The Big Gamble (11 page)

Before the door closed, Clayton caught a glimpse of several poker tables in the front room. Tribal gaming operations had wiped out a lot of the illegal poker parlors in Ruidoso, but not all of them. Some players still preferred private big stakes games, where none of the winnings went to the tax man.

“Who are you?” Clayton asked.

“Do we have a problem?” the man responded with a tinge of an East Coast accent.

“Let’s see some ID.”

“Name’s Harry Staggs,” the man said, reaching for his wallet. He held it out to Clayton. “I run a quiet, family place here, deputy.”

“I’m sure you do,” Clayton said. “Take your driver’s license out of the wallet and hand it to me, please.”

Staggs did as he was told. Clayton copied down the information and handed back the license.

“What’s this about?” Staggs asked.

“Do you have any guests?”

Staggs shrugged. “Three cabins are rented, but I don’t think anyone is here right now.”

“How about this man?” Clayton asked, holding up Ulibarri’s photograph.

Staggs nodded in the direction of the cabins on the right side of the porch. “Yeah, he’s in cabin three, but like I said, nobody’s here right now.”

“You’re sure of that?” Clayton asked, stepping to one side so he could keep the cabin in view.

“Well, I haven’t seen him all day, so I’m guessing he’s out.”

“Did he check in alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Nobody was with him?”

“A man and a woman dropped him off, but they stayed in the car.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have company?”

“No, I’m not. I rent cabins. As long as my guests don’t cause trouble or do damage, it doesn’t much matter to me what they do or who visits them.”

“Did you get the names of the companions who dropped him off?”

“There was no need,” Staggs said. “They waited while he registered, then he got his bag out of the car, and the people left.”

“Do you know either of them?”

“It was dark and I didn’t get a good look,” Staggs replied. “I just saw them sitting in the front seat.”

“But you could tell it was a man and a woman.”

“Yeah.”

“Describe the vehicle.”

“Late model Lincoln. Dark color. Maybe blue or black. I didn’t pay any attention to the license plate.”

“Let’s step inside,” Clayton said.

“You got no business in my home,” Staggs said, a worried look crossing his face.

“The guest in cabin three is a murder suspect,” Clayton said, “and I need to use your phone. Either let me inside or I’ll arrest you for refusing to assist an officer.”

Grudgingly Staggs opened the front door. Inside Clayton asked Staggs a few questions about cabin three and found out all the rental units were identical in layout. Standing at the side of the window with cabin three in view, he called Hewitt, gave him the news, and asked him to request SWAT assistance from the Ruidoso Police Department.

“You’ve got it,” Hewitt said. “Give me specifics for deployment.”

“Cabin three is the target. It’s in the center of the circular driveway, backed up against a hill. There’s good cover if SWAT comes in from the rear. The only windows are one on each side of the cabin and a living-room window near the front door. There’s a raised front porch that’s high enough to conceal a crouching man.”

“No other exits?” Hewitt asked.

“Affirmative.”

“Are you under cover?”

“Affirmative.”

“I’m rolling. So are Quinones and Dillingham. Stay put and don’t take action until SWAT arrives and sets up, unless you have to.”

“Ten-four,” Clayton said. “I’ll be on my handheld.” He hung up and looked around the room. It contained a fully stocked, built-in bar, two large poker tables, an assortment of straight-back chairs, a sagging daybed, and a sideboard that contained boxes of poker chips and stacks of unopened playing cards. “Are all the cabins furnished like this one?” he asked.

Staggs said he liked to have his pals over once in a while for a friendly card game.

Clayton pointed at the poker table that gave a clear view out the window. “Sit down.”

Staggs sat. Clayton read him his rights as he pushed him forward in the chair and handcuffed him behind the back.

“I want to call my lawyer,” Staggs said.

“That will have to wait. What time did the game break up last night?”

“I want to call my lawyer now.”

“Did the people who dropped Ulibarri off sit in on last night’s game?”

“I’m not talking,” Staggs answered.

