Michael McGarrity - Hermit_s Peak

There was no way Kerney could refuse. He hung up, called Sara, explained the situation, and told her their camping trip would have to be delayed.

"There's no need to apologize," Sara said.

"We'll simply do it some other time."

"I should be home early in the evening." Silence greeted Kerney's comment. He waited for a response and none came.

"Sara?"

"This conversation is starting to sound much too domestic," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"Am I missing something here?"

"Everything's fine."

"It doesn't sound that way to me."

"Stop it, Kerney. I'll see you when you get off work."

Kerney hung up the receiver, wondering what in the hell was going on.

He waited a minute, dialed his home number again, and got a busy signal.

There wasn't time to brood over it. in five minutes he would be taking a phone call from a newspaper reporter about the early morning discovery of an elderly woman who had been raped and murdered at a remote farmhouse in southeastern New Mexico.

The department's public information officer had set up the call. Kerney buzzed him and asked for the fact sheet on the case.

The lieutenant came in, gave Kerney the sheet, and sat.

Kerney read it quickly, "m other words, we've got nothing so far."

"What we've got is heat. Chief. I just got off the phone with the county sheriff. The victim was the grandmother of the chairman of the county commission. The sheriff wants the department to offer all possible assistance."

"Has he talked to the newspapers about it?"

"Of course he has. He's a politician. He'll do his best with the limited resources available. But without the department's help-you know the rest of it."

Kerney nodded. Laying off responsibility to the state police for major case investigations was standard procedure for sheriffs who had limited budgets, few personnel, and no technical specialists.

"I've got a TV reporter and another print journalist standing by to speak to you after this interview is finished.

They're covering the same story."

"Don't schedule any more for me," Kerney said.

"I'll handle whatever else comes in." The lieutenant glanced at his wristwatch.

"Your first call should be happening right about now."

The phone rang and Kerney picked it up.

Buena Vista Lumber and Supply, ten miles south of Las Vegas on a state road, contained hundreds of cords of dry and green split firewood, stacks of peeled vi gas used for roof beams in Santa Fe-style homes, and virtually every type of fencing material imaginable. A chain-link fence enclosed the lot.

Gabe drove to the office trailer in front of a large metal storage building and parked. He found Joaquin Santistevan inside the trailer at a desk, giving a telephone quote to a customer. On the desk was a framed photograph of a young, pretty Hispanic woman.

Santistevan finished the call and turned to Gabe. He had the same lean build as Orlando and looked to be about the same height.

"What can I do for you?"

Gabe showed Santistevan his credentials.

"I'm looking for a woodcutter who drives a dark blue, three-quarter-ton Chevy with a winch on the front bumper, side rails, and a hydraulic lift in the bed."

"I see trucks like that in and out of here all the time.

Do you have a name?"

"Rudy" "That's it?"

"That's it," Gabe said, handing Santistevan the composite drawing.

"Does your father have an employee named Rudy?"

"No/"Joaquin looked at the drawing and gave it back.

"Maybe he does contract woodcutting for your father."

"I handle that end of the business. Nobody who looks like that cuts wood for us."

"What did you do with the license plate from the truck you left at your uncle's place?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It was reported to be on a vehicle used in a crime."

"Somebody needs glasses." Santistevan stood up.

"We've got a wall of old license plates in the storage building. I added it to the collection. It's been there for months. Want to see it?"

"I do," Gabe said, followingjoaquin out of the office.

The license plate collection ran the length and width of two frame walls of a corner office. It included plates from the 1930s right up to the present, in chronological order.

"It's right there," Santistevan said, pointing to his plate.

"The tag doesn't even expire until August. What kind of crime are you investigating?"

"Wood poaching. You wouldn't knowingly buy firewood that's been illegally harvested, would you?"

"I can account for every cord in the yard, either by Forest Service permit or a contract with a private landowner."

"Thanks for your time."

Gabe left, parked down the road where he could see traffic leaving the wood lot and tried to figure out what in the hell was bothering him. It was something about the photograph of Santistevan's wife and her maiden name. Isaac Medina had said it was Debbie Espinoza.

Shit, he knew the Espinoza family, he thought to himself.

He pulled out the composite drawing and studied it.

It was Debbie Espinoza's brother, Rudy.

He called dispatch.

"Go to Channel two," Gabe said.

Channel 2 was the secure broadcast frequency not picked up by police scanners.

"Ten-four," the dispatcher replied, switching over.

"Run a check on Rudy Espinoza. Keep it local. I busted him about four years ago for driving under the influence."

After a long wait, the dispatcher came back on the air.

"He's done six months' probation for a second DWI since then, and he was booked and released for lack of evidence on a breaking-and-entering charge."

"Where?"

"San Geronimo, last summer."

"When was the DWI bust?"

"June of last year."

"What was he driving?"

"Hold on."

Gabe could hear the dispatcher's keystrokes as she entered the search into the computer.

"A nineteen-ninety-four Chevy three-quarter-ton pickup, blue in color.

Tags are expired. Plate number Two-six-six CJR."

"Got an address?"

"Anytime you're ready."

Gabe took down the information, signed off, and made contact with Duran, Houge, and Morfin on Channel 2 as he pulled onto the highway and started rolling toward the interstate.

"I've got a possible suspect in the Boaz murder," he said as he hit the switch to the overhead lights and floored the unit.

"Go," Duran said.

"Rudy Espinoza. He matches the information supplied to us by Boaz's ex-girlfriend and son. So does his vehicle. I may have tipped my hand."

"Is he running?" Houge asked.

"Could be. Look for a dark blue Chevy three-quarter-ton with side rails, front-end winch, and hydraulic lift in the bed. Plate number Two-six-six CJR, tags expired."

"Where?" Morfin asked.

"Ojitos Prios. ID any other moving vehicle that looks suspicious."

"Armed and dangerous?" Duran asked.

"Roger that," Gabe said.

"Run Code three, lights only, and stay on the air. Give me locations and ETAs."

"I'm at Boaz's cabin," Morfin said.

"Five minutes to Ojitos Prios."

"Ten to fifteen minutes," Houge said.

"I'm on the interstate proceeding south past the cutoff to Villanueva State Park."

"I'll play catch up," Duran said.

"I've got to get off this stinking mesa first."

"I'm on Highway Eighty-four, five minutes from the Romeroville interstate ramp," Gabe said.

"Give me sixty-second microphone checks-two clicks each."

The dispatcher came on.

"This channel is cleared of all other traffic. Additional units are responding; SP 218, SP 376, and SP 101."

"SP 218 take state road 283."

"Ten-four."

"SP 376, ETA to Highway 84?"

"Three minutes."

"Patrol Eighty-four south of Buena Vista Lumber."

"Ten-four."