Death Song (15 page)

None of the men seemed resistant to questions or defensive, and all seemed equally upset about the murders. Although it was too soon to tell for sure, Clayton wondered if the one man in the department who knew the most about Tim and Denise Riley’s personal life might be Don Mielke.

The high point of his morning came when Ramona Pino arrived and briefed him on the substance of her interview with Roy Mirabal. The downside was not having knowledge of Denise’s nighttime assignations sooner. Now everyone along the stretch of county road to the Rileys’ double-wide would have to be interviewed again, this time to see if they could help ID the mystery driver or provide a description of the vehicle.

It was a possible major lead in the investigation that had remained uncovered due to the incompetence of a cadet deputy and the stupidity of a supervisor who’d had allowed an untrained rookie to conduct a major felony case interview.

Clayton shared his frustration with Mielke, who shrugged it off as an unfortunate event that had occurred in the rush to gather information as quickly as possible after Denise’s body had been found.

Clayton couldn’t believe Mielke’s spin on the event, but given how big-time screwups were being managed at every level of government, he wondered if both Deputy Quintana and the yet-to-be-named supervisor would be commended and promoted instead of censured and sacked.

Noon came and went with no sign of Sheriff Salgado, who’d blown off his early morning appointment with Clayton and still had not yet made an appearance at the office. Furthermore, Clayton hadn’t seen or heard from Kerney or Sheriff Hewitt. He wondered if his assumption that they had already put the squeeze on Salgado was correct.

He was reviewing interview summaries with Ramona Pino when Detective Matt Chacon from the SFPD showed up carting a box containing the computers secured from the Riley residence along with the software and zip drives uncovered in a subsequent search of the double-wide.

Chacon put the box on the table and gave the two sergeants a wan smile. “Here’s everything Major Mielke wanted returned to evidence,” he said. “The bad news is that after an exhaustive examination I’ve found nothing useful at all. But it confirmed my suspicion that whoever erased the hard drives was no amateur.”

“Is that it?” Ramona asked, noting that Matt’s smile telegraphed he had more to tell. She nodded at a straight-back office chair.

Chacon sat, took the toothpick out of the corner of his mouth, and said, “I uncovered some interesting, perplexing information. After I located Denise and Tim Riley’s e-mail, cell phone, and landline telephone accounts, I served a court order to access them. The cell phone and e-mail accounts had been almost completely emptied. In fact, the only calls on file consisted of the unsuccessful half a dozen or so attempts Tim Riley made to reach his wife on the night he was murdered.”

Clayton, who’d been half-listening while working on an updated investigators assignment schedule, gave Matt Chacon his full attention. “What do you mean, the accounts had been emptied?” he asked.

“Except for Tim Riley’s few failed attempts to call home, the records had been purged,” Matt reiterated, “and it was done a few hours after Denise was murdered.”

“Purged by who?” Ramona asked.

Matt shrugged. “The service providers claim it was a security breach and they assure me that the information didn’t get dumped accidentally or on purpose by their personnel. But I have no way to verify if they’re telling the truth. If they are leveling with me, that leaves two possibilities. Either a world-class hacker broke into their systems, which I seriously doubt, or we’re dealing with something that’s far beyond our reach.”

“Why not a hacker?” Ramona asked. “Didn’t you initially think that a computer geek or a techie could have wiped the Rileys’ computers clean?”

“And what exactly is it that is far beyond our reach?” Clayton demanded.

Matt turned to Ramona. “I did say it could be a hacker, but the security specialists for the Internet provider and the cell phone companies tell me that whoever penetrated their firewalls and erased the e-mail and call records also found and scoured redundancy files that backed up the data. Furthermore, it was a surgical strike that targeted only the Rileys’ records. Not only that, all the accounts were accessed and cleansed simultaneously.”

He glanced at Clayton. “Which gets to your question. I’m not the world’s greatest expert, but it doesn’t seem likely that one individual, even a brilliant one, could do all that so quickly after the Rileys’ deaths. If it was a lone hacker, it had to have been planned well in advance.”

Clayton leaned back and studied Chacon. “So take a guess and tell me what you think we are dealing with here.”

