She sat down, pushed her shoes off, and wiggled her toes. She hated to wear panty hose. As far as she was concerned it was the major drawback to the job.
When Kerney had stood up, ready to walk out on the deal because ofGatewood's stubbornness, Karen had momentarily lost her train of thought. The belt buckle he wore sparked a forgotten memory. At the age of twelve, she had accompanied her parents to the state high school rodeo championships in Reserve to watch her cousin Cory compete.
Afterward, she and her girlfriends giggled and fantasized for weeks about the tall, good-looking high school senior from Engle with the square shoulders and the pretty blue eyes who had beaten out Cory for the best all-around cowboy title. Kevin Kerney. She smiled at the girlhood silliness of it all.
Kerney had aged well, she decided. He was a little taller now and slightly fuller in the chest, with a flat stomach and baby-fine brown hair that was just barely receding. All in all, a good-looking man. It was Kerney's intense blue eyes that drew Karen in, and during the meeting she had worked hard to keep from looking at him. He had caught her sneaking a glance only once.
She smiled at the thought that Kerney seemed much more interested in her now than he had when she was twelve. The smile faded as Karen thought about her mother. She stopped herself from reaching for the telephone.
There was no sense in disturbing Mom with her overabundant concern. Let her enjoy her time with Elizabeth and Cody, Karen thought, as long as she is able. But how long would that be? It frightened Karen to think about it. Her mother had always been an anchor point in her life.
She pushed back the emotion and found herself thinking about her father.
He was a strong-willed man who didn't bend easily. The prospect of pressuring him to reveal the contents of the Padilla letter was distasteful, although she was still mad as hell at him for lying about it. For now, the issue could remain dormant. Karen hoped it would stay outside the scope of Kerney's investigation. But what if it didn't? How could she protect her father without violating her professional ethics?
If necessary, she would have to rein Kerney in. Somehow, she didn't think Kerney was the type of man who would take that easily.
She put in a call to the Silver City paper and got through to the editor, who told her it was too late to kill the story. She hung up wondering if Omar Gatewood even realized how badly he had blundered by letting the cat out of the bag to the media.
She seriously doubted it.
Kerney cashed the check, drove to his trailer, and swapped the Forest Service truck for his own vehicle, a late-model GMC pickup. Making a quick stop at the hospital in Silver City, he found the same guard at the door of the I.C.U and asked to speak to Eriinda Perez.
She arrived quickly, stepped halfway into the hall, and held the door open with a hand.
"I'm very busy, Mr. Kerney."
"I won't take much of your time. Did Dr. Padilla's daughter show up?"
"She's here now."
He gave Eriinda a business card and switched to Spanish.
"Please give her my condolences, find out if she will tell me where she's staying, and ask if I may speak with her this afternoon. Tell her I wish to be of assistance in finding the person who killed her son."
Eriinda nodded, told him to wait, and returned after a few minutes. She told Kerney where the woman was staying.
"She'll be at her motel in the afternoon," she added.
"She would like to meet with you."
"That's great. What's her name?" Kerney asked.
"Cornelia Marquez."
"Have the police talked to her?"
"I don't know," Eriinda said.
"How is Senor Padilla?"
Eriinda shrugged.
"The same. He fades in and out. Not very responsive. He remembers almost nothing."
"Is he talking?"
"Not really. A word here and there. The doctor thinks the damage may be permanent."
"Thanks."
"For nada." Eriinda watched him leave. Generally, she was not impressed with cops. But this gringo didn't run a macho game or act like a tough guy. Also, he didn't wear a wedding ring. She wondered if he was married.
Kerney burned up the road getting to El Paso. In Juarez he drove through the sleazy tourist district that never seemed to change, except to smell worse and look more appalling. He fought his way around crazed motorists until he was off the strip and heading for the suburbs.
Francisco Posada's home, a modern two-story affair with arched windows, a red tile roof, Grecian columns under a domed entrance, and meticulously landscaped grounds, qualified as a mansion. It harmonized nicely with the rest of the Juarez neighborhood.
The entire district could easily be part of any wealthy Southern California enclave.
Senor Posada's houseboy answered the door, recognized Kerney, and blocked his entrance.
"I don't think it is wise for you to be here," Juan said.
"I need to see him now," Kerney replied.
"Don't make me walk over you to do it."
Juan considered the threat, his soft black eyes ill flickering over Kerney's face, and decided not to resist.
"Very well," Juan said.
"Follow me."
Escorted into the spacious living room and left alone, Kerney sat in front of the Diego Rivera portrait of a beautiful Mexican woman that had captured his admiration during his first meeting with Posada, when he'd been tracking down Eppi Gutierrez's smuggling contacts. Hung above the fireplace, it was a remarkable painting, filled with an odd mixture of passion and piety, and Kerney was delighted to see it again.
Glass walls on either side of the fireplace climbed to a vaulted ceiling, bringing the outdoors virtually inside. The yard had as a centerpiece a large Swimming pool and cabana ringed with palm trees and potted tropical plants. In the living room were three separate seating areas of matching, richly upholstered chairs and couches that blended nicely with the off-white carpet and walls.
Guided by Juan, Francisco Posada entered from the adjoining library.
Kerney stood up. The old man shuffled slowly to him. The arthritis that so grotesquely crippled his hands had obviously worsened.
Deep circles beneath his small eyes stopped at his cheekbones. The loose skin around his neck looked almost detached. Pain was etched in his expression.
"Please sit," Posada said in his elegant Spanish.
He joined Kerney on the couch, Juan helping to lower him down.
"I did not expect to see you again, Senor Kerney."
Juan, slight, dark, and as slender as a girl, stood at the side of his employer, eyes fixed on Posada, his expression guarded. During Kerney's past visit, Juan had seemed much more attentive to Posada.
He wondered what was up between them.
"Nor I you, Don Francisco," Kerney replied in Spanish.
Posada smiled.
"I assume you did not come to present your apologies for deceiving me."
On his past visit, Kerney had hoodwinked Posada into selling him valuable information that had led to a major break in shutting down a smuggling operation and solving the murder of Kerney's godson.
"Circumstances prevented me from telling you the truth," Kerney replied.
"I am not interested in that. I am interested in the money you owe me."
As an inducement to do business with him, Kerney had agreed to pay Posada a percentage of the gross profits from the sale of the stolen historical artifacts.
"The percentage you were promised was based on the delivery of certain items. The delivery was never made."
"It was never intended to be made."
"You did not consider that possibility," Kerney countered.
Posada laughed nastily.
"Have I amused you?"