The Big Gamble (13 page)

“Same thing,” Staggs said, tugging an earlobe.

It was the first sign of nervousness, Clayton noted.

“I also told you that I didn’t recognize them,” Staggs added.

“Isn’t that risky business?” Clayton asked. “Ulibarri shows up with no references, dropped off by strangers. What if he had been a cop?”

Staggs snorted at the idea. “No way. The local cops have never been a problem. They got their heads up their asses.”

Hewitt leaned forward and scratched his forehead. “I don’t get it, Staggs. Three complete strangers show up and that’s okay with you?”

Staggs rubbed his nose, which suggested a lie was coming. “It’s not that hard to find out where the action is. People talk to people, especially about where the good games are. That’s how a reputation gets built.”

“Simple as that?” Clayton said.

Staggs crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Sometimes.”

Clayton read the body language and knew Staggs was still lying. He pushed the issue. “Ulibarri just shows up, brought by strangers.”

Staggs pulled at his earlobe again. “I already said that.”

“An unknown man and woman?”

Staggs shifted sideways in his chair. “How many times do I have to answer that question?”

“Until you stop bullshitting us,” Clayton said. He glanced at Paul Hewitt, who hit the stop button on the tape recorder.

“How much cash do you have in the house?” Hewitt asked.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Tredwell said, quickly facing Hewitt. “What’s the relevance of the question?”

“We didn’t find any money in Ulibarri’s cabin,” Hewitt said. “People get killed for a lot less than twenty-five thousand, so robbery may be the motive.”

“We have a deal to treat my client as a cooperating witness,” Tredwell said.

“That deal is about illegal gambling, not murder,” Hewitt replied, smiling at Staggs. “I bet the crime scene techs have just lifted your client’s fingerprints from Ulibarri’s cabin.”

“He owns the place,” Tredwell said. “You’ll find his prints everywhere.”

“That’s probably true, but the district attorney and a judge might be convinced those fingerprints place him at the scene of a homicide. What if the court issued a search warrant? I wonder what we’d find.” Hewitt shook his head sadly at Staggs. “Maybe a lot of cash, maybe twenty-five thousand or more.”

“You’re way off base, Sheriff,” Tredwell said.

“Staggs only gets a free ride for operating an illegal gambling parlor.”

“What do you want?” Tredwell asked with tight lips.

“Real cooperation,” Hewitt replied. “The names of the man and woman who brought Ulibarri to the game will do for starters.”

“Give us a few minutes.” Tredwell rose and took Staggs into the bedroom.

Hewitt caught the unspoken question in Clayton’s eyes and grinned. “
Never
let a lawyer bully you without a payback,” he whispered, “even when they’re in the right.”

The door opened and Tredwell came out first, followed by a sulky-looking Staggs.

Clayton waited for the men to sit at the table before turning on the tape recorder. “Who were the man and the woman with Ulibarri?” he asked.

“The guy’s name is Johnny Jackson,” Staggs replied. “He runs an escort service. High-class talent only. Very expensive. The woman was probably a hooker.”

“What else do you know about him?” Clayton asked.

“That’s about it,” Staggs said, shifting his eyes away from Clayton.

“He’s local?” Clayton asked.

“That, I don’t know. I hear he’s got a private plane and flies his talent all over the Southwest.”

“How do you contact him?”

“I don’t.”

“Why did he bring Ulibarri to your game?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“How long have you known Jackson?”

“I just know who he is, that’s all.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“I’ve seen him around, but we’ve never talked.”

“What else have you heard about him?”

“He’s got some fancy place in the area where very special clients can hook up with his girls.”

“Does Jackson supply women for your gambling buddies?” Hewitt asked.

Tredwell jumped in before Staggs could reply. “My client is not a party to Mr. Jackson’s alleged criminal activities.”

“People come here for the game, not pussy,” Staggs replied.

“Is that a no?” Clayton asked.

“Yeah, that’s a no.”

“Describe Jackson,” Clayton said.

Staggs fidgeted, but didn’t answer.

Clayton rephrased. “What does he look like?”

