"Tell me how you knew."
Lori Stewart put the coffee cup down.
"It started six months after Phyllis moved in. We'd met her socially at neighborhood gatherings, and I could see that Randall was drawn to her.
She started calling and asking if she could borrow him to help her with her computer. He liked to think he was something of an expert.
Soon after that it became obvious what was happening."
"How so?" Sara asked.
"He changed his jogging schedule. Said he thought it would be better to go running later at night, especially during the warm weather. He'd be gone much too long."
"Did you confront him with your suspicions?" Sara asked.
Lori Stewart shook her head.
"No. I talked to an attorney about divorcing him.
He said I'd be much better off to wait until after our tenth anniversary to do it. The court takes a more favorable view of equitable settlements if the marriage has had longevity."
"Was that your plan?"
"Yes, I was going to file for divorce in six months."
"And Randall didn't know about it?" Sara asked.
"No one did. It would've been hard enough to face my parents and the boys when the time came. As far as Randall was concerned, he was happily married with a nearby honey pot to dip into."
"On the night Phyllis Terrell was murdered, did you know he was with her?"
"Yes. He said he had to stay up late to do some work. I went to bed.
After he thought I was sleeping, he left the house. I saw him cut across the arroyo to the Terrell property. I stayed awake until he came back.
He was gone for an hour."
"What time was that?"
"He left at a quarter to eleven and got back shortly before midnight.
The next day, when I learned that Phyllis had been murdered, I thought about telling the police. But I was certain in my mind that he couldn't have killed Phyllis. No one who has done something terrible like that can fall asleep so easily."
"Could he have left the house again after you went to sleep?"
"I would've known it. Randall always wakes me up when he gets out of bed. I'm a very light sleeper."
"Thank you," Sara said.
Kerney stood up.
"What size shoe did your husband wear?"
Lori Stewart gave Kerney a bewildered look.
"A size nine. He had very narrow feet. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious," he said, stepping to the door. The shoe print found at the Terrell residence was a size larger.
"That's all for now. We won't take any more of your time."
Traffic backed up along the feeder road to the Interstate. Soccer moms cut across lanes, hurrying to get kids to school before the tardy bell rang. Big-rig truckers pulled off on the shoulder of the road at a twenty-four-hour stop-and-rob near the southbound onramp for coffee refills.
"If you're going to become an alley cat, Kerney, tell me now," Sara said.
Kerney laughed.
"I bet Lori Stewart, on advice of counsel, kept a diary of her husband's late-night visits to Phyllis Terrell."
"What a good idea," Sara said brightly.
"I'll have to remember that. I almost choked when she said she didn't want her husband dead."
"At least she managed to keep the dollar signs from flashing in her eyes."
"Tidy-looking lives can be so messy," Sara said.
"Let's not do that," Kerney said.
"Do what?"
Kerney shrugged.
"Fake it with each other."
Sara patted Kerney's cheek.
"Not a chance."
"You don't think it's possible?"
"Ask me in ten years."
Kerney accelerated south down the Interstate. It was a good four-hour drive to Ramah, where Proctor Straley lived. None of the vehicles behind him looked suspicious. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror anyway.
Sal Molina went to Jake's home, only to be told by his wife that he was up on the mesa for the weekend at the family's ranch feeding cattle.
She gave him directions and Molina drove the all-wheel drive minivan up the unpaved rocky country road, skidding over frozen mud bogs, digging through deep snow-covered slushy ruts, until he reached the old abandoned farming settlement of Ojo de la Vaca. Roofless church and schoolhouse walls still stood along the dirt road and a few dilapidated cabins peppered the valley. Molina drove down a dirt track to a cabin where smoke rose from the chimney and a hay trailer hitched to a pickup truck was parked outside.
An unsmiling Jake waited for him on the front step. Bits of hay clung to his faded sweatshirt and dusted his curly salt-and-pepper hair.
"What are you doing here?" Jake asked.
"You've got cows, Jake?" Molina said.
"I didn't know that."
"Yeah, I've got cows. What do you want?"
Molina looked across the narrow valley to a pine forest that filled a ridgeline.
"It's pretty out here. Old family place?"
"My great-grandfather settled it. Get to the point, Molina."
"You know what I want."
Jake shook his head.
"You got your favor for helping my son, so I'm off the hook with you, Molina."
"Don't put me in a position that could cost you your job, Jake," Sal replied.
"You've gotta need the money it brings in. Look, up to now, you're a nameless confidential informant. Let's keep it that way."
"Don't threaten me."
"Come on, Jake. You were a cop for twenty-five years. How many times did you have to give somebody a little push?"
"Enough. But I never ratted off a snitch."
"Neither have I, and I don't want to. I've only got a couple of questions. Did you ever get a look inside the basement room?"
"What if I did?"
"I don't care about the people in the room. I'm just interested in the equipment and machines you might have seen, stuff you would have easily recognized."
"Are you going for a search warrant?"
"If we do, there will be no names in the affidavit and we'll ask for a sealed order."
"Good luck," Jake said.
"Help me out here, Jake. I've got dead bodies piled up and the feds lying through their teeth to me."
"The way I hear it, the damn case is solved."
"You heard about the murdered priest? It's part of the same investigation "You gotta be kidding me," Jake said.
"I'm not. Cut me a break, Jake. I promise you won't be involved.
What's in the room?"
"I only went in once to do a search when a bomb threat was called in.
That was seven, maybe eight months ago. Mostly it's filled with communication gear and computers."
"Any surveillance equipment?" Molina asked.
"Some of that too."
"Like what?"
"Wand microphones, wiretap units, miniature video cameras, room bugs."
"Keep going," Molina said, writing everything down. *** Blindfolded, cuffed, and shackled, Charlie Perry felt hands lift him off the bed into a standing position. His body felt rubbery, alien, feeble. The heavy dose of muscle relaxants made his knees buckle, his arms flap at his sides. His mind was giddy, untroubled, his thoughts scatterbrained. He could sense the presence of a goofy smile on his face. He giggled and wondered what type of psychotropic drug they'd used on him.
Two pairs of hands removed his cuffs and shackles and stripped off his clothes.
The blindfold stayed in place throughout. He shivered as the cold metal cuffs and shackles were tightened down and locked around his wrists and ankles. Guided to a chair, he sat and waited. A hand rubbed warm lather with the scent of cheap shaving cream across his face. A razor scraped across his chin. He felt the blade nick his Adam's apple. A hand grabbed his wrist and straightened his arm.
He felt the prick of a needle in a vein.
The cuffs and shackles came off again. He was lifted to his feet and dressed.
Everything fit perfectly. Keys and a wallet went into his trouser pockets, socks and shoes went on his feet, tape was pressed over his mouth, an empty shoulder holster was strapped on.