“What did he see that led him to that conclusion?”
“A cozy tent for two and no sign of any other riders entering the trailhead during the last three days.”
“Interesting,” Kerney said. “Where’s Mrs. Spalding now?”
“Still in the mountains,” Andy replied. “The officer just called in his report. He said she had a good three-hour ride before she would get back to where their horse trailer is parked.”
“Did he say how Spalding reacted to the news of her husband’s death?” Kerney asked.
“Yeah, tears, shock, and surprise.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Larry Otero has Ramona Pino checking out this Dean guy.”
“Good. Has the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department been informed?”
“They will be as soon as we hang up and I give my people the go-ahead to make the call.”
“I’m staying over an extra day,” Kerney said.
“Why? If something is fishy, the focus of attention should be on this guy Dean, not you.”
“You’re probably right,” Kerney said. “But just to satisfy my curiosity, I’ll give it another day. I don’t want this situation biting at my heels back in Santa Fe.”
“Okay. Try to stay out of any more trouble while you’re there,” Andy added with a chuckle.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kerney said.
“See you when you get home.”
Kerney disconnected, walked into the motel office, and paid for a room. As he left with the key, he had half a thought to call Sara and tell her what was going on, and decided against it. Better to wait until things got sorted out.
He dumped his overnight bag on the double bed, and looked around the plain room. Cheap salmon-colored drapes adorned with seashells and sea urchins covered the window, and a faded print of a sailboat in a plastic frame was screwed into the wall over the bed. On a small desk was a pile of brochures for the major local tourist attractions.
He hadn’t eaten all day, which was more than enough of an excuse to leave the dreary room, get a meal, and come back only when it was time to sleep.
Chapter 3
K erney ate a light meal on the patio of a State Street restaurant where a blues band entertained appreciative patrons, and then went looking for the Spalding estate in Montecito. All the houses in the neighborhood hid deep within their grounds behind privacy walls, mature trees, and hedges. Only here and there could Kerney glimpse the partial outline of a roof or facade through the treetops or a gateway.
He found the estate on the road to a private college in the hills, protected by a ten-foot-high stone wall with three gated entrances, one for the owners and their guests, one for staff, and another for service and deliveries.
He stood in front of the ornate wrought iron gate at the delivery entrance and pushed the intercom button. Beyond the gate, all he could see was a tree-lined driveway that wound through a forestlike setting. After waiting a few minutes with no reply, he pushed the button again. Finally a young man in a golf cart drove down to meet him. He wore damp swimming trunks and a cotton T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms. Wet black hair drooped over his forehead.
Kerney showed the man his shield and asked if he might speak to someone about Mr. Spalding’s recent travel itinerary.
“Why do you want to know about it?” the man asked.
“Has Mr. Spalding been in Santa Fe during the last few days visiting his wife?” Kerney asked.
The man shook his head. “I can’t answer that. Everyone who works here has to abide by a confidentiality agreement not to discuss anything about Mr. and Mrs. Spalding.”
The man stepped closer to the closed gate and eyed Kerney’s rental car. “That’s not a cop car. Let me see that badge you showed me again.”
Kerney held his badge case up so the man could look closely at his official ID.
“You’re from New Mexico,” the man said, studying the ID carefully, “and a police chief to boot. What are you doing here asking these questions?”
“Do you know a man named Kim Dean?” Kerney asked. “Perhaps he’s a friend of the family from Santa Fe who has visited here.”
“Never heard of him. What’s this about?”
“Mr. Spalding is dead,” Kerney said.
The man blinked and looked shocked. “What happened?”
“We’re not sure what caused his death,” Kerney said. “Has he been to Santa Fe recently?”
“No, not in the last two months.”
“You know that for certain?”
“Yeah, he left his prescription medication behind, or lost it, or something. Sheila, his personal assistant, had to get a pharmacy in Santa Fe to fill it.”
“He had a medical problem?” Kerney asked.
“Graves’ disease,” the man said. “It’s a thyroid condition.”
“Other than that, was his health generally good?” Kerney asked.
