Michael Mcgarrity Slow Kill
Chapter 1
T en minutes after Santa Fe Police Chief Kevin Kerney picked up his rental car at the Bakersfield Airport, he was stuck in heavy stop-and-go traffic, questioning his decision to take the less-traveled back roads on his trip to the central California coast.
Congestion didn’t ease until he was well outside the city limits on a westbound state highway that cut through desert flatlands. Ahead, a dust devil jumped across a straight, uninviting stretch of pavement and churned slowly through an irrigated alfalfa field, creating a green wave rolling over the forage.
Kerney glanced at his watch. Had he made a mistake in trying to map out a scenic route to take to the coast? By now, he’d expected to be approaching a mountain range, but there was nothing on the hazy horizon to suggest it.
It really didn’t matter if he’d misjudged his driving time. He had all day to get to the Double J horse ranch outside of Paso Robles, where he would spend the weekend looking over some quarter horses that were up for sale. He hit the cruise control and let his mind wander.
Kerney had partnered up with his neighbor, Jack Burke, to breed, raise, and train competition cutting horses. Kerney would buy some stock to get the enterprise started, Jack would contribute brood mares, pastureland, and stables to the partnership, and Jack’s youngest son, Riley Burke, would do the training.
The sky cleared enough to show the outline of mountains topped by a few bleached, mare’s-tail clouds. Soon Kerney was driving through a pass on a twisting road flanked by forked and tilted gray-needle pine trees, into a huge grassland plain that swept up against a higher, more heavily timbered mountain range to the west.
Finally his road trip had turned interesting. He stopped to stretch his legs, and a convertible sports car with the top down zipped by, the woman driver tooting her horn and waving gaily as she sped away.
Kerney waved back, thinking it would have been nice to have his family with him. He’d arranged the trip with the expectation that he’d enjoy his time by himself and away from the job. But in truth, he was alone far more than he liked. Sara, his career Army officer wife, had a demanding Pentagon duty assignment that limited her free time, and Patrick, their toddler son who lived with her, was far too young to travel alone.
Kerney had hoped that the new house they’d built on two sections of ranchland outside of Santa Fe would change Sara’s mind about staying in the Army, but it hadn’t. Although she loved the ranch and looked forward to living in Santa Fe full-time, she wasn’t about to take early retirement. That meant six more years of a part-time, long-distance marriage, held together by frequent cross-country trips back and forth as time allowed, and one family vacation together each year. For Kerney, it wasn’t a happy prospect.
He looked over the plains. The green landscape was pleasing to the eye, deeper in color than the bunch grasses of New Mexico, but under a less vivid sky. He could see a small herd of grazing livestock moving toward a windmill, the outline of a remote ranch house beyond, and the thin line of the state road that plowed straight across the plains and curved sharply up the distant mountains.
He settled behind the wheel and gave the car some juice, thinking it would be a hell of a lot more fun to drive on to Paso Robles in a little two-seater with the top down and the wind in his face.
Kerney arrived in Paso Robles and promptly got lost trying to find the ranch. A convenience store clerk pointed him in the right direction, and a few minutes later he was traveling a narrow paved road through rolling hills of vineyards, cattle ranches, and horse farms sheltered by stands of large oak trees amid lush carpets of green grass. He drove with the window down, finding the moist sea air that rolled over the coastal mountains a welcome change from the dry deserts of New Mexico.
He’d been offered free lodging at the ranch along with a tour when he arrived, and he was eager to see how the outfit operated. The condition of the horses would tell him most of what he needed to know before deciding whether to buy. But the people who cared for the animals and their surroundings would also indicate whether his money would be well spent.
Kerney turned a corner onto a wide-open vista, eased the car off the pavement, and got out to take in the scenery. On a hilltop behind and above him stood a large mission-style villa with a portal consisting of a series of arches supported by Georgian columns and topped off with a red tile roof and overhanging eaves. Paired bell towers with identical arches rose above either end of the second story. Two vineyards cascaded down the gentle slope on both sides of the villa. Taken as a whole, the place reeked of wealth.
To the west, densely treed coastal mountains rose up from a green, rolling valley that wandered down to a creek bed. A sign fronting the ranch road into the valley announced the Double J Ranch. In a series of fenced and gated pastures, brood mares and their foals gathered under shady oak trees.
The ranch headquarters bordered the creek bed and consisted of four white houses around a semicircular driveway within a few steps of a birthing barn and a long row of covered, open-air stalls adjacent to small paddocks. Beyond the stalls was a barn, which Kerney guessed was used to house the stud horses.
Sara had asked for pictures, so Kerney got the camera from his travel bag and took some shots, doing a rough mental count of the mares and foals in plain view. There were more than a hundred, signifying a very large breeding operation.
He drove to the ranch and parked near the birthing barn, which had a small office building off to one side. A man in his early forties stepped onto the porch as Kerney approached.
“Mr. Hilt?” Kerney asked as he approached.
The man nodded. “The name’s Devin,” he said with a welcoming smile, extending his hand. “You must be Kevin Kerney.”
Kerney smiled back and shook Devin’s hand. “Thanks for putting me up.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to share the guesthouse with another party,” Hilt said. “The boss has a buyer coming up from Santa Barbara sometime later today.”
“That’s not a problem,” Kerney said as he took a look around. “This is quite a place.”
Hilt laughed. He stood six feet tall in his cowboy boots and had a sturdy frame topped off with curly brown hair cut short. “This isn’t the half of it. Around the bend a mile away we’ve got a training track, stables, and pastures for colts and two-year-olds. That’s where the boss, his wife, his mother, and the ranch manager have their houses. This area is just for my family, the trainers, and guests.”
“It’s pretty posh,” Kerney said. “I can’t remember ever seeing a more beautiful ranch.”
Hilt laughed again. “It does make working for a living a bit more pleasant.” He pointed down the driveway to a pitched-roof, single-story clapboard house surrounded by a picket fence. “That’s the guest cottage. Want to settle in first or take that tour I promised you?”
“Let’s do the tour,” Kerney said.
“Perfect,” Hilt replied as he moved toward the pickup truck.
Hilt drove Kerney around the spread, passing on bits of information along the way. It was a quarter-horse ranch with about four hundred head and a breeding program that foaled more than a hundred newborns yearly. Four stallions at stud were syndicated at more than a million each. Most of the horses were owned by the ranch.
The owner, Jeffery Jardin, lived most of the time in southern California, where he owned a high-tech manufacturing business with major defense and military contracts. But his passion was racehorses, and the ranch showed that he pursued it seriously. Kerney guessed the size of the spread at about five hundred acres. He wondered what the value of the land was on the pricey California market.