Staggs gulped air before responding. “He’s a small guy, thin. Maybe five six or seven. Curly black hair he keeps cut short. Nice dresser. Always smiling. Dark eyes. I don’t remember what color. Women think he’s good-looking.”

“Any distinguishing features?”

Staggs thought for a minute and pointed to his right cheek. “He’s got a small mole here.”

“You pointed to your right cheek,” Clayton said.

“Yeah, a mole on his right cheek.”

“How old?”

“Forty, maybe, would be my guess. He looks younger.”

“And the car he was driving?”

“It’s a Lincoln, dark blue, four-door.”

“Have you seen him driving anything else?” Clayton asked.

Staggs fumbled a cigarette pack out of a shirt pocket and lit another cancer stick. “He always drives a Lincoln, as far as I know.” He blew a cloud of smoke straight at Clayton. “I’ve seen him around town in it.”

Clayton pulled his head back, coughed, and waved the smoke away.

Through the front window Hewitt saw Sergeant Quinones waiting impatiently on the porch. “A few more questions and then we’ll take a break,” he said while Clayton kept coughing. “Where have you run into Jackson?”

“I’ve seen him at the casino and the racetrack.”

“If you don’t know him and have had no dealings with him, why were you protecting him?”

“I didn’t want any trouble.”

Hewitt wondered whether Staggs was talking about trouble from cops, or trouble from Johnny Jackson.

“Have you ever been to this private place where Jackson’s girls entertain special clients?”

“Nope, that’s way out of my class.”

“What do you know about it?” Hewitt asked.

“Just that it’s like a swanky mountain resort or lodge somewhere in the area. Very secluded. Look, Ulibarri’s winnings would be like chump change to Jackson. He’d have no reason to kill him.”

“Tell me about these special clients he entertains.”

“Rich guys, guys with important jobs, guys in the public eye, guys looking for a little fun away from the wife, where they won’t be recognized,” Staggs said with a furtive glance at the door, as if he were expecting thugs to bust in and break his legs.

“Do you know any of these rich guys?” Hewitt asked.

Staggs snorted in reply, puffed, and blew smoke through his nose. “Those kind of people don’t socialize with me.”

Hewitt stopped the recorder and pushed himself out of the chair. “Okay, we’ll take a short break.” He looked down at Staggs speculatively. “Why are you scared of Jackson?”

Staggs bit his lip. “Who says I’m scared?”

Outside, Sergeant Quinones showed Hewitt and Clayton a bagged-and-tagged plastic bottle of prescription pain killers with Humphrey’s name typed on the pharmacy label. The prescription had been filled two days before Humphrey’s murder.

“This was in Ulibarri’s shirt pocket,” Quinones said.

Clayton almost smiled. The bottle was the best possible kind of evidence: it linked killer to victim. Instead, he nodded. “Did you and Dillingham get anything from your interviews?”

“Yeah,” Quinones answered. “Now we’re going to check the stories out.”

 

Kerney’s ten-minute appointment with his orthopedic surgeon lasted half an hour. After examining his knee, asking a lot of questions about his exercise regime, and making Kerney hop, squat, and duck-walk, the doctor announced that the plastic that served as cartilage in the artificial joint had most likely failed, causing increased muscle pain and Kerney’s pronounced limp. He gave Kerney a script to make an appointment for a Magnetic Resonance Imaging test, known as an MRI, to confirm the diagnosis, and then showed him the model of a new, FDA-approved, longer-lasting artificial knee that would give him greater flexibility.

It would mean another surgery to implant the artificial joint, and another round of postoperative physical therapy and rehabilitation. But it would mean no more pain, no more limp, and greater mobility.

The only question in Kerney’s mind was when to do it, before or after the baby arrived? Before might be better, if he had any reasonable expectation of ever playing on the floor with his child.

The doctor strongly suggested that Kerney take up swimming in lieu of jogging, which would lessen damage to the plastic that served to cushion movement of the steel implant. He wasn’t much of a water person. His swimming experiences consisted of hot-weather dips in stock tanks when he was a kid growing up on a ranch, and occasional teenage forays in swimming pools where he could splash around safely without publicly embarrassing himself.