“Well, he’s been complaining about blurred vision and not sleeping well recently. Does Mrs. Spalding know about this?”
“She does,” Kerney said. “I expect she’ll get here as soon as she can.”
The man suddenly shut down. “Where did he die?” he asked suspiciously.
“In Paso Robles, at a quarter-horse ranch.”
His expression cleared. “That’s where he was going this weekend. What have you got to do with it?”
“I was at the ranch when it happened,” Kerney said, thinking it might be best to stretch the truth a bit. “Since Mrs. Spalding lives in my jurisdiction, I’m assisting with the inquiries. Is Sheila here? I’d like to talk to her.”
The man shook his head. “She’s off for the weekend, down in L.A.”
“An officer may want to speak with her,” Kerney said.
“I’ll call her on her cell and let her know what’s happened.”
“Was Mr. Spalding in residence before he left for Paso Robles?”
“No, he hasn’t been at home for two weeks. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Since we’re not sure of the cause of death, it’s important to know where he’s been,” Kerney replied, making it up as he went along. “He may have been exposed to a virus, or had food poisoning, or become infected on his travels, especially if he was out of the country. But the proper tests can’t be conducted unless we know his itinerary.”
The man nodded as though Kerney’s answer made good sense. “He was visiting several of his hotel properties. One in Mexico, and several in British Columbia. Sheila would have his exact itinerary.”
“Good,” Kerney said. “But the name Kim Dean doesn’t ring a bell?”
“No. The only person from Santa Fe who has been here as a guest is a neighbor of Mrs. Spalding’s, a woman named Nina Deacon. She’s visited five or six times.”
“Thank you for your time,” Kerney said.
“That’s it?” the man asked.
“For now,” Kerney answered. “If there are more questions, you’ll probably be hearing from a Sergeant Lowrey.”
On the short drive back to Santa Barbara, Kerney called Santa Fe and left a message for Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino to contact him as soon as possible. On State Street, near the pier, he stopped at a bicycle rental store and asked a clerk how to get to police headquarters.
Following the clerk’s directions, he continued along State Street, turned on Figueroa, and found the police headquarters building sandwiched between the old county courthouse and two small, somewhat run-down 1920s cottages, apparently rental units, in need of fresh coats of paint. They were the first houses he’d seen in Santa Barbara that didn’t look picture-perfect. In an odd way, Kerney was pleased to see them after driving through so much opulence. Maybe some real, ordinary working people lived in the city after all.
He drove by the two-story headquarters building. A series of steps with landings leading up to the front entrance were bordered by carefully tended, terraced planting beds. On the second landing a large tree towered above a flagpole where an American flag fluttered in a slight breeze. The building was white with a slightly slanted red tile roof, and two rows of rectangular windows ran across the front, their symmetry broken only by an arched, recessed entry.
Kerney figured the public access door would be locked on the weekends, so he parked and walked to the back of the building where he found the staff entrance. He pressed the bell and held his shield up in front of the video camera mounted above the door.
A uniformed officer wearing sergeant stripes on his sleeves opened up and inspected his credentials. “You’re a long way from home, Chief,” the sergeant said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak to Captain Chase,” Kerney said.
“He doesn’t work on weekends unless he’s called out.”
“Can he be contacted?” Kerney asked.
“Is this important?” the sergeant asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” Kerney replied.
“Let me see if he’s home.” The sergeant stepped aside to let Kerney enter and led him down a corridor past a line of closed doors, around a corner, and into an empty bullpen office filled with standard issue gray desks, file cabinets, and privacy partitions that defined work cubicles for investigators.
The sergeant got on the horn to Chase, explained that he had a police chief from Santa Fe who needed to see him, and turned the phone over to Kerney.
Kerney gave Chase a rundown of the events that had brought him down to Santa Barbara.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Chase growled. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few. Wait for me in my office.”
Chase’s office was also standard issue: a desk, several chairs, a file cabinet, a desktop computer, and the usual personal and cop memorabilia displayed on the bookshelf and the walls. Kerney spent his time waiting reading a back issue of the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin that featured a cover article on criminal confessions. Through the window he could see the sky darkening into dusk. He was almost through the article when a burly man with a day-old beard and a broad face stepped into the open doorway.
