Ramona’s breath iced up in the air. “Maybe Culley’s housemate, lover, or whatever you want to call him, is a beard.”
“Could be. Do you think Culley killed her because she was pregnant or because she had appropriated some of their ill-gotten gains without his knowledge?”
Ramona’s nose was runny. She wiped it with a tissue. “Rage is one possible motive. Greed, jealousy are others.”
“Maybe Culley, his lover, and Denise Riley were a ménage à trois.”
“That’s an interesting notion.” She stuffed the tissue in a coat pocket.
Twenty feet ahead, Kerney and Clayton stood at the front of a driveway where two vehicles sat under a carport. Neither the walkway to the house nor the driveway showed any sign of foot or vehicle traffic. There were lights on inside the residence.
Using hand signals, Kerney motioned for Ramona to cover the front of the house and Matt to take the back.
“I doubt Culley is going to try make a getaway under these conditions,” Matt said as he checked his semiautomatic and returned it to its holster.
“You’re such a spoilsport, Chacon,” Ramona said as he moved off.
Culley’s house was one of those old adobe casitas that had been renovated, expanded, and made into a seven-figure property. It had a squat profile, rounded parapets, recessed windows in the double adobe walls, two chimneys spewing piñon smoke into the cold sky, a wide flagstone portal, and a tall, hand-carved antique Mexican front door.
Kerney rang the doorbell and brushed snow off his soaked pant legs with a gloved hand while he waited. Clayton stood to one side of the door stomping his feet to loosen snow from his boots. He had his hand in his jacket pocket, gripping his semiautomatic.
The door opened to reveal a slender, middle-aged man wearing a crewneck wool sweater, fleece sweatpants, and bedroom slippers. He had rather tiny feet. Size eight, Clayton guessed.
“John Culley?” Kerney asked.
“Yes, indeed.” Culley glanced from Kerney to Clayton with what appeared to be amused interest. “Surely you’re not new neighbors, unless someone has moved away from the lane within the last twenty-four hours.”
“Surely, we’re not, Mr. Culley.” Kerney stepped through the doorway before Culley could react. “Or should I call you Archie Pattison?”
Culley’s lighthearted expression vanished. “You’re cops?”
“Indeed we are. Is there anyone in the house besides you?”
“My partner is in the library.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Very good. Where is the library?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The library, Culley,” Kerney demanded.
“Straight through the living room and turn left at the hallway.”
Kerney nodded to Clayton, who went to round up Culley’s partner.
“Why are you barging in here?” Culley asked.
“We’re arresting you on five counts of murder one.” The death of Denise’s unborn child counted as a separate homicide. Kerney spun Culley around, pushed him up against a wall, cuffed his hands at the small of his back, and recited the Miranda rights.
“That’s absurd.”
“Why don’t you tell me why you killed them, Culley? You’re going to prison anyway for illegal entry, false identity, and whatever else the feds decide to throw at you.”
Culley’s eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to say to you, and I want to call a lawyer.”
“All in good time.” Kerney used his handheld to call Ramona and Matt into the house. When they arrived, he turned Culley over to them and went to find Clayton, who was talking to a nervous man in the library.
“This is Proctor Whitley,” Clayton said.
Whitley looked to be about Culley’s age. He was stout and had a long narrow chin that quivered slightly.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Kerney asked.
“Whatever for?” the man asked in a quaking voice.
Clayton shrugged. “He says he wants to cooperate.”
“Okay, see what he has to say. Matt and Ramona will work with you. I’ll tell them to get started on a search warrant.”
“Where are you going?”
“Culley doesn’t want to give up his Miranda rights, so I’m taking him to jail. Check in with me when you’re done here.”
“Will do.”
At the front alcove, Kerney told Culley he was going to jail and pushed him out the door.
“There’s three feet of snow out here,” Culley said. “At least let me put my shoes on and get a coat.”
“It’s not that far down the hill,” Kerney said as he yanked Culley off the portal face-first into the deep snow. “You’ll make it just fine.”
During the drive to the county detention center on Highway 14 outside of town, Culley didn’t say a word. He didn’t even bitch about being forced to walk through the snow in his bedroom slippers without a coat. He sat silently in the backseat shivering and staring out the window with a blank look on his face.
At the jail, Kerney asked Culley if he wanted to change his mind and talk without an attorney present. Culley gave Kerney a scornful look and shook his head. Kerney put him in a holding cell and went to do the paperwork. Just as he was finishing up, Sid Larranaga, the district attorney, sat down next to him.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Kerney said.
Sid removed his hat and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. “This is your last major case before you retire, and I want to make sure you get it right.”
Kerney smiled. Sid had publicly announced that he would not stand for reelection two years hence, and there was talk among the local politicos that he planned to run for state attorney general instead. The Culley case, if won, would be a feather in his cap as a true crime fighter.
“That’s awfully good of you, Sid. Do my people have a search warrant?”
“They do. Judge Cooke just phoned it in. Is your murder suspect going to cooperate and make a full, voluntary confession?”
“Not a chance. This guy is a cool customer.”
Sal took off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair. “Okay, beyond probable cause, tell me what you’ve got.”
Kerney ran it down, and by the time he was finishing up, Larranaga didn’t look happy.
“You’re telling me you don’t have a clear-cut motive, there’s nothing yet to tie Culley to the double homicide in Albuquerque, and the evidence gathered in Capitan and Cañoncito only puts him at the crime scenes but doesn’t prove he killed Deputy Riley and his wife.”
“That’s right,” Kerney replied.
Sal looked gloomy. “Sometimes I wish I had become a defense attorney. So far all you’ve got that I can walk into a courtroom with right now is a case against a felon wanted on a fugitive warrant for a heist in Australia who’s been living the good life in the old U.S. of A. under an alias with a forged passport and screwing his now deceased, recently murdered secretary while pretending to be gay.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist, Sal,” Kerney said. “You know as well as I do that the really important work comes after an arrest.”
Sal grunted. “Three weeks from now when you’re retired and sitting under the portal in a rocking chair on your ranch, I’ll remember that. I swear, Kerney, if this case does go to trial on the murder one charges, I’m going to subpoena you to testify even if it means you have to come back here from London or wherever the hell you’ll be living at the time.”
Kerney laughed. “I’ll be glad to oblige. How long do you think it will be before Culley can talk face-to-face with a lawyer?”
“With the way the roads are, I doubt anybody’s going to be willing to make the trip out here from town until late tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”
“I’d hate to see him go into the general population if there’s a chance that his lawyer can get out here sooner rather than later.”