Tularosa: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels) (18 page)

"Sammy would like that."

"Will you be all right?"

He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before answering.

"I need a drink. A dozen drinks."

"Will you take them?" Kerney asked.

"I won't."

"Good. Call me if you need to talk."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I do." Terry held out his hand. Whatever rancor Kerney felt about Terry was gone, part of a dim, unimportant past. He pulled Terry to him in a hug, and held him tight while his old friend finally cried.

Kerney slipped through a group of people waiting outside and walked up the dirt lane. On the plaza, filled with people moving in small groups toward Maria's home, he felt even more like an intruder. Some of the older women were veiled, and several elders were wrapped in ceremonial blankets. All looked at him with sidelong, passive glances. At the front of the police station, the two young tribal officers were in their squad cars, emergency lights flashing. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror. The officers had blocked the plaza with their cars. The pueblo was now closed to outsiders. *** Andy came through with a search warrant, signed by a local judge and delivered to Kerney by a bored city patrol officer who was parked in front of the apartment complex where Eppi Gutierrez lived. Kerney thanked the patrolman, turned down his offer for backup, and went to find the apartment manager. He showed the warrant to the man and learned that Eppi lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. He got the key and directions to the unit.

The complex, on a main throughway of Santa Fe, had been built by an out-of-state developer. Gutierrez's apartment was a string of three boxy rooms on the second floor, the layout dictated by the developer's computer program and slapped up with a few touches to create a cut-rate Santa Fe style. Gutierrez liked his toys: the living room had a big-screen television and a costly rack sound system, the kitchen counter held a variety of expensive gourmet appliances, and the bedroom contained a king-size water bed and a top-of-the-line mountain bike. The bike was against the wall, used as a dirty clothes rack. Kerney tore the place apart systematically. There was nothing taped under the dresser drawers, no incriminating notes in the pockets of clothing, and no coins and letters like those found in Gutierrez's truck. He dug through clothing, shoes, boxes, and papers. The living room, bathroom, and kitchen yielded the same dismal results. Packages in the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets held nothing but food. A high-powered hunting rifle and a set of golf clubs were in the hall closet, just where a burglar would expect them to be. The bathroom, including the toilet tank, held no surprises. What jewelry Gutierrez owned was scattered on the top of the sink counter, in plain view. Either Gutierrez had nothing to hide or he was an expert at concealment. He started over again, reversing the search. He upended the living-room furniture and pulled apart all of the cushions. He dug through the dead ashes of the fireplace, turned over the pictures on the walls, and looked through every book on the bookshelf.

Gutierrez's taste ran from horror novels to popular mysteries. He took one last look around the room, put the couch upright, and sat down in disgust, thinking maybe there was absolutely nothing to find. On the carpet by the overturned lamp table was a stack of unopened mail, mostly bills and advertising flyers. He flipped through the accumulation. One thick envelope had a return address from Gutierrez's office and carried first-class stamps instead of the usual metered imprint government agencies use. He opened it. Inside was a handwritten list on sheets of lined yellow paper. Kerney read it with growing awe.

Rifles, pistols, saddles, uniforms, sabers, holsters-all in quantity and all dated as over a hundred years old. Many were brand-new, according to Gutierrez's estimate. If the list was real, and there was no reason to doubt it, Gutierrez had been moving truckloads of material off the base. He read on. Military clothing: boots, coats and hats, dress uniforms, greatcoats were listed by the dozens, all packed in the original crates. There was enough to outfit several squads of pony soldiers and their horses. The tack list was just as impressive: saddles, halters, bridles, saddle girths and blankets, saddler and blacksmith tools. The inventory went on for pages, written in Gutierrez's compulsively neat script: leather cartridge boxes, forage sacks, waist and saber belts, fatigues and stable frocks, halter chains, gloves, cartridge belts, and spurs. Kerney stopped reading and visualized the cave at Big Mesa. It must have been packed to the ceiling. He returned to the list. Gutierrez had recorded every coin and letter recovered from the truck. Each coin was described by type, denomination, date, and condition. Each letter was summarized by author and subject. The last entry was for another mail pouch. Again, Gutierrez provided a summary of each letter; most of them were from members of the 9th Cavalry to family and friends back home. Gutierrez had added a note in the margin, written with a different pen. It read:

"Delivered to buyer to prove authenticity." Kerney folded the list and put it back in the envelope. Gutierrez had hit a treasure trove; definitely the spoils from at least one Apache raid-maybe more. He couldn't begin to estimate the value, but people paid enormous sums of money for rare historic objects. He needed to get a general idea of the value, just to be sure. The next question was equally simple: where would Gutierrez find the most likely buyer? Probably through a broker, eager to do business with him. It was stuff that museums, universities, and individual collectors would drool over. *** There was no sign of activity at the ranch when Kerney got home. His arrival was greeted by the whinnying of the mustang in the horse barn. It was the lonely sound of a neglected animal. He chastised himself for keeping the horse penned up for no good reason other than his own convenience. He apologized with fresh oats, a clean stall, and some soothing words, which didn't seem to be quite enough. The mustang snorted and turned away. He got a halter from the tack room and slipped it over the animal's head.

"You deserve better," he said, leading him out of the corral. There wasn't going to be any breeding stock on Quinn's ranch for a very long time, if ever. No big deal. It was just another setback. He opened the gate to the north section, where the grass was best and the restored windmill fed clear water into a stock tank. The horse picked up his ears in anticipation. Kerney scratched the mustang's nose and apologized again. Halter off, he wheeled through the gate and galloped into the darkness. Silently he watched until the thought struck him it was time to give the mustang a name. He'd call him Soldier, in honor of Sammy. It wasn't very imaginative, but he hoped Sammy, wherever he was, approved. *** Greg Benton picked the lock to Gutierrez's apartment, flipped on the light, and surveyed the mess. Not good, he thought to himself as he closed the door and eased the semiautomatic out of the pocket of his windbreaker. He did a quick room-to-room search, encountered nothing except more disarray, and left the apartment complex, hurrying quickly to his car. Two blocks away he stopped at a convenience store, dialed a long-distance number, let it ring three times, and disconnected. He repeated the process, got back in his car, an inconspicuous compact rental that was too cramped for his large frame, and headed for the interstate. His mind was racing. It was bad enough that Gutierrez had blown the rendezvous to deliver the merchandise, but now it looked as though Eppi had flapped his mouth and queered the whole gig. Time for damage control, Benton decided, with a tight smile. He held the car at 65 and settled back to think things through. Traffic on the interstate was light. In the distant Jemez Mountains, Los Alamos winked down at Santa Fe. The pinon-studded hills along the right-of-way were filling up with subdivisions, and across the valley, streetlights lined new roads to new neighborhoods outside the city limits. Too much was riding on the deal to let it go sour now. Benton wondered if Eppi had decided to keep the last shipment for himself and do a little freelancing.

A dumb move. But the apartment had been tossed by a pro, probably looking for the goodies. Benton had to find Gutierrez. *** Leonard Garcia smiled warmly at his visitor and had him sit by the window with the nice view of the interior courtyard of the Palace of Governors Museum. The morning sun barely touched the tops of the trees and the robins were undisturbed, yet to be chased off by museum visitors. As a high school senior, Leonard had persuaded a small band of his friends to help him protest the closing of the last drugstore on the Santa Fe Plaza.

Armed with a truckload of cow manure, they waited for the day the new art gallery was to open in what had once been their favorite hangout. In the middle of the night they dumped fresh dung against the entrance and drenched it with gallons of water. It was so much fun they did it again the next night. The daily newspaper carried the escapade as front-page news. It was the talk of the town. It was heady stuff for the anonymous heroes or villains-depending on the point of view. Leonard had plotted a third foray against Santa Fe gentrification and been caught in the act by the man sitting in his office. Leonard owed Kerney one very big favor. Officially, he and his pals were never apprehended.

Kerney took them one by one to their parents and had each boy confess. Punishment was left up to the family. Leonard lost his driving privileges for the summer, which, in turn, resulted in the loss of his girlfriend. For that he was grateful. He might never have started college if Loretta hadn't broken up with him in order to date Roger Gonzales, who, at the time, owned a very fine raked and lowered Chevy. Roger was now paying considerable child support to Loretta for their three children. He asked Kerney what he could do for him.