“So Clifford Spalding is dead,” the man said with a rueful smile. “God help me. Now I’ll never get his ex-wife off my back.” He offered his hand. “Dick Chase.”
Kerney set the bulletin aside, stood, grasped Chase’s hand, and introduced himself.
“So, is this a homicide?” Chase asked as he settled into the chair behind his desk.
“Possibly,” Kerney said, “possibly not.”
Chase grunted. “That clarifies things. What brings you into it?”
Kerney decided to level with Chase. “For now, it appears that I’m a person of interest to the investigation.”
“You’re a suspect?” Chase asked as he gave Kerney a hard, sideways look.
“Not yet,” Kerney replied. “I’m trying to extricate myself from that possibility.”
Chase leaned back in his chair, his tight smile showing no teeth. “You’d better lay it all out for me.”
Kerney told Chase about his reasons for coming to California and his early morning discovery of Spalding’s body at the ranch. He emphasized that Claudia Spalding had been in the company of a man on a remote, high country trail-riding trip when notified of her husband’s death, and finished up by summarizing the conversations he’d had with Alice Spalding and Penelope Parker. He deliberately skipped over his visit to the Spalding estate.
He put Sergeant Lowrey’s business card on the desk. “That’s the San Luis Obispo sheriff’s deputy who’s handling the inquiry,” he said. “Give her a call, Captain, and get her side of the story.”
Chase nodded. “Wait out in the bullpen, and give me a few minutes.”
Chase closed the door behind Kerney and spent a good ten minutes on the phone with Lowrey. When he reappeared he didn’t look too happy. He motioned for Kerney to enter.
Kerney’s cell phone rang as he sat.
“It’s Sergeant Pino, Chief,” Ramona said when he answered.
“What have you learned about Kim Dean?” he asked.
“He’s a divorced father of two. The ex-wife and kids reside in Colorado. He’s a pharmacist and the owner of one of those franchise pharmacies. He’s got a house in Canada de los Alamos and keeps a couple of horses. The neighbors say Claudia Spalding’s vehicle is frequently parked at his house overnight.”
“Find and talk to a friend of Claudia Spalding’s named Nina Deacon,” Kerney said. “She lives in Spalding’s area. Learn what you can from her about Dean’s relationship to Spalding.”
“Will do. Anything else, Chief?”
“Who’s working with you?”
“Russell Thorpe.”
Thorpe was a young, capable state police officer Kerney knew personally through his involvement in several major felony cases.
“Good. Check your facts carefully,” he said, hoping Ramona and Thorpe would get the hint and sit on what they’d learned for a little while.
“Will waiting thirty minutes before we pass on the information do?” Ramona asked.
“Perfect,” Kerney said, then disconnected and looked at Chase. “Well?” he asked. “What did Sergeant Lowrey have to say?”
“You’ve pissed her off, big-time,” Chase said flatly, “and frankly, I’m feeling that you’ve put me in an awkward situation. I don’t know whether to hold you for questioning or let you walk.”
“I’m not going anywhere for a while,” Kerney said. He gave Chase the name of the motel where he’d rented a room. “What did Lowrey tell you?”
Chase ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. “You know the drill: no details or information gets released to potential suspects or targets of investigation.”
“Fair enough,” Kerney replied. “Can you talk about Alice Spalding and her search for her missing son?”
“That I can do,” Chase said with a small, derisive laugh. “There is no missing son. George Spalding was killed in a helicopter accident in Vietnam near the end of the war. He was a military policeman transporting one of the last prisoners from the stockade at Long Binh when the chopper went down. Both Spalding and the prisoner were killed in the crash.”
Kerney knew about the Long Binh Jail, located on a U.S. Army base near Bien Hoa, twenty miles north of Saigon. The troops referred to it contemptuously as the LBJ, for Lyndon Baines Johnson, the president who’d escalated the war through deceit, misinformation, and lies.