On a weekend outing, Sara had coaxed him into a hotel pool and then laughed and teased him after he’d awkwardly plowed his way through two short laps. She swam fluidly, dove gracefully, floated effortlessly, and loved the water. Perhaps he should call the architect and tell him to add plans for a swimming pool in the courtyard area behind the house.

He resisted the idea. In the high deserts of New Mexico, which included Santa Fe, water was a precious commodity. As a boy growing up in the arid Tularosa Basin, he’d watched his father constantly worry about drought, and had worked by his side replacing buried pipelines, rebuilding catchment basins, and mending windmills to insure the stock stayed watered. The idea of using thousands of gallons of water a year for a swimming pool went against the grain.

Kerney switched mental gears. The doctor had told him a new knee could wear out just as quickly if he kept jogging on it, and that water exercise was a far better way to keep the leg in shape. If he could lose the limp, which he hated, then he wouldn’t look and feel like one of the walking wounded.

Maybe the pool was a medical necessity, not a wasteful, unnecessary luxury. He thought it over and decided that even if it was a rationalization, it was a damn good one.

He dawdled over a light meal at one of the restaurants along a four-lane city street that led to the foothills before driving to Cassie Bedlow’s house. Lights were on inside and his knock at the door was answered by a somewhat frumpy, motherly looking woman.

“Ms. Norvell?” he asked, displaying his shield.

“I’m Cassie Bedlow,” she answered, looking a bit nonplused. “Is there a problem in the neighborhood?”

“No, I’d like to ask you about Anna Marie Montoya.”

Bedlow’s expression turned grave. “Please come in. I read that her body had been found, and that the police were calling it a murder. After all these years, how sad.”

The word elegant came to mind as Kerney crossed the threshold into a small entrance hall that led to the step-down living room. Two matching easy chairs covered in ivory-colored fabric sat at opposite ends of a large copper-top coffee table. The oak floor was stained a rich brown that contrasted nicely with a neutral gray area rug. The sofa was a soft peach, positioned to give a view of a carved stone fireplace with casement windows on either side. Two expensive traveling bags were on the floor in an archway that most likely led to a bedroom suite. From all appearances, Bedlow made a very good living operating her modeling and talent agency.

She sat with Kerney and answered his questions without hesitation. She’d known Anna Marie in college, but not well, and had no idea who Montoya had dated during her senior year. She knew no one who fit the rich playboy profile Jeremiah Perrett had described as Anna Marie’s love interest. Kent Osterman had been Bedlow’s college boyfriend for a while, back when she was anorexic, forty pounds lighter, and didn’t have to highlight her hair to cover the gray.

“Was Kent interested in Anna Marie?” Kerney asked.

Bedlow shook her head. “Kent liked his girlfriends blond, skinny, and fun-loving.”

“How did Osterman locate you?” Kerney asked.

Bedlow didn’t understand the question. “Excuse me?”

“He knew you before you were married, when you were still Cassie Norvell.”

“Oh, that. He gets the alumni magazine. I was featured in an issue last year. A piece about women graduates who became entrepreneurs.”

“I’ve heard your agency is very successful.”

Bedlow smiled prettily. “I’ve been blessed in that regard, but it’s been a lot of hard work.”

“Are you still married?” Kerney asked.

Bedlow laughed. “Not for a very long time.”

Kerney said good night, left Cassie Bedlow to her unpacking, and drove to Santa Fe thinking he’d been wise not to get optimistic about his new lead, which seemed to be fizzling out quickly. Tomorrow, he’d contact the remaining names on Osterman’s list by phone and see where that took him.

The light on the answering machine blinked at him when he got home. He played back a message from Sara asking him to call and not to worry about the time, because she’d be up late studying.

He dialed her number and she answered immediately. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I just wanted to hear your sexy voice,” Sara replied.

“You sound sleepy.”

“I am. My eyes are crossed and I can’t read another page.”

“What are you reading?”

“A monograph by an archaeologist who researched the battle site at the Little Bighorn. He suggests that contrary to popular belief, Custer didn’t blindly go up against overwhelming odds. He made all the correct orthodox, tactical field maneuvers and still got his butt kicked. So much for thinking inside the box. Why are you home so late?”