"Okay, but I don't know what good it will do you. Spence set up his trailer at that old rock shop about two years ago.
Nothing strange about it-people come and go with their trailers on those frontage lots along the highway all the time.
"A few months after he moved in, I started noticing unusual activity.
Folks visiting at odd times driving vehicles with Arizona and Texas license plates, panel trucks towing rental trailers-that kind of stuff.
I thought maybe it was a drug-smuggling operation, so I did a little snooping, found out what I could, and passed it along to my supervisor."
"And?"
"And nothing," Anderson retorted.
"I was ordered to back off, make no more inquiries, and drop it completely."
"Why?"
"Don't know why."
"What did you learn about Spence?"
"Not much. He's in his midthirties, supposedly from Louisiana, speaks fluent Spanish, and worked as a salesman. Moved out, lock, stock, and barrel."
"Any theories about what's going on?" Kerney queried.
Anderson shook his head.
"I've said enough already.
Maybe too much." He put on his hat and gave Kerney a thin smile.
"Be careful."
"Thanks. Mike."
Anderson drove away, and Kerney mulled over the new information. Maybe Juan had given him a bum steer about Leon Spence. Kerney dismissed the idea. Spence was smuggling, but it wasn't drugs, as Anderson thought, and Mike's reluctance to say more boiled down to one strong possibility:
Spence was the target of an undercover investigation. It was the only possibility that made any sense.
Kerney's tail picked him up in Deming and stayed with him until he reached the trailer park on the outskirts of Reserve. The village had returned to a normal rhythm after the excitement of the morning; two people were talking outside of the bank, a few cars were parked in front of Cattleman's, and a cowboy was gasing up a truck at the service station.
In the parking lot of the sheriff's office, all the squad cars were lined up in a neat row, joined by two state police units. Probably Gatewood had called a meeting.
Across the street at the motel, done up as a mountain chalet with a frontier motif, he caught a glimpse of Alan Begay unloading canisters from the back of a Chevy Suburban. He went into a nearby grocery store and bought two pounds of sliced ham, before making the short drive to Steve Lujan's house.
The house, at the end of a lane, was somewhat isolated from the neighbors. Kerney saw no sign of activity in the homes he passed. The gate was locked, and the only vehicle inside the fence was the flatbed truck, parked between two mounds of unsplit wood.
The barking German shepherd was off the leash.
He backed up as Kerney drew near the gate and growled.
"Come here. Loco," Kerney called.
The dog stopped barking, wagged his tail, and looked at Kerney expectantly. Kerney threw some slices of ham over the fence and watched. After wolfing down the treat, the shepherd approached, looking for more.
"Good boy. Loco." Kerney poked another slice through the gate slats, and the dog took it gently from his fingers. Then he followed along quietly as Kerney walked the outside fence perimeter to the back of the house.
The existence of the fence and gate had raised Kerney's interest. It made no sense to fence off firewood and landscape rock in a community where both were readily available. What else was Lujan protecting?
Behind the house stood a metal toolshed and a storage building. A few truck tires, discarded engine parts, and a rusty oil drum were stacked against a wall of the shed. A patio deck jutted from the back door of the house and stopped at an unfinished rock wall. At the rear of the lot, two clothesline poles and a swing set, rusty and unused, stood in a bed of tall weeds. Part of the fence was covered by a massive thick vine, tangled and wild, that completely hid the river valley from view.
Kerney called Loco to him and tossed him some more meat.
"Are you going to let me climb the fence and take a look around?"
Loco didn't respond. He was too busy devouring the ham.
As Kerney climbed the fence, Loco growled once, flopped down on the ground, and put his legs in the air for a tummy scratch. Kerney obliged and gave him the remaining ham.
"Heel, Loco," he ordered, hoping that Lujan had trained the shepherd to do more than bite on command.
Loco took his station at Kerney's side and meekly followed him to the toolshed. The building was locked, so he used his pocket knife to open the window latch. He climbed in and looked around.
The shed contained several expensive chain saws, a set of stone chisels, and an excellent assortment of power tools, supplies, and hardware-all ordinary stuff.
The storage building had a thick pine door as the only point of entry.
It was secured by a deadbolt lock. It would take an old burglar's trick to break in.
While Loco stayed with him all the way, he got a truck jack from Lujan's flatbed, placed it between the joists that framed the door, and cranked until he couldn't ratchet it another notch. The joist sagged back enough to show a half inch of the bolt. He kicked the lock once and the door splintered free from the bolt, swinging on its hinges to reveal a room crammed with old Victorian furniture, including a four-poster bedstead, a carved chest of drawers with brass pulls and marble top, and an oak pedestal dining-room table with matching chairs. The rafters were covered in cobwebs, but the furniture had only a very thin coating of dust. It had been recently moved into storage, probably to make room for all the new stuff that filled Lujan's house.
After a quick search to make sure nothing else was missed, Kerney closed the door, wiped his prints from the doorknob and the jack, and went back to the flatbed. In the rear of the truck some of the wood chips, pine needles, and small twigs left over from Lujan's last load were coated with a sticky substance.
He picked up a chip. The underside was gritty to the touch. It was fresh-cut pine, grimy with rock granules, and smelling like motor oil.
Lujan had recently hauled a machine with an engine that leaked, Kerney noted with satisfaction. None of the chain saws in the toolshed had a cracked casing, so it could have been that Lujan had hauled the ATV in his truck to the cabin.
Kerney scratched Loco's ear and thanked him for the tour, then climbed back over the fence.
A sheriffs patrol car pulled in behind him just as he was about to back away. Inwardly, Kerney groaned. If he got busted, he wasn't sure how he could explain away the charges he faced. He killed the engine, put both hands in plain view on the steering wheel, and watched the deputy in his rearview mirror, waiting to see what kind of action the man would take. He relaxed when the officer walked casually to him with no hint of wariness.
"Deputy," he said, forcing a smile. It was the same man who had been waiting for him at his trailer the night he returned from dinner with Phil Cox and his family.
"Sheriff needs to see you," the deputy said, smiling in return. In his thirties, the officer had a football player's thick neck, a body about to go to seed, rosy cheeks, and a nose that had been broken at least once.
"What's up?"
"Hell if I know. You can follow me into town." He looked at the locked gate. The German shepherd was barking loudly and sticking his snout in between the gate slats.
"I don't think the Lujans are home from work yet."
"I guess not. I'll catch them later," Kerney replied.
"Where you been all day? I've been looking for you since this morning."
"Really?" Kerney answered.
The deputy shrugged.
"No matter. You've been found." He walked to his patrol car, called in his discovery, backed out, and motioned for Kerney to do the same.
The meeting with Gatewood consisted of the sheriff asking all the usual questions. In Omar's cramped, cluttered office, Kerney watched Gatewood's technique unfold. He talked about the "incident" at the trailer-a soft way to describe a murder bombing-and asked Kerney how well he knew Doyle Fletcher. Kerney answered directly, and Gatewood moved on, asking if he had encountered hostility from anybody during his investigation.