Clayton resumed his position at the window, switched his handheld radio to the Ruidoso PD frequency, waited, and listened. In twenty minutes SWAT arrived. He made contact with the SWAT commander and talked the team down the hill and into position. There was no discernible movement in cabin three.

Hewitt made contact by radio, reported his arrival, and gave his location. Quinones and Dillingham followed suit.

“SWAT goes in first,” Hewitt said. “Sheriff personnel hold your positions.”

From their units, Dillingham and Quinones acknowledged the order.

“Roger that,” Clayton replied.

The SWAT commander cut in. “We’re ready.”

“It’s your move,” Hewitt said.

Clayton watched it go down. Sharpshooters covered the windows. Three men hit the front door, two on either side, as one smashed it open at the lock set with a battering ram. They went in high and low, automatic weapons at the ready, while Clayton held his breath. Finally the radio hissed.

“Clear,” the SWAT commander said, “but you might want to come and take a look-see.”

“What have you got?” Clayton asked.

“Looks like one very dead murder suspect,” the SWAT commander replied.

 

Clayton left Staggs in the company of Deputy Dillingham and joined up with Paul Hewitt outside cabin three. Together with Sergeant Quinones they inspected the crime scene. Naked to the waist and bare-foot, Ulibarri was on the floor in a sitting position propped against one of two unmade double beds. The new belt with the sterling silver rodeo-style buckle was undone at his waist, his jeans were unzipped, and his feet were bare. His fancy new boots were next to his body with a pair of socks draped over the toes. There were visible bruise marks at his throat suggesting death by strangulation.

“Dammit,” Clayton said.

Hewitt stopped scanning the room, glanced at Clayton, and noted the disappointed look on his face. “Let’s see what evidence the crime scene techs turn up before you start grousing.”

“I wanted an arrest and conviction out of this,” Clayton said.

“Like the sheriff said, maybe we can still clear the Humphrey murder,” Quinones replied.

“That’s not the same thing,” Clayton said.

“We can worry about that later,” Hewitt said, with a nod at the corpse. “Right now we’ve got another fresh homicide to work.”

“You’re not turning it over to the city cops?” Quinones asked.

“Nope,” Hewitt said. “The police chief won’t like it, but screw him. I’m the chief law enforcement officer in this county and this is in my jurisdiction.”

“How do you want the team to operate?” Quinones asked.

Given his mistakes and Quinones’s rank, Clayton fully expected Hewitt to bounce him and put the sergeant in charge.

“Let’s leave things as they are,” Hewitt answered. “Deputy Istee will continue as lead investigator.”

“Makes sense to me,” Quinones said.

Clayton hid his relief by staring at the corpse and avoiding eye contact with the sheriff. “We need to talk to Harry Staggs,” he said. “Maybe he knows what got Ulibarri killed.”

“Let’s do that,” Hewitt said to Clayton as he turned to leave the crime scene. “By the way, the stain on Ulibarri’s boot is the same type found in Humphrey’s car. If the DNA confirms a match to Humphrey, as far as I’m concerned you’ve cleared a homicide.”

 

Before leaving Los Alamos, Kerney made phone calls from his unit. Several years ago Professor Perrett had transferred from his teaching position to administer a chemical and alcohol dependency research project affiliated with the university. Kerney made an appointment with Perrett’s secretary and then dialed the orthopedic surgeon in Albuquerque who had reconstructed his shattered right knee after it had been blown apart in a shootout with a drug dealer. He persuaded the office receptionist to slot him in for a ten-minute doctor’s visit late in the afternoon.

In spite of weight work to keep his legs muscles strong and his daily routine of slow jogging, the knee had been hurting like hell over the past month, and Kerney’s limp was getting more pronounced with each passing day. It was time to see what could be done, if anything, to fix it.

The recently constructed bypass around Santa Fe, built to avoid trucking nuclear waste from Los Alamos through the city, shortened his driving time to Albuquerque. The new Indian casino just outside of Albuquerque, a massive, glitzy pueblo-style complex, loomed up as the traffic slowed to a mere ten miles above the reduced speed limit. Across from the casino the tribe’s buffalo herd grazed behind a fence anchored by railroad-tie posts that covered acres of ground. It made for a startling contrast of old Indian traditions and new Native American enterprise.

