“It will be on your desk in the morning.”
A full moon hung in the clear evening sky, shedding a silvery light over the Galisteo Basin and spilling pale shadows across rangeland, low wood-land mesas, and grassy hills.
Kerney’s earlier attempt to locate Jennifer Stover, the woman who’d owned the gallery where Debbie Calderwood’s college roommate once worked, had failed. He was determined, if possible, to find and talk to Stover before calling it a day.
He knew the village of Galisteo well. For a time, he’d worked on the basin as a caretaker of a small ranch while recovering from gunshot wounds, and now he had his own spread on the north lip of it.
Although some of the land near the village had been carved up into residential parcels, most of the surrounding countryside remained open range owned by ranchers who still ran cow-calf operations and cowboyed every day. There were outfits that encompassed ten and twenty thousand acres, but the largest ranch took up almost ninety thousand acres of grassland, canyons, low-slung mesas, and wide sandy creeks that ran west toward the Rio Grande.
Within the private holdings were the remnants of ancient Indian pueblos, petroglyphs etched on massive rock outcroppings, ruins of early Spanish sheep camps, caves with painted pictographs, and abandoned farmsteads rarely viewed by outsiders. Kerney had been fortunate enough to see many of the sites during the times he’d participated in gathering cows on the neighboring ranches during spring and fall works.
A village of several hundred people, Galisteo still retained the look and feel of a Spanish settlement. Tall cottonwoods spread thick branches over high adobe walls, and dirt lanes wound past flat-roofed haciendas and veered away from the deep channel of the small river, in truth no more than a stream, that defined the eastern boundary of the settlement. A small distance beyond the village stood a narrow old highway bridge with concrete railings, and beyond that were the rodeo grounds, consisting of a fenced arena and corrals, where every summer working cowboys from the basin gathered for a weekend of friendly competition.
An adobe church with stone buttresses and rows of narrow, tall windows defined the center of the village, fronting a two-lane state road that crossed the bridge and wandered up grassland hills to Comanche Gap, an ancient route once used by Plains Indians to raid nearby pueblos. Across the road from the church was a small general store with turquoise-blue wood trim, earthy peach plastered walls, and a hand-painted sign that advertized homemade tacos. To the rear of the church, away from the lush tree cover by the river, was a scattering of more modest houses and a cemetery on a rocky knoll.
There were a few businesses in and around the village, but they were not the usual array of gas stations, diners, and motels found in small towns. There was a bed-and-breakfast inn with an excellent restaurant, a riding and horse-boarding stable, an herbalist’s shop, an upscale spa resort, a new age spiritual awareness center, and of course the Stover-Driscoll Gallery, which had to be somewhere nearby.
Kerney stopped at a lighted house behind the church to ask where the gallery was, and was directed to the old territorial-style schoolhouse on the county road that cut west toward the Cerrillos Hills.
Two cars were parked in front, and warm light poured out into the silvery night through the tall, open windows. From deep inside came the soft sounds of a piano sonata. Kerney’s heavy knock on the original double doors brought a quick response by a woman whose expression of anticipation changed to one of surprise.
She was dark-haired with widely spaced eyes and a softly rounded face that matched the attractive curves of her frame. The plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand signaled to Kerney that if she was indeed Jennifer Stover, she had remarried.
“Are you Jennifer Stover?” Kerney asked, after introducing himself.
“I am,” Stover said. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. I thought you were Dennis and Marie.”
“There’s no cause to apologize,” Kerney said. “Have I come at a bad time?”
Stover stepped back and motioned Kerney to enter. “I can spare a few minutes.”
“That’s all I need.”
The inside guts of the schoolhouse lobby had been ripped out, enlarged, and renovated, creating a great room of considerable size that spanned the width of the building. Thick posts and beams had been installed to bear the weight of the roof, a rectangular stone fireplace had been added along one wall, and the old oak floors gleamed with a satiny patina.