"You're the only delinquent I know who has a doctorate in archaeology, runs a history museum, and owes me a favor," Kerney replied.

"I'm rehabilitated," Leonard countered. "Anyway, there isn't enough cow shit left in Santa Fe County to cover all the boutiques, galleries, and tourist shops. What can I do for you?" He handed Leonard the inventory.

"Take a look at this." Kerney watched Leonard's eyes widen as he read through the list.

"Is this real?"

"Yes." He read the list again while Kerney waited. Garcia had red hair and classic Castilian features. He could trace his family roots in Santa Fe to the Spanish reconquest of New Mexico. He tapped his finger against the papers.

"This is a major find. One any curator would give his eyeteeth to acquire. If it was purchased intact, I could get the museum foundation to build a new wing to house it."

"How much would you be willing to pay?" Leonard studied the list again.

"On the open market, who knows? It would be a bidding war. If I had an exclusive option, I'd offer three million dollars and probably go as high as four. Maybe more."

"And if the collection was sold piecemeal?" Kerney ventured.

"It would take longer to dispose of it, but you could make even more profit. Add another million," Leonard answered.

"Everything on the list has value. Especially now that anything to do with the frontier west is such a hot commodity among collectors. For example, the letters from Grant and Sherman to General Howard: it's correspondence about Grant's peace policy regarding the Indians. Howard was a crusty, one-armed, pious son of a bitch who served with Grant in the Civil War. His men called him the praying general. Grant made him a presidential emissary. Any presidential correspondence of historical significance commands top dollar. Those letters are even more valuable because they fill in some gaps. Historians would kill to have them. I wouldn't sneeze at the Sherman letters, either. He ranks right up there as an important American personality of the time. The letters alone could bring hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"Thanks, Leonard." Kerney reached across the desk and retrieved the list.

"I'd love to have an opportunity to make an offer. Do you know who the buyer is?"

"Not yet," Kerney replied. "Any ideas where I should look?"

"It depends on the type of buyer. I'm assuming this isn't kosher."

"It isn't." Garcia gazed at the ceiling.

"Unfortunately, it isn't that hard to find unscrupulous dealers. If I was in the market to sell something illegally, I'd lower the risk and ship the merchandise out of the country. Western Americana is a hot item among collectors in the Far East and Europe. Especially the Japanese and Germans. They couldn't beat us in the war, but they sure can outbid us in the marketplace."

"Would that be likely?" Leonard nodded.

"With the quantity and quality of the list, I would say it's very likely. The mega bucks are overseas, and once the items are on foreign soil, the chances of getting caught are almost nil."

"Could an average citizen pull it off?"

"I don't think so. Not without a broker. There are too many complexities to deal with. If your crook isn't an expert in the field, he's going to have to split the profits with somebody who has the right contacts." *** Eddie Tapia felt right at home on the Juarez strip. The gaudy, hot colors of the buildings, the rawness of the streets, the carnival atmosphere of the hustlers, whores, and street urchins, and the smells from the street vendors hawking food to pedestrians combined into one loud pulse of Mexican life. The streets were crowded with drivers playing a mad game of bumper cars. Shills made bilingual pitches along sidewalks, selling fake designer watches and gold jewelry that would turn green within a week. Bars cranked out loud Tex-Mex music to attract attention. The hookers wore dresses that stopped at the ass and pranced around in their spiked heels and cowboy boots working the streets. Open stalls in alleys displayed velvet paintings of Elvis, cheap sombreros, and pin atas Tapia soaked it all up.

The first twelve years of his life he'd grown up in Mexican border towns along the Rio Grande. From Matamoros on the Gulf to Piedras Negras, he moved with his family from job to job. His father, who rebuilt generators, particularly those for prized American-made cars, could always find work. Still, it was necessary for Eddie and his brothers to make money. At the age of five, he became a beggar's apprentice, working for his Uncle Adolfo. Every day Uncle Adolfo put on a harness with a padded hump and transformed himself into a jorobado-a hunchback. To Mexicans the jorobado brought luck. Gamblers, whores, housewives-even the priests-would touch Adolfo's hump for luck and give him money for the privilege. Eddie shilled and sold talisman jewelry.