Matt twisted his toothpick between his thumb and forefinger before responding. “An organization with ultrahigh-tech computer savvy and megabucks would be my guess. That could mean any number of multinational corporations or government agencies, foreign or domestic. I know that doesn’t help much.”

“Can we track the computer break-ins back to the source?” Ramona asked.

“Maybe,” Matt replied, “but not without outside help and even then it could take months. The FBI is investigating.”

“It could be years before they tell us anything,” Clayton said, shaking his head in dismay. As a former tribal police officer, he’d experienced firsthand uppity federal agents who loved keeping local cops in the dark.

“This raises some big questions about our victims,” Ramona said. “What did Tim and Denise Riley know—or do—that got them killed?”

“And who wants to keep it secret?” Clayton added.

“Exactly,” Ramona said.

Clayton pawed through the papers on the desk. “Before I left Carrizozo, I assigned a deputy to do a deep background check on Tim Riley. Has Mielke started one on Denise?”

Ramona flipped through the assignment sheet on her clipboard. “No.”

“What do we know about her?”

Before Ramona could answer, Mielke stepped into the office. He gave Matt Chacon a brief nod and looked directly at Clayton and Ramona.

“Chief Kerney and Sheriff Hewitt are with Sheriff Salgado in his conference room, and they’d like the three of us to join them,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Clayton replied, stifling a smile as he pushed back his chair. “Has anyone interviewed Denise Riley’s employer?”

“The insurance agent was questioned,” Mielke replied, “and was eliminated as a suspect. He’s gay and lives with his longtime partner. His parents have been visiting from Buffalo for the past week. He has an airtight alibi. You should have the report.”

Clayton said, “I mean did anyone interview the insurance agent in depth about Denise?”

“Not yet,” Mielke said.

“Matt,” Ramona said, “after you log in the evidence with the S.O., go have a chat with the man about Denise.”

Chacon nodded, picked up the box of computer evidence, stepped around Mielke, and left.

“Did Chacon find anything useful on the computers?” Mielke asked.

“Not on the computers,” Ramona said.

Mielke turned his attention to Clayton. “What does that mean?”

Clayton gave the major a broad, reassuring smile. “Detective Chacon has made some helpful discoveries. I’ll brief you after our meeting with the brass. What’s that all about?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Mielke replied as he stepped into the hallway behind Ramona. “Did you know that Sheriff Hewitt was coming up here?”

“I haven’t talked to my boss since I left Lincoln County,” Clayton said as he followed along.

“Uh-huh,” Mielke grunted, shooting Clayton a sour look.

The meeting was short and sweet. Wearing his game face, Salgado announced that effective immediately Chief Kerney was officially in charge of all aspects of the homicide investigation. Santa Fe S.O. and P.D. supervisory personnel assigned to the case would report directly to him. Sheriff Hewitt would continue to head up the Lincoln County investigation and work cooperatively with Kerney and Salgado. Clayton would stay on in Santa Fe as a lead investigator, and additional officers and resources would be made available from the Santa Fe P.D.

“This task force is the best way to get the job done,” Salgado said in his closing remarks. “I want everybody behind it one hundred percent.”

Mielke looked like he was seething inside, and Salgado’s chief deputy, Leonard Jessup, had a constipated expression. The two other senior sheriff’s deputies in attendance, both captains, seemed completely nonplussed. The meeting ended with Kerney calling for a supervisory briefing at 1600 hours.

“We’ll want to know everything you’ve got,” he said, glancing from Mielke to Clayton to Ramona. “Get ready for tough questions if we don’t like what we hear, and get ready for some reshuffling if we don’t like the way things have been run.”

Paul Hewitt nodded in agreement to emphasize the threat.

Outside the conference room Mielke scurried to his office with his two captains and quickly closed the door.

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” Ramona said as she and Clayton passed by. “Did we just witness a palace coup?”

“I think it was more like an abdication,” Clayton replied. He smiled at Salgado’s secretary, who shot him a decidedly unfriendly look in return.

