Michael McGarrity - Hermit_s Peak

He booted up the computer, accessed Motor Vehicle records, typed in Joaquin Sannstevan's name, scrolled through the file to the photograph, and printed a copy.

The photo came out grainy but usable. He stuck it in his pocket and glanced across the corridor at the vacant assistant commander's office.

He wondered if he would ever get to pin lieutenant bars on his collar and move in. Two days ago, his chances for the promotion looked good.

Now, maybe they weren't so hot, unless he could tie Rudy Espinoza to the Carl Boaz murder. With Orlando planning to leave home, he wasn't so sure he cared.

He left the office and drove down the main strip, stopping at each bar along the way, showing Sandstevan's photo and asking bartenders and customers if they knew Joaquin. None of them did.

He tried the college hangouts near the university with the same results, and dedded on one more stop at the Plaza Hotel bar before calling it quits for the night. Inside, two couples-obviously out-of-town hotel guests-were sitting together at a window table that looked out at the plaza, and three men were at the bar watching a basketball game on the wall-mounted television.

He approached the bartender and showed her his shield andjoaquin's picture.

"I know him by sight, not by name," the woman said.

"But he doesn't drink here. I haven't seen him for a while."

"Where did you see him?"

"At the monthly singles party. The local paper sponsors it. They use one of the banquet rooms in the hotel. I work them for the extra money."

"When was that?"

"Last year. Maybe April or May, I don't remember exactly. He came three or four times in a row."

"Did you see him connect with anybody?"

The woman laughed as she nodded at a customer holding up an empty beer glass and moved away to refill it.

"Are you kidding?" she said when she came back.

"Those singles events are nothing but a feeding frenzy for hustlers of both sexes."

"Do you remember anything about Santistevan?"

"He liked to hit on young, pretty girls."

"How young?"

"Young enough to card if they wanted alcohol."

"Do you know who runs the singles party for the newspaper?"

"Viola Fisher. She coordinates it. Orders the finger food, pays for the banquet room, signs people in when they arrive-that son of stuff."

"She keeps a roster?"

"Oh, yeah. You can't come to the party unless you take out an ad in the personals. It's in the paper every week. Haven't you seen it?"

"I usually skip over it."

The woman glanced down at Gabe's left hand. There was no wedding ring.

"Maybe you should pay more attention. There are a lot of women your age who'd love a shot at you."

"That's good to know."

Kerney's apartment felt cold and looked dingy. He roamed around restlessly, tidying things up, trying not to think about Sara. But that was impossible. He stood in the middle of the small living room disgusted with the way he lived. Seeing Sara had made him want more than a crummy place and an empty bed to sleep in. Sara lit him up inside, and he didn't want to loose her or that feeling.

He was half-asleep on the couch when the telephone rang. He grabbed for it, hoping it was Sara.

"Are you awake?" Dale asked.

"More or less."

"I've been thinking about the partnership idea," Dale said.

"I'd really like to do it."

"I don't see how it can happen."

"Why not?"

"I'd have to pay six million dollars in taxes to keep all ten sections.

Erma's lawyer figures the payments to the IRS would be over four hundred thousand a year."

"What in the hell have you got on that mesa, a gold mine?"

"It's more like suburban sprawl pushing up land values. Everybody wants five or ten acres of paradise. The real estate developers and some area ranchers are eager to oblige."

"What are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided."

"Sell it," Dale said, "and look for something closer to my spread.

Maybe around Carrizozo, or over in the Black Hills. I know a couple of ranchers who might consider a fair offer. I could put you in touch with them."

"That's a thought."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about the idea."

"I've been distracted lately."

"The murder case?"

"That, and Sara. She showed up at my door Sunday night."

Dale let out a hoot.

"No wonder you're distracted. Is she there? Let me talk to her."

"She's come and gone."

"What happened?"

"Damn if I know. I thought everything was going great, then she just up and left."

"Did you two argue?"

"No, she just took off to visit a girlfriend in Tucson.

Said she had some thinking to do."

"About what?"

"I don't have a due."

"You sound pretty low."

"I guess I am. I miss her. Dale. No woman has ever meant as much to me."

"I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that.

You need a woman in you life, Kerney, and Sara's the cream of the crop."

"What should I do?"

"Ride it out. She probably just needs some breathing room. Women are like that."

"I hope so."

"I'm telling you the gospel truth."

"I don't want to think about it anymore."

"So let's change the subject," Dale said.

"I still think we can put a partnership together."

"We'll talk about it later."

"Jesus, cheer up. She'll be back."

"Yeah." Kerney hung up and headed for the bedroom, hoping he could push Sara out of his mind and get a few hours sleep.

Kerney arrived at Horse Canyon Ranch as the morning sun washed the deep purple off the mountains. He eyed the headquarters as he drove down the paved ranch road, thinking that sooner or later one of those trendy, glossy magazines would undoubtedly feature Alida Bingham and her marvelous hacienda in an issue on living the good life in northern New Mexico.

It would be a gross distortion of how the local people in the valley lived in their mobile homes, ramshackle farms, and subdivision-type stick houses plunked down in the middle of five-and ten-acre tracts.

But it would sell copies, and have people from coast to coast dreaming of pinon logs crackling in a kiva fireplace, sweeping vistas of mountain ranges, and private trophy homes nestled near the wilderness.

His quick and dirty background check on Alida Bingham had revealed that the woman was an English dozen, part of the Hollywood film scene, divorced, wealthy, and a member of several international horse breeder and riding competition organizations.

He rang the doorbell at the hadenda and waited, wondering what, other than a love of horses, had drawn Alida Bingham to New Mexico.

Alida Bingham opened the door and studied the man standing under the portal at her front door. Tall, with wide, square shoulders, brown hair touched with gray at the sideburns, and keen, deep blue eyes, he was quite good looking.

She took the business card from his hand and glanced at the policeman's badge held up for her inspection.

"Griffin said you might be stopping by for a chat," Alida said.

"Do come in. Chief Kerney."

Kerney stepped inside the vestibule. Along one wall stood a large flowered vase used for umbrella storage. A pair of Wellingtons sat under a coat rack that held an assortment of rain gear, jackets, and barn coats. A three-legged occasional table opposite the coat rack contained fresh-cut flowers in a blue-and-white milk pitcher, a ceramic table lamp, and an assortment of family photographs in gold frames.

He followed Alida Bingham into the living room.

Oriental rugs were scattered around the floor, family portraits and photographs filled the walls, and chintz curtains in a spring flower print draped the long windows.

Deep sofas and chairs, separated by an oversize ottoman used to hold an array of books and magazines, occupied the space in front of a large fireplace. Somehow, the very English decor blended nicely with the clean lines of the double adobe house.