Sara had laughed, marveling at the sight of it. Then she had pulled him into the booth, closed the accordion door, and pressed herself against him. The guard sitting at the end of the hall had grinned insipidly at them when they emerged.
Kerney found the resident FBI agent, Frank Powers, in his small third-floor suite at the post office building.
"I get to see you twice in one day," Powers said, unwinding his long legs and getting to his feet to shake Kerney's hand.
"Boy, am I one lucky SOB."
In his early fifties, Powers was on his final duty assignment before retirement.
Powers and his wife were ballroom-dance fanatics. Kerney and Sara had watched the couple put on quite a show one Saturday night when they'd stopped at a club for an after-dinner drink.
"As the new police chief I thought it was time to touch base with you,"
Kerney said.
"Yeah, sure," Powers said with a smile.
"What do you really want?"
"Did Perry keep you in the loop on his investigation?" Kerney asked.
Powers chuckled sarcastically.
"Me? You've got to be kidding. All he asked me to do was give him a ring if you paid me a social call, and be the ambassador's bodyguard at the funeral."
"Well, here I am," Kerney said.
"Call him up."
"What for? From what I've heard, the case is closed, the task force is disbanded. That means I'm once again free to assist local law-enforcement representatives such as yourself without dropping a dime on you."
"Can I hold you to that?" Kerney asked.
"Unless I hear otherwise, you can. Why do you ask?"
"Perry is staying in town for a couple more days just to make sure everything's tidied up."
"I didn't know that," Powers said.
"Do you know anything about the surveillance camera at the foot of Phyllis Terrell's driveway?"
"You've got the wrong agency, Kerney. You need to talk to the State Department.
Call the Bureau of Diplomatic Security."
"You know nothing about it?"
"If Ambassador Terrell needed enhanced security at his wife's Santa Fe home, that's who would handle it."
"I don't think Phyllis Terrell knew anything about the surveillance."
"What makes you say that?"
"The Terrells were planning to divorce. They'd been living apart for almost two years. The ambassador rarely visited. Phyllis Terrell was known to have entertained several lovers at her home."
"Well, then, there you have it," Powers said.
"The ambassador hired himself a private investigator to spy on his wife."
"I don't think so," Kerney said.
"Why not? Any sharp PI can put in a good system. The way I heard it, Mrs. Terrell had the big bucks, and was sleeping around. Proof of infidelity could be worth a lot of money to an aggrieved husband."
"You know nothing about any court-ordered, official surveillance at the Terrell residence?" Kerney said.
"That's what I've been telling you, Kerney. Look, if a court order had been requested by us and not the State Department, I'd know about it.
But then I still couldn't tell you anyway. You know the routine; both the application and order would have been sealed by a federal judge."
Powers adjusted his necktie.
"Since we're talking about people being watched, here's some advice:
Stay out of this. Agent Perry doesn't like you. I don't know what that's about. But if you're smart, don't give him an excuse to play hardball."
"Charlie can be obnoxious," Kerney said.
Powers shrugged.
"There are over twenty-two thousand special agents in the Bureau, Chief, and there is no charm-school requirement for academy applicants."
Kerney walked down the post office steps. Powers had deliberately warned him that he was being watched. That made Frank's other assertions seem highly questionable.
While his wife skied the mountain, Randall Stewart kept an eye on his two young sons, Lance and Jeremy, as they practiced on the kiddie slope.
The boys, ages six and eight, had improved their technique this season, but they were at least a year away from being able to ski the more difficult intermediate runs.
Stewart's interrogation by the FBI agent had put him into a total panic, and the only thing he could think to do was leave town for a while.
Springing the idea of an impromptu skiing trip on his wife hadn't been easy. Lori liked everything planned and orderly. Keeping up a cheery front, Stewart had prevailed with Lori by pointing out that her business was slow this time of year, both children were doing extremely well in school, and it was time to be a little more spontaneous about family fun before the boys were grown and gone.
He booked a suite in a lodge in Red River, high in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains near Taos, packed up Lori's Volvo, and drove the family out of Santa Fe as soon as he possibly could.
As Lance, his youngest, took a spill and got up laughing, Stew art tried to contain his worry about the threats the FBI agent had made. To have his affair with Phyllis exposed would most likely mean the end of his marriage, and to be branded a suspected traitor would surely destroy his career. He had no doubt that the threats would be carried out if he ever mentioned anything at all about the envelope.
Still stunned by the memory of his interrogation, he shook his head in an attempt to wipe it out of his mind. He looked up just as Lori came down the mountain, and fixed a smile on his face when she approached.
"There's eleven inches of new powder on top of the mountain," she said, eyes dancing, waving at the boys.
"It's wonderful."
"Aren't you glad I talked you into this?" Randall asked.
"Very," Lori said, brushing his cheek with her lips.
"It's your turn on the slopes. But you'd better get up there before the storm closes in. I'll take the boys back to the lodge and get something whipped up for lunch."
"I'll be back in an hour," Randall said, reaching for his skis.
"It's dinner out tonight, just you and me. I've made reservations and the lodge has found us a sitter."
"This is a lot of fun," Lori said.
"That's what I wanted to hear," Randall said. He kissed his pretty wife, wondering why he'd been so stupid about Phyllis Terrell. He watched her gather up the boys, and ski them off to the lodge, a short distance away.
Randall turned his attention to the mountain. A good, hard run was just what he needed. Work up a sweat. He got in the lift line and a woman joined him on the chair.
"Have you skied Red River before?" she asked.
Randall nodded and looked at the woman. Rather ordinary in appearance, he guessed her to be about his age.
"Several times."
"Some people who just came down the mountain said the Cat Skinner run is excellent. Have you done that?"
"It's rated difficult," Randall said, nodding.
"Are you a good skier?"
"I am. But I've never skied here before and I'd rather follow someone down who knows the terrain. Would that be an imposition?"
"Not at all," Randall replied.
The woman flashed a big smile.
"Super."
They got off the lift. Randall waited while the woman adjusted her bindings.
People flowed around them and skied off.
"New equipment," she explained apologetically as she buttoned up.
"Cat Skinner is to the left," Randall said.
"Lead on," the woman said.
"Get me pointed in the right direction and I'll beat you to the bottom."
Randall smiled at the prospect of some friendly competition.
"We'll see about that."
A third of the way down, Randall Stewart picked up good speed. He caught some air on a small bump and the woman stayed right with him.
The woman took a quick look back. No one was behind her. She ran Stewart off the powder and into a tree. The glancing impact sent him careening, spinning wildly on his backside, his left ski twisted awkwardly under his body. He slid to a stop and tried to get his leg untangled, but the pain was too intense.