A fluffy, overweight cat scurried past Kerney’s feet and out the open door. Five seating areas filled the room, each large enough to accommodate six to eight people, strategically arranged for viewing the artwork on the walls, all of it modern, abstract, large canvases.
“I’m looking for an employee,” Kerney said, “who once worked in your Canyon Road gallery. Her first name is Helen.”
Stover smiled. “Helen Randell is my partner.”
“Can you put me in touch with her?” Kerney asked.
“She’s my partner in life as well as business,” Stover added without hesitation. “Why do you need to speak with her?”
“I’m looking for someone she knew a long time ago, and I hope she might be able to help me.”
“She’s in the kitchen. Follow me.”
Stover led Kerney to a converted classroom off the great room, where Randell stood at a counter in front of a bank of kitchen cabinets. Tall, with curly golden hair, she turned when Stover called her name.
“Who do we have here?” she asked, eyeing Kerney.
“A police officer who is trying to find someone,” Stover replied.
“Has someone we know gone missing?”
“Debbie Calderwood,” Kerney said.
Randell laughed. “Isn’t it odd that you can go for years without ever thinking about or seeing someone and then suddenly they repeatedly reappear in your life, one way or another? Debbie is hardly missing, at least not anymore.”
“You’ve seen her or heard from her?”
Randell nodded. “Less than a month ago, at the opera. I was standing in line at the bar before the performance getting drinks and Debbie was right in front of me. At first I didn’t recognize her, but it was Debbie.”
“You know that for sure?”
“Of course. We talked.”
“What did you talk about?” Kerney asked
“We caught up briefly with each other. She’s living in Calgary, Canada, and is married to a man who runs a philanthropic foundation of one sort or another.”
“Did she tell you her married name?”
“No, we didn’t talk for very long.”
“Was she with her husband?”
“She didn’t say, and I didn’t see anyone with her. She did mention that it was her first trip back to New Mexico since she’d moved to Canada many years ago. From the way she was dressed and the jewelry she wore, she’s been living very well up there.”
“Does the name George Spalding ring a bell?”
“He was her high school boyfriend. In the Army at the time. She didn’t really talk about him much, especially after she got involved in the free speech movement.”
“Did you exchange addresses?”
Randell shook her head. “No. It was a rather awkward encounter. Even though we were college room-mates for a time, we weren’t that close, and Debbie didn’t seem interested in chatting.”
“Would you be willing to work with a police sketch artist so we can create a likeness of Debbie?”
“If it’s important,” Randell said.
Kerney handed Randell his business card. “It is. Call my office in the morning and I’ll set up an appointment for you.”
Randell slipped the card into a pocket of her slacks. “Why are you trying to find Debbie?”
“In order to find someone else,” Kerney replied.
A knock at the front door ended the conversation, but Kerney had learned far more than he’d hoped for. He thanked the women for their time, made his way past their arriving guests, and drove home, eager to call Sara and learn what she might have gleaned from George Spalding’s military records.
In the living room with the dim light of a single table lamp turned down low, in a house almost always much too empty and quiet, Kerney phoned Sara.
“I was hoping you’d call,” she said.
“I wanted to apologize again,” Kerney said, “for being so pushy.”
“There’s no need. What happened yesterday is over and done with, and I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“Like what?
“I’ve just been handed a major project, an important one, and it’s a mess.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“If members of Congress can, I guess I can too. A number of female soldiers from the enlisted and officer ranks have come forward with charges of sexual assaults that have gone unpunished or not yet been brought to courts-martial. They’re claiming shoddy, flawed investigations, unacceptable leniency for offenders, and inadequate victim services.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Worse,” Sara snapped angrily. “Many of them didn’t receive rape kit examinations or treatment for their wounds, evidence wasn’t gathered and collected, and their requests for base transfers to get away from their attackers have been routinely turned down by post commanders. Besides that, instead of receiving appropriate sexual trauma counseling, they’ve been ordered to take polygraph tests, and routinely sent back to work while still suffering from psychological and physical problems.”
