Kerney reviewed the background information on Nick Palazzi. While serving time in a California prison, Palazzi had joined the American Nazi Party. Any known party members in the Silver City area needed to be identified and interviewed immediately. His arrest for a contract killing had been tied to a territorial dispute among drug traffickers in Southern California.
Intelligence information needed to be updated on trafficking in southwestern New Mexico. Street dealers had to be rounded up and grilled. Palazzi was known to favor prostitutes as girlfriends. Local hookers should be contacted and interviewed.
He put together a few more facts on Palazzi, assembled the response team, sketched out the information, and fielded some questions before sending them on their way. A plane waited at the airport to fly the team on the forty-minute hop to Silver City.
He sank into a chair, thinking it was more than likely that-assuming Palazzi torched the van-he would be across the Mexican border before the plane touched down at the airport. But unless crime scene techs could develop some solid evidence from the van, searching for Palazzi was the only card he had to play.
He fleetingly thought about a good night's sleep, pushed himself upright, and went to make a pot of coffee.
His patched-together gut wouldn't like it, but the caffeine would keep him awake.
As he watched the coffee brew, Kerney brooded over the fact that tying Officer Rogoff's murder in with the art theft could have been a mistake on his part. If the two crimes weren't connected, it would mean starting over from square one. He carried a coffee cup back to the conference room and stared at the telephone. He doubted the team would have anything to report for at least several hours.
He sat and read through the agents' field interview reports, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing jumped out at him. He put the reports aside, picked up a clean sheet of paper, drew a line down the middle, and started separating out the facts of the two cases. If he had to give up the theory of connecting Palazzi to the theft, he needed to be ready to move as quickly as possible. kern by caught a quick nap on Andy's couch and at dawn went outside to dear his head. The reports from Silver City had been encouraging. The interior of the van had been badly burned, but fingerprints had been lifted from the vehicle and some human hairs had been found on a piece of unburned carpet.
On die lawn next to die law enforcement academy, a class of new recruits were preparing for an early mo ming run. A light dusting of snow covered me ground and the temperature hovered near freezing. High in die Sangre de Cristo Mountains, snow clouds masked me peaks, but die foothills were glistening pale pink in die early morning light.
Kerney walked to die memorial for slain police officers.
The state and national Hags bracketing the monument flapped lazily in a slight gust. Paul Gillespie's name had been chiseled into die marble.
He wondered if it truly belonged die re He walked back to headquarters thinking about die evidence found in die van. The discovery of human hair was particularly intriguing. But until he could identify a blond-haired woman who had access to die governor's suite, he wouldn't be any closer to solving die crime. gilbbrt mabtinez waited in me reception area of die law firm Roger Springer had joined after leaving his post at die governor's office.
The building, two blocks from the plaza, had a brass plaque listing the names of the partners.
All were prominent Anglos connected to the state's political machinery.
Born and raised in Santa Fe, Gilbert had been weaned on family accounts about Dawson Cobb, the founder of the firm; how Cobb had screwed Gilbert's ancestors out of a Spanish land grant after the Civil War with a court decision by an Anglo jury in Cobb's favor.
Only a few thousand acres remained in the family after Cobb took possession of the huge grant and the water rights that went with it.
Even those acres had been sold to pay the legal fees of the family's Anglo lawyer, who soon became Cobb's partner.
With no land to hold them, the family scattered. But the story of Dawson Cobb stuck in the minds of the Marrinez family like a cactus thorn festering for over 130 years.
Wasn't it Balzac who said behind every great fortune was a great crime?
Gilbert had done some additional research on Roger Springer. A Big Ten graduate with an Ivy League law degree, Springer had worked for one of the New Mexico senators in Washington before returning home with a new bride. He and his ex-wife, an architect, had no children, and the divorce settlement appeared to be amicable. However, a domestic court clerk told Gilbert that Springer and his wife had squabbled like brats over the division of the joint property, and the judge had privately chewed them out in his chambers.
Twenty minutes past the time of the appointment, Springer made his appearance, striding out of the double doors that led to the inner sanctum. He gave Gilbert the family glad hand, flashed his teeth in a winning candidate's smile, and added an apologetic shrug.
"Sorry to keep you waiting so long. Sergeant," Springer said.
"I just finished a telephone conference with the governor's chief counsel. It went on much longer than I thought it would."
"I hate to bother you, Mr. Springer. I know you're a busy man."
Gilbert studied Springer's eighty-dollar haircut and expensive Italian suit.
"Do you have time for me now?"
"Of course," Springer replied, gesturing toward the double doors.
"Are you making any headway with the investigation?" He took Gilbert down a wide hallway filled with framed photographs of old Santa Pc at the turn of the century.
"It's still in the preliminary stage," Gilbert replied.
"I thought it might be," Springer said, standing aside his open office door to let Martinez enter.
"No leads?"
"We're working on it," Gilbert answered.
The office, bigger than Chief Baca's, was uncluttered and functional, with expensive furniture and nice art on the walls. An older man sat in one of four chairs placed in front of a large window.
"Make yourself comfortable," Springer said.
"I'd like you to meet Sherman Cobb. Mr. Cobb is the senior partner in the firm."
Cobb smiled a greeting and Gilbert nodded in return.
"I don't have any questions for Mr. Cobb," Gilbert said.
Springer laughed.
"I didn't think you would. The firm likes to have another lawyer present whenever the police meet with an attorney. It helps avoid misunderstandings."
Springer dropped into a chair and gestured for Martinez to do the same.
"I had hoped to speak with you on a confidential basis," Gilbert said as he sat.
Springer flashed a smile.
"Feel free to do so."
"On matters of a personal nature," Gilbert added.
Springer raised an eyebrow.
"And what might those matters be. Sergeant Martinez?"
Gilbert shifted his weight.
"Issues which could create political repercussions for your uncle."
"You have my full attention," Springer said.
"Since leaving the governor's staff, have you ever made a visit to your uncle's office that was not either of a business or family nature?"
Springer's expression turned quizzical.
"I'm not sure I'm following your question, Sergeant."
"Several times you've been seen at the Roundhouse late at night accompanied by different women."
Springer laughed.
"Oh, that. Yes, I've taken some dates on impromptu tours of the governor's offices."
"Did you take anyone there last week?"
"No."
"Can you tell me me names of the women you took there in the past?"
"How can that information have any value to your investigation?"
Gilbert chose his words carefully: "It's possible that a man and a woman had a romantic interlude in Governor Springer's office last week while he was out of the state."