track. The boss says we sure aren’t going to make any money keeping him, and I agree.”

Before Kerney could reply, Sergeant Lowrey stepped onto the porch.

“Mr. Wheeler,” she said, “could you get me Mrs. Spalding’s Santa Fe address?”

“Sure thing,” Wheeler said as he slipped past Lowrey into the office.

Kerney raised an eyebrow. “Santa Fe, New Mexico?”

“She has a house there,” Lowrey said, “and according to Mr. Jardin that’s where she is. Do you know her?”

Kerney shook his head. “Do you want my department to make contact with her?”

“That would be helpful, Chief.” Lowrey handed him a business card. “Ask your officer to call me first.”

“Will do.” Kerney reached for his cell phone. “What did the coroner have to say?”

“So far, Spalding’s death appears to be from natural causes.” Lowrey paused and gave him a once-over. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it, Spalding’s wife having a place in Santa Fe?”

“In this particular instance, I would say that it is,” Kerney replied.

“Are you sure you’ve never met her while you’ve been out riding the range?”

“That’s very funny, Sergeant,” Kerney said, slightly piqued at Lowrey’s sarcasm. “Actually there are times when we still ride the range. But now that the streets of Santa Fe are paved, my officers mostly drive squad cars.”

“Maybe you met her at a horse show or a rodeo,” Lowrey countered.

“Not that I recall,” Kerney said. He turned away from Lowrey and dialed Larry Otero’s home number.

After talking to Larry, he waited for Lowrey to reappear. Instead, Wheeler came out of the office and told him Lowrey had a few more questions to ask and would be with him shortly. He agreed to meet Wheeler at the track when he was finished, and cooled his heels waiting on the porch.

It didn’t surprise him that Lowrey wanted another go-round. The “coincidence” that both Kerney and the dead man’s wife lived in the same city would spark any competent officer ’s interest.

Finally, Lowrey called him back into the office. Kerney sat in a straight-back chair, while Lowrey perched against the office desk and studied the coral and turquoise wedding band on his left hand.

“You’re married,” she finally said.

“Yes,” Kerney replied.

Lowrey’s eyes searched his face. “And your wife didn’t come here with you.”

“She’s a career military officer serving at the Pentagon. Her schedule didn’t allow it.”

“You must not be able to spend a great deal of time together,” Lowrey said.

“We manage to see each other frequently,” Kerney said, watching Lowrey, who was busy scanning him for any behavioral signals that might signal deception.

“Have you been married long?”

“A couple of years.”

“Children?”

“One son, ten months old.”

Lowrey smiled. “Your first?”

“Yes,” Kerney said. “Now, why don’t you get to the part where you stick your face in mine and ask me if I might be lying about not knowing Spalding’s wife?”

Lowrey laughed. “As I understand it, Mrs. Spalding is about your age, and spends a great deal of time alone in Santa Fe, away from her husband. You seem to be in the same situation with your marriage.”

“I am happily married, Sergeant. Don’t turn a perfectly reasonable coincidence into a soap opera about two lonely, unhappy people.”

“Obviously, you and Mrs. Spalding share an interest in horses.”

“Along with about five million other horse lovers.”

“Mr. Spalding was rich and considerably older than his wife.”

“So I understand, from what you’ve said.”

“And neither you nor Spalding have ever stayed here before,” Lowrey noted.

“Apparently not,” Kerney replied. “Do you find a chance occurrence tantalizing, Sergeant? That would be quite a stretch.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Do my questions upset you?”

“Not at all.” His cell phone rang. Kerney flipped it open and answered.

“What kind of fix have you gotten yourself into out there?” Andy Baca, Kerney’s old friend and chief of the New Mexico State Police, asked.

“What’s up?” Kerney asked, raising a finger to signal Lowrey that he’d only be a minute.

“I just got a call from my district commander that some deputy sheriff, a Sergeant Lowrey out of San Luis Obispo County, wants an officer sent to inform a Mrs. Claudia Spalding of her husband’s death and to determine your relationship to the woman, if any.”

“Interesting,” Kerney said.

“I’ve got two grandchildren in my lap, one on each knee,” Andy said, “ready to head off to the Albuquerque zoo to see the polar bears. What’s going on with you?”

“I’ll call you when I know more.”

“That’s it?” Andy asked, sounding a bit exasperated.

Kerney laughed. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’ll be home by dinnertime,” Andy said. “Unless you get locked up, call me then.”

“I’ll do that. Have fun.” Kerney disconnected and smiled at Lowrey. “Are we done here, Sergeant?”

Lowrey smiled back. “We’ll talk again after I’ve heard back from your department.”

“I’ll be around,” Kerney said, thinking Lowrey was doing her job and doing it well. Still, he didn’t have to like it.

Ellie Lowrey made another visual sweep of the cottage before the EMTs took Spalding’s body away. After they rolled him out, she gathered up the dead man’s luggage, put it in the trunk of her cruiser, and drove a back road to the sheriff’s substation in Templeton.

The station was housed in a fairly new single-story faux western frontier-style office building with a false front and a slanted covered porch. It had been designed to fit in with the old buildings on the main street left over from the town’s early days as a booming farming and ranching community. Now, the charm of the village and its convenience to Highway 101, which ran the length of the West Coast, drew droves of newcomers looking to escape the sprawl of the central coast cities, creating, of course, more sprawl.

As second-in-command of the substation, Ellie Lowrey served under a lieutenant who was on vacation with his family in the Rocky Mountains. She parked in front of the closed office, carried Spalding’s luggage inside, and placed it on her desk.