Kerney sat in the leather easy chair Sara had picked out for him at a local furniture store and put his feet on the ottoman. “How many victims are you talking about?”
“Over ninety that we know about, but probably a hell of a lot more, worldwide. The post commanders are laying the blame on inadequately trained investigators and medical personnel. Pardon my French, but that’s bullshit. Some of these attacks were brutal, Kerney, and the victims frequently weren’t believed. You should read the case files; they’re gut-wrenching.”
Kerney pulled off his boots and dropped them on the floor. “What is it you have to do?”
“Let me quote. I’m to ‘Prepare a report on readiness to adequately and fully respond to sexual assault complaints, including an analysis of training needs, recommendations for changes to current investigative protocols and procedures, improvement in the coordination of services with Medical Corps personnel, and an estimate of staffing requirements needed to ensure the sufficiency of trained personnel, system-wide.’ ”
“That’s a military mouthful,” Kerney said.
“Don’t make me use my French again,” Sara said. “Instead of writing a report, we should be mounting a full-scale, widespread Internal Affairs operation into each and every one of these cases.”
“You don’t sound too happy with the brass.”
“I’m not. They tried to promote it as a plum assignment, sure to earn me another commendation. But all they really want to do is assuage the politicians and hope the furor dies down.”
“You know that for a fact?” Kerney asked.
“Come on, Kerney, you were an army officer. There are two kinds of orders: the ones that are written down and those that aren’t. In a private conversation, the scope of my assignment has been clearly limited.” Sara’s voice was clipped, filled with frustration.
“Does this mean you’ve hit the glass ceiling?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m not resigning my commission, Cowboy, if that’s what you’re asking. I want to pin eagles on my collar at the very least before I retire to civilian life.”
“And after that, you’ll want your first star.”
“Probably. But let’s not wind our way down that road again. How are you?”
“Ready to see my family,” Kerney said. “Will you have time for me?”
“I’ve got a handpicked team assigned to assist me. I’ll make the time. Don’t worry about that. Have our horses arrived from California?”
“Not yet. They’ll be here next week while I’m with you and Patrick. Riley Burke will look after them until I’m back.”
“I’m ready for a long horseback ride with you under a big sky or a full moon.”
“A night ride sounds romantic,” Kerney said.
“I get to ride Comeuppance.”
“Why do fast women always seem to like fast horses?”
Sara laughed. “You ponder that, Kerney. I’ll see you Friday night.”
“See you then.”
Kerney hung up, went to the kitchen, and fixed a light meal. Although he’d wanted to, he hadn’t asked about the George Spalding investigation. It could wait. Worried about Sara’s predicament, knowing he could do nothing about it, he sat and ate his dinner without enthusiasm.
Chapter 13
R amona Pino often chuckled at television cop shows that were riddled with cliches and misconceptions about police work, dreamed up by writers who, for the most part, obviously didn’t know jack shit about the job. She especially got a kick out of a show that featured a shrink who hung around a police station giving instant psychological insights into suspects and a bombshell babe prosecutor who ran around tidying up flawed police investigations.
She didn’t know any shrinks or prosecutors who did things like that. In the real world, cops did most of the theorizing about suspects and virtually all of the hard grunt work necessary to bring a case to trial.
But this Friday morning, Ramona’s job was bringing her an unexpected bonus that had a bit of California glamor to it. She was being sent to work with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department to wrap up the Spalding homicide case. Her airplane ticket and a per diem check were in her purse. She sat in Chief Kerney’s office with all of her case materials crammed into a soft canvas flight bag at her feet.
“When do you leave?” Kerney asked.
“This afternoon,” Ramona said. “Sergeant Lowrey has offered to put me up.”
“I think the two of you will hit it off.”
“We already have, Chief. She’s meeting me at the Santa Barbara airport.”
Kerney scribbled phone numbers of where he could be reached in Virginia on the back of a business card and gave it to Ramona. “I’ll be at Quantico for the next two weeks, and I want you to do something for me while you’re in California.”