Martinez shrugged and smiled. “Easy come, easy go. Like I said, I bought it with money I won gambling.”
“I’ll tell the sheriff to cut you loose. If you like, you can wait in the reception area. I’ll give you a ride back to the ranch.”
“No jail?”
“That’s right.” Kerney patted Martinez on the arm. “You’re a free man.”
He escorted Martinez to reception and then dropped in on Leo.
“That was quick,” Leo said from behind his desk. “Did he confess?”
“I didn’t even try to take him that far.” Kerney handed Leo the gasoline-credit-card transaction report. “Look at the dates of his gas purchases. Every two weeks he fills up his tank, drives to Phoenix, Ruidoso, or Albuquerque, and then gasses up again for the return trip home on the same night. What kind of ranch hand does that kind of traveling, especially at night during the week? Or has the kind of money to buy a house outright?”
“None that I know of.” Leo brushed his mustache with a finger. “He’s making deliveries. But what kind, and why to Phoenix, Ruidoso, and Albuquerque?”
“I don’t know.”
“So why not lean on him?”
“Because it would only tip our hand. If his pattern holds, Martinez will be on the road again soon. I’m betting another plane will be landing at the Sentinel Butte Ranch any day now. If so, we can take down Martinez, Shaw, and the supplier all at once.”
“You’re talking about a stakeout.”
Kerney nodded. “It needs to be put in place as soon as possible.”
Leo scratched his chin. “I don’t have the personnel to mount an operation like that.”
“The state police should be willing to help out. I’ll talk to Chief Baca in Santa Fe.”
Leo nodded. “Do you want in on it?”
“Yes, I do,” Kerney said. “Let me know the plans.”
On the trip back to the ranch, with his freedom no longer in question, Buster Martinez became less apprehensive and a bit more talkative. He embellished the story about the tall cowboy with the crooked nose, suddenly remembering the man had told him that he was on his way to a new ranch job in Texas. It was obviously pure fabrication, but Kerney pretended to swallow it, and thanked Martinez. By the time they hit the Jordan ranch road, Buster had graciously agreed to treat his encounter with the police as nothing more than a misunderstanding.
They found Walter Shaw outside the barn. The movie set had been struck and the ranch headquarters, now restored to its original condition, looked neat as a pin. Martinez’s expression clouded with worry as Kerney explained the events of the day to Shaw. He licked his lips and averted his eyes from Shaw’s gaze.
“Ross and Pruitt told me what happened,” Shaw said amiably when Kerney finished. He patted Martinez reassuringly on the shoulder. “I’m glad it got straightened out. Can’t afford to lose a good hand like Buster.”
Martinez lowered his head and smiled weakly.
“I understand completely,” Kerney said. “That’s why I wanted to make sure you knew he wasn’t in any trouble.”
“I appreciate that,” Shaw said with a tight smile. “What made you think the saddle was stolen?”
“Remember the Oklahoma teamster working on the movie who was arrested at the ranch?”
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
“He had two outstanding burglary warrants, so the sheriff took a hard look at him as a possible suspect in recent unsolved property crimes. The saddle popped up on a list of stolen items circulated by Arizona authorities.”
“So when you saw the saddle, you called the sheriff,” Shaw said.
“Exactly.”
“Well, no harm done.”
“I’m glad you see it that way.”
Kerney left the two men standing in front of the barn. Shaw’s aplomb had been almost convincing, but anger had flared in his eyes. At the very least Martinez was in for a tongue lashing and some hard questions from Shaw. Kerney wasn’t worried about what Martinez might say; it was Shaw who concerned him. Shaw had to know that he was under suspicion. What he might do about it remained unknown, but the next move was his to make.
After Kerney passed out of sight, Shaw grabbed Martinez by the shirt and pulled him into the barn. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.” Martinez yanked himself away from Shaw’s grip.
Shaw slapped him. “Don’t lie to me, you stupid turd. Did you steal that saddle?”
“I didn’t steal nothing, for Chrissake.”
Shaw grabbed him by the throat. “Tell me exactly what happened.” Martinez coughed, his squinty eyes bulged. Shaw eased up. “Talk.”
“It was just about the saddle. Where did I buy it. When. Who sold it to me-that kind of stuff. I told him what he wanted to know and they let me go.”
Shaw released his grip and Martinez heaved for breath. “Did he ask you anything about me?”
Buster shook his head.
“Say anything about the landing strip?”
“Nada.”
“Did you steal that saddle?”
Martinez rubbed his neck. “I didn’t, palabra de honor.”
“Your word doesn’t mean shit,” Shaw said. “Get out of here and go back to work.”
Eyes lowered, Buster left the barn and slogged his way through the mud to the corral where Pruitt had put up his horse. Shaw ran possible scenarios about Kerney’s actions through his head. Everything pointed to a probe that went far beyond the theft of a mere saddle. But so far Buster appeared to be Kerney’s only target. That might work to Shaw’s advantage.
He stepped outside, closed the barn doors, and watched Buster hose the mud off his horse. As he walked to his truck, Shaw chewed over ways to ensure Kerney would come no closer to the truth.
The storm had shut down film production for the day and the town of Playas was quiet. Kerney checked the call sheet on the bulletin board. He was listed as an extra for an exterior shot in the morning, to be filmed in front of the community center. Kerney read the script revision that had been posted for the scene. None of the changes applied to the extras.
He stopped at the apartment and called Andy Baca at state police headquarters, who agreed to provide manpower and equipment for the stakeout. Then he powered up the laptop and found an e-mail from Sara. She was hard at work safely inside the Baghdad Green Zone, creating something called “actionable intelligence.” Although she couldn’t, for security reasons, go into detail, it had to do with collecting and analyzing real-time battlefield information on insurgent and terrorist activities.
Kerney wasn’t reassured. He doubted such work could be accomplished solely in the air-conditioned comfort of a fortified, heavily guarded facility in a war-torn nation.
He wrote back, keeping it lighthearted and chatty. He told her how well Patrick was doing and about his three-day stint in the saddle, chasing cattle on the Jordan ranch. He wrote about Barbara Jennings’s emergency appendectomy that had caused Dale to stay home. He mentioned the upcoming country-music benefit concert, scheduled to be shot at the Playas ball field in two nights. He left out the fact that he might be on a stakeout during that time.
He signed off with love and kisses and drove to the nanny’s house, his thoughts still on Sara. Was she in some remote village, training combat ground troops on how to make uplink satellite intelligence reports from the field? Or with an infantry company, transmitting real-time intelligence on enemy activity during a firefight?
From his tour in Vietnam, Kerney knew firsthand about insurgency and guerrilla warfare. There were no rear areas or safe havens, no clearly defined enemy, no easily identified threat thresholds. He wanted Sara home now, and his heart ached at the thought of some disaster befalling her.
He sat in the truck for a moment and forced himself to clear away worrisome thoughts before he went to get his son. Back in the truck he put Patrick on his lap behind the steering wheel and told him he could drive. Grinning, Patrick clutched the wheel with his tiny hands while Kerney navigated through some of the empty residential streets. After a few slow go-rounds he put Patrick-who was very pleased with himself-in the car seat and headed for the copper smelter. There he found Kent Vogt at a portable cattle pen, feeding the stock.