The administrative offices for the chemical treatment research program were located in an area of the city known as Martineztown, a predominantly low-income, Hispanic neighborhood. The nondescript building, sandwiched between the train tracks and the interstate, reflected the university’s politically correct decision to place community services in the barrio to avoid criticism of an ivory-tower mentality.

A few minutes early, Kerney spent his time waiting for Perrett reading a brochure that detailed the scope and mission of the center. It received major funding from a variety of government agencies and private foundations and had half a dozen ongoing projects to develop and test new treatment approaches to hard-core addiction with an emphasis on minority populations. Kerney was halfway through a second brochure when the secretary buzzed him in to Dr. Perrett’s office.

Jeremiah Perrett was a man of late middle age who obviously put time and energy into remaining fit. His biceps filled the sleeves of his collarless shirt, and he had a well-developed upper torso. He kept what hair he had cut short, and his blue eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of fashionable glasses, signaled a no-nonsense outlook on life.

If he was gay, as Osterman said, it didn’t show in either his mannerisms or appearance. But living in Santa Fe, Kerney was used to meeting gay men of all ages who proved that homosexuals were by no means all swishy queens.

Perrett stood up, reached across the desk, gave Kerney a hearty handshake, and sat back down. “My secretary said this is about Anna Marie Montoya.”

The office furnishings were far too nice to have been bought with grant or public money. No bean counter would have allowed such indulgences. Kerney eased into a comfortable wicker lounge chair with leather cushions. The expensive walnut desk was twice normal size, and Perrett’s desk chair was a high-end model that likely sold for eight or nine hundred dollars. The wall art consisted of tasteful, nicely framed posters of old Broadway musicals. Clearly, Perrett had furnished the office with his own funds.

“Are you aware that Anna Marie disappeared some years ago and her remains have just recently been discovered?” Kerney asked.

Perrett nodded. “Yes, of course. Very tragic.”

“How well did you know her?”

“Fairly well. I became her advisor when she transferred from university studies to major in psychology. She was a good student with an intuitive talent for working with people. She held promise as a researcher, but she enjoyed direct client involvement more than pure science.”

“Yet she worked for you on a research project in northern New Mexico.”

Perrett nodded. “She took my senior research seminar and I recruited her to be a field worker the summer after she graduated. She was bilingual. Native Spanish speaking, in fact. A very desirable asset, since we were working to develop a culturally unbiased intake assessment tool for Spanish-speaking alcohol and substance abusers.”

“That must have been difficult to accomplish,” Kerney said, hoping that focusing on Perrett’s professional interests would loosen him up a bit.

Perrett’s eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. “Yes, very frustrating. Do you have some knowledge of research methodology?”

Kerney smiled. “Not really. What I know consists only of dim memories from an undergraduate psych course I took years ago. Did you get the results you hoped for?”

Perrett smiled, showing his pearly whites and a hint of smug satisfaction. “Indeed, we did. The assessment instrument we developed is now used in Hispanic alcohol and chemical dependency treatment programs throughout the country.”

His reaction, and a framed photograph on the credenza behind the desk of a former first lady presenting him with an award, confirmed to Kerney that Perrett was a man who took great satisfaction in his accomplishments.

Kerney stroked him. “That must be very gratifying.”

Perrett gave a modest shrug and said nothing.

Kerney turned the conversation back to Anna Marie and asked if she’d ever come to him with any personal problems.

“None of a serious nature, as I recall.”

“What do you remember?”

Perrett reflected for a moment. “Best not to trust to my memory,” he said, rising from his chair. He opened an antique oak filing cabinet and sorted through a drawer. “Anna Marie used me as a reference when she applied to graduate school, so it’s quite likely I still have my advisor notes attached to my copy of the letter of recommendation.”

He returned to his chair with a folder in hand and thumbed through it. “Yes, here it is. She had met a young man, early in her senior year, who she was attracted to but not sure about.”