Ramona caught the exchange. “But certainly not a voluntary one based on the spiteful once-over you just got from Salgado’s secretary,” she whispered. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

Clayton gave Ramona a sideways glance but kept a straight face. “Me? Like you, I’m just a lowly sergeant.” Politely he stood aside to allow Ramona to enter his temporary office.

“Ah, I see,” Ramona said as she walked through the doorway. “First you give Mielke a non-answer about whether or not you knew Hewitt was in Santa Fe and now I get one about Salgado’s abdication. Is that any way to trust your partner?”

“Are we partners?” Clayton asked with a smile, quickly warming to the idea.

“For the duration,” Ramona said.

“Then close the door and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

Chapter Six

Denise Riley’s former employer owned an independent insurance agency in a huge open-air mall on Cerrillos Road. A few Santa Fe–style touches—earthtoned stucco exteriors, flat roofs, “roughhewn” wooden posts, and fake buttresses—could not disguise the fact that it was a glorified strip mall with a big-box discount department store and a mega-supermarket mixed in with an assortment of franchise restaurants and national chain stores that sold books, electronics, home accessories, and clothing.

Sandwiched between a brand-name shoe outlet and a cellular phone store, the insurance agency had a front window with a lovely view of the parking lot that served the big discount department store. Inside, Matt Chacon encountered a middle-aged man probably in his early forties, who had the muscular build of a welterweight on a trim five-eight frame. He had short brown hair, brown eyes below thick brows, a strong chin, and a pronounced British accent.

“What happened to Denise is bloody awful,” John Culley said after Chacon introduced himself. “I don’t know what I will do without her.”

Major Mielke hadn’t said anything about John Culley being British. Matt wondered what else Mielke might have forgotten or failed to mention. “I understand your parents are visiting from Buffalo,” he said.

“My partner’s parents, not mine,” Culley replied with a wave of his hand. “My dear widowed mother, who is safely ensconced in her Tunbridge Wells cottage, thankfully has no desire to venture forth to visit me in the new world. Have you ever been to Buffalo? No? Regardless what the time of year might be, I cannot recommend it in any season.”

Matt loved the way Brits talked. It wasn’t just the accent he enjoyed hearing; he liked the way they used the language and seemed so comfortable making conversation.

Culley was just one of a number of Brits living in Santa Fe, including prominent artists, successful business owners, scientists who worked at the national laboratory in nearby Los Alamos, and some who were simply filthy rich and hobnobbed with the area’s other wealthy residents at charity events, the opera, and art openings. Members of British nobility—Matt couldn’t remember their names or titles—owned a large, secluded estate outside the city and were occasionally mentioned in the local newspaper.

The Brits composed one part of a rather extensive community of western European expatriates who lived in Santa Fe. Some of the Brits were full-time residents and others part-timers who either regularly returned to Europe or wintered in Florida.

Aside from illegal Mexican workers who’d been coming to Santa Fe forever, the ranks of foreign migrants living in the city had recently swelled, as more and more Middle Eastern businessmen had moved in and opened retail stores that catered to the tourist trade.

“I take it Tunbridge Wells is in England,” Matt said.

“Indeed, it is,” Culley replied. “In Kent, actually. Lovely castles and gardens. Have you been?”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t get a chance to travel that much.”

“Pity,” Culley said. “There is so much to see in the world.”

“What can you tell me about Denise’s personal life?” Matt asked.

“Shall we sit?” Culley asked as he stepped to his desk and settled into a chair.

Matt pulled up a side chair and joined Culley at his desk, which was modern, European-looking, and shaped somewhat like an unshelled peanut. On it was a laptop, a cordless phone, a leather desk pad, and a matching leather letter and pen holder. The other desk in the office was of the same design but smaller. Denise Riley’s nameplate was prominently displayed on an otherwise empty desktop. There were framed Southwestern landscape prints on the walls, and a large, freestanding clear plastic rack of randomly arranged boxes that was abstract in design and positioned near the entrance. It served as a display case for various insurance company brochures. A bank of two-drawer black file cabinets lined the wall behind Denise’s desk, and behind Culley’s desk stood a credenza that held several membership certificates from local civic organizations and the photograph of a good-looking man Matt took to be Culley’s partner.