Kerney put the soggy towels in the kitchen sink, took four aspirin, closed the front door, set the alarm clock, and fell on the bed, asleep almost immediately.
Karen said goodbye to Phil at Cattleman's and walked down the street to the county courthouse, an ugly two-story red brick building with aluminum clad windows. The front office of the sheriffs department, a single-story annex, was manned by a radio dispatcher who sat at a console behind a long counter. Karen asked to see Sheriff Gatewood.
Gatewood came out of a rear suite of offices. A burly man in his late fifties with a slight potbelly, he wore an off-white straw cowboy hat and civilian clothes. His badge of office was clipped to his belt next to the high-rise holster that contained a four inch.357 revolver.
"Miss Cox," Gatewood said. His voice was raspy and his face looked haggard.
"Why are you being so formal, Omar?" Karen said, shaking Gatewood's hand.
"Well, you aren't just Edgar Cox's little girl anymore, are you?" he said with a smile.
"I sure don't want to get off on the wrong foot with the new assistant district attorney." He gestured to the open door behind him.
"Come on in. I was just about to call you anyway. Figured you might want a rundown on the Padilla homicide."
"I do," Karen answered.
It took half an hour for Gatewood to finish his briefing. He sat behind his oak desk, made by inmates at the state penitentiary, and answered Karen's questions.
"No leads on any suspects?" she inquired. Gatewood's office was a small cubicle with one window that looked out on an empty lot.
"Not a one. Until Dr. Padilla recovers enough to be interviewed, we don't even know if we have a witness."
"What's his condition?"
Gatewood shrugged and rubbed the corner of his eye with a finger.
"Don't know. The state police aren't releasing any information to us.
That's typical.
They know I don't have anybody on staff who's worth a damn as an investigator. We'll do whatever grunt work they decide to throw at us," he added unhappily.
"From what you told me, it was Kevin Kerney and Jim Stiles who found Padilla, discovered the murder victim, secured the crime scene, and located the camper trailer."
"That's true."
"Happenstance?"
"You could chalk it up to that," Gatewood responded, "but I wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Until he got shot and had to retire, Kevin Kerney had a reputation as one of the best criminal investigators in the state. He was chief of detectives up in Santa Fe. There was even some talk that he was going to be the next police chief."
"When did he get shot?"
"Three or four years ago."
"Tell me about Jim Stiles."
Gatewood sighed.
"I'd hire Jim in a flash, if I had the money and could pry him away from Game and Fish. He's smart and well trained. Carol Cassidy over at the Luna station has put Kerney on the poaching case full-time and arranged with Game and Fish for Stiles to work with him. Don't know how much good they can do with limited police powers."
Karen considered the information.
"Can you arrange to have them meet us early tomorrow morning?"
"That shouldn't be a problem. What do you have in mind?"
"If we can get some free talent, why not use it?
Running a murder investigation out of Socorro, a hundred and thirty miles away, isn't going to get the job done, no matter what the state police say. I'll appoint Kerney a special investigator and you deputize Jim Stiles."
The frame squeaked as Omar Gatewood leaned back in his chair. He had come up through the ranks before getting elected and needed one more term in office to qualify for a full pension. His opponent in the June primary was a former sheriff with a lot of support who wanted his old job back. Gatewood didn't give a damn about the dead Mexican, but if he could show the good people of Catron County that he was using every possible means to solve the case, it might make a big difference come election day.
He looked at Karen Cox with a new appreciation.
"Now that's an idea that warms my heart."
Edgar Cox found Margaret in the kitchen with Elizabeth and Cody, busily preparing Sunday breakfast.
The Silver City paper was folded neatly on his place mat along with a steaming cup of coffee. A vase of fresh-cut flowers formed a centerpiece. From the aroma in the room, he knew Margaret had cooked up apple pancakes, one of her specialties.
"What are we celebrating?" he asked, smiling at his wife and grandchildren.
"A beautiful morning," Margaret replied, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans, the way she always did when she was cooking. She walked to her husband, gave him a warm kiss, and stroked his cheek with her hand.
Edgar studied her face. She wasn't hiding anything from him as far as he could tell, and she looked fine.
He loved the tiny over bite to her mouth. And her long, elegant neck was as flawless as it had been forty years ago. Margaret wore her hair in a bun the way he liked it, which was usually reserved for very special occasions.
He asked the gnawing question anyway, his worry a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"How are you feeling?"
Margaret's expression changed to mild reproof.
"The question is, how do I look?" she asked, her head held high.
Margaret at sixty-five amazed Edgar. With soft brown eyes that didn't miss a trick, full lips above a strong chin, high cheekbones, and pale skin, Margaret Atwood Cox was still a beauty.
"Gorgeous," he admitted.
"That's the right answer," she said, patting him on the cheek.
"Now, go sit down, read your paper, and drink your coffee. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."
"Where's Karen?"
"Meeting Phil for breakfast in Reserve."
"Any particular reason?" he asked cautiously.
"No," Margaret said, turning back to the stove.
"Just to visit and catch up, I imagine."
With Cody and Elizabeth to distract him, Edgar didn't get to read the Sunday paper until breakfast was over and the dishes were washed and put away.
When Margaret went to dress for church, he sat in his favorite chair in the living room and unfolded the paper. The front page blazoned the story of a murder on Elderman Meadows. Edgar read it with interest. His curiosity quickly changed to apprehension.
He didn't know the victim. Hector Padilla, but he sure as hell knew Jose Padilla.
He got up from his chair and walked rapidly to the bedroom. Margaret stood in front of the full-length mirror, fastening her brassiere. He prayed she wouldn't need a mastectomy and that the lump was benign. And he hoped to God Jose Padilla was dead in the Silver City hospital.
Margaret saw her husband's face reflected in the mirror and turned. A small twitch at the corner of one eye telegraphed Edgar's anxiety.
"What is it?"
"I have to go to Silver City."
"Why?"
"Business."
Margaret slipped into her blouse, her eyes locked on her husband.
"What does that mean?"
"Just what I said," he replied.
"Take yourself to church. Karen should be back before you need to leave."
"Edgar?"
"Yes?" "What kind of business?" she demanded.
"Old family business."
Margaret took a deep breath. Edgar's phrase was the euphemism he used to talk about Eugene.
"I'll go with you."
"I don't want you involved."
Margaret tucked her blouse into her skirt and walked to her husband.
"It's forty years too late for that. Now, tell me what's wrong." Edgar told her, and when he finished, Margaret wrote a note to Karen and left it on the kitchen table, so her daughter would know the clan was off for an impromptu Sunday drive and lunch in Silver City.
Church bells tolled for late Sunday services as Kerney got up and dressed. He had time before Stiles was due to arrive. He walked the quarter mile to his landlord's house, and asked if it would be possible for the mice to be removed from in and under the trailer. Doyle Fletcher, a man who looked about Kerney's age, with a suspicious, stingy face, stood in the partially open doorway, grunted in agreement, and said it would take him a day or two to get around to it. Kerney thanked him, went home, and waited for Jim, wondering why Doyle Fletcher seemed so put out.