"A romantic interlude?" Springer repeated.
"Of a sexual nature. It would help if you could remember the names of the women who went with you on the tours, Mr. Springer."
"You're joking."
"No, I'm not," Gilbert replied.
"We need to talk to everybody who has had access to the governor's office, no matter what the circumstances."
Springer clasped his hands and tapped his index fingers together several times.
"Of course you do," he finally said. He got up, walked to his desk, opened a leather bound appointment book, flipped through the pages, wrote a note, and brought it to Gilbert.
Gilbert read the names.
"Do either of these ladies have blond hair?"
"No."
Are you presently dating any blondes?"
"No, I'm not dating any blondes."
Gilbert slipped Springer's note into a pocket and looked over at Sherman Cobb, who had been as quiet as a church mouse.
"Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Cobb?"
Cobb smiled cordially.
"I know you'll do your very best to bring the investigation to a successful conclusion," he said.
Gilbert decided he couldn't tell Cobb to stuff the patronizing attitude, and stood up.
"Thank you for your time."
"Not at all," Springer replied with a smile that seemed a little wary.
Outside Springer's office, Gilbert buttoned up. The snowstorm had moved off the mountains and into the city. The air was still, and a thick curtain of wet, fat snowflakes drifted slowly down from a low blanket of clouds. There wasn't much traffic and few people were out.
The city had a quiet, sleepy feel to it.
Gilbert walked to the corner, crossed the street against the light, and headed for the plaza. In the lobby of the La Fbnda Hotel he used a pay phone and tried without success to reach Springer's lady friends. He left messages on their answering machines and went back outside. He crossed through the plaza to the fine arts museum and stood for a moment by the old Spitz Clock on the corner.
All the old stores where the locals once shopped were gone, replaced by tourist shops and galleries. The lovely plaza and the beautiful old buildings surrounding it no longer served as the heart of the city for the citizens.
Instead, it had become nothing more than a charming, high-priced outdoor mall for the thousands of visitors pouring into the city to shop, vacation, and sightsee.
Gilbert let his resentment over the change surface.
But his irritation was really with Cobb and Springer, and their air of superiority and condescension.
He shrugged it off and went into the museum. It was time to find out who put the art collection together for the governor's suite. kbrnet had kicked off his blanket. Stretched out on his back on the twin bed in the guest house, his feet dangled over the edge. He wore only boxer shorts, and while the scar from the gunshot wound and the surgery on his stomach looked ghastly, Kerney's body was lean and muscular.
Reluctantly, Fletcher shook Kerney awake. His eyes opened instantly.
"You again?"
"With my deepest regrets," Fletcher answered with a smile.
"A very cranky prosecutor named Wesley Marshall gave me an urgent message for you."
Kerney sat up. Fletcher wore a paint-splattered apron over blue jeans and a shirt. He had obviously been at work in the studio.
"What was it?" Kerney asked.
Fletcher consulted the piece of paper in his hand.
"Mr. Marshall said that you are to be deposed by defense counsel at three this afternoon, and to meet him at his office."
"What time is it now?"
"Noon."
Kerney got to his feet. Three hours sleep was better than none, but he still felt stiff and groggy.
"Aren't you overdoing it a bit?" Fletcher asked.
"You look haggard and wrung out."
"It was a long night."
"So I gather. I tried to wait up for you. I have information that might be of value to our investigation."
Kerney walked toward the bathroom.
"First things first, Fletcher. Do you have any food in your refrigerator?"
"Would a nice omelette do?"
"Perfect. I'll be there in five minutes."
The kitchen, a wide room at the front of the house, had an arched entryway leading to the dining room, and a cobalt blue Mexican tile splash guard on the wall behind the sink, stove, and countertops. There were no cupboards in the kitchen. A series of open shelves held glasses, plates, canisters, and jars. Pots and pans hung from suspended racks, and a huge pantry enclosed by hand-carved doors filled most of the far wall. In the middle of the kitchen sat an antique Spanish Colonial table with thick hand-turned legs, big enough for a family to eat at one end after the meal had been prepared at the other.
In front of a woven place mat was a small Waterford vase containing a single, showy bronze chrysanthemum.
Fletcher's best silverware and a fresh linen napkin completed the arrangement.
Kerney sat as Fletcher eased the omelette onto a plate and brought it to him.
"All this for me?" Kerney asked.
"It's far too elegant."
"Meals should be civilized events," Fletcher replied.
"And it's just my small way of saying thank you for all the fun I had yesterday. I honestly think I would have made a superb detective."
"What brings you to this modest opinion?" Kerney asked, as he took a bite of the omelette. It was perfectly done.
"Because I believe-modestly, as you put it-that I have uncovered new information which may further our investigation."
"You have my full attention."
Fletcher beamed a smile at Kerney.
"Good. My informant, Frank Bailey, owns a gallery on Canyon Road. He recently attended a social function where he overheard a woman named Amanda Talley complain about the lack of protection for the art collection in the governor's office. Bailey said that la Talley went on at some length about how easy it would be to steal it."
"That's excellent work, Pletcher. Just who is Amanda Talley?"
"Ms. Talley works at the fine arts museum. She supervised the selection of the art for the governor's offices."
Kerney swallowed another bite.
"Maybe you should have been a detective. Did you get a description of the woman? Is she a blonde?"
Fletcher nodded.
"Indeed, she is. Frank Bailey seems to know a good deal about her personal life."
"I'll have somebody talk to him."
The doorbell rang and Kerney took the opportunity to finish his meal while Fletcher went to answer it.
Fletcher returned towing Sergeant Gilbert Martinez by the hand.
"Do you know this dear boy?" he asked Kerney. He guided Gilbert to a chair.
"He's come looking for you."
"Yes, I do."
Martinez flushed slightly and sat.
"Well, I've known him all his life," Fletcher announced.
"He grew up across the lane in that lovely two-story home. It broke my heart when his parents sold it and moved away. Such a delightful family."
Fletcher dipped into the chair next to Gilbert and patted his hand.
"It's so good to see you. How do you know this Irish cop, Gilbert?" He waved Gilbert off before he could answer.
"No, don't tell me. Let me guess. You must be the police chaplain.
Although the fact that you're wearing a suit and tie raises some doubts in my mind."
"Chaplain?" Kerney asked.
Fletcher nodded.
"Yes. The last time I saw Gilbert he was going off to a seminary in the Midwest to study for the priesthood. That was twenty years ago."
Gilbert smiled.
"Well, I am a father. I have two daughters."
"Were you defrocked?" Fletcher asked.
"Excommunicated?
Tell me everything."
"Nothing that dramatic, Fletcher. I changed career paths. I'm a state police sergeant in criminal investigations."