Finally, De Leon spoke.
"I did not think Kerney would be so easy to kill."
"I could not determine if the old man is dead," Carlos said.
"The police arrived too quickly. Ramon may also be alive."
"Ramon is dead and Fletcher Hartley is alive," De Leon said as he concentrated on the intricate elements of the statue.
The statement came as no surprise to Carlos. The jefe frequently had important information at his disposal within a very short period of time.
"You are not dismayed?" Carlos asked.
De Leon placed the bulto on the desktop.
"The most important goal of killing Kerney was accomplished.
The loss of the team is of no consequence. None of them can be traced to me. They were men without identities. Did you enjoy your assignment?"
"It gave me great pleasure, patron."
"I am glad." De Leon waved a hand in the direction of the compartment door.
"You are sweating heavily, Carlos. This fear you have of flying makes your smell intolerable. Go have a drink, relax, and ask Our Lady of Guadalupe to carry you safely home."
Carlos nodded apologetically and left.
Enrique turned his attention back to the wooden statue. It was beautifully fashioned and wore an elaborate blue-colored robe. A gesso over the wood smoothed out the figure, and tempera paints created a creamy flesh tone to the face and hands. The woodcarver had added arched eyebrows and wide, staring eyes. The circular base contained a filigree of delicate flowers and stems.
The unknown New Mexico artist had followed the Spanish tradition of Grafting an esplendor-a rayed nimbus of gold prongs-around her head, which made the statue exceedingly rare.
De Leon estimated the piece to be three hundred years old. A treasure, he thought. It would add much to the chapel at his hacienda. flbtcher's studio was the only room in the house not overflowing with cops, medical examiners, and crime scene technicians. He sat in a paint-splattered armchair in front of an easel that held an unfinished painting of fluttering magpies alighting on a tree branch. He had a thousand-yard stare in his eyes and a drained, empty expression.
Kerney stood by quietly.
"Did you see Gilbert?" Pletcher finally said.
"Yes."
"His face is gone." Pletcher shuddered slightly at the thought.
"Yes."
"Who will tell his parents?"
"It will be taken care of."
"He has a wife. Do you know her?"
"No," Kerney answered.
"I don't."
"And children. Two girls."
"I know."
"I have his blood all over me. Why did this happen, Kevin?"
"Because of my stupidity."
A plainclothes officer holding a notebook knocked at the studio door and stepped inside.
"What is it?" Kerney asked.
"The police chaplain wants to know if Mr. Hartley would like to see him." He smiled sympathetically in Pletcher's direction.
Pletcher shook his head.
"Send him away," Kerney said.
"I need to take Mr. Hartley's statement," me officer added.
"Do it tomorrow," Kerney replied.
The officer nodded, turned on his heel, and retreated.
"I can't stay here tonight," Fletcher said.
"We'll find you a place."
"No need. I'll make arrangements with friends.
Someone will take me in. Why do you blame yourself for Gilbert's death?"
"Because the men who came here wanted to kill me, not Gilbert."
"I don't understand."
"I'll tell you about it later. Let's get you ready to go.
You need to clean up and change your clothes."
Pletcher nodded sluggishly, got to his feet, and tried to pull himself together. An expression of self-loathing crossed his face. He looked at Kerney and shook his head as color rose on his cheeks.
"What's wrong?"
"I started worrying about die mess that needed to be cleaned up. Isn't that crass of me?"
"Not at all."
"I think it is."
Kerney stayed with Fletcher until the body in the hallway had been removed, and Fletcher could get to his bedroom without distraction.
Fletcher made telephone arrangements to stay with a friend, picked out some fresh clothes from the closet, placed them under his arm, and walked toward the bathroom. He paused at the door.
"I may stay away for a while," he said.
"There will be officers posted here round-the-clock, while you are gone and after you return."
"Thank you." in the hallway, near a pool of blood on the floor under the shattered frames of the Peter Hurd lithographs hanging on the wall that had been damaged by Rasmussen's shotgun blast, Kerney corralled an officer.
He asked the uniform to keep Pletcher sequestered and get him quietly out of the house without fanfare.
"Wait until the reporters are gone," he added.
Crime scene tape blocked Kerney's passage into the dining room. A technician working near the bodies by the kitchen archway bagged and tagged spent shell casings and empty ammunition dips. Blood stained the carpet and walls near the bodies. A photographer took pictures of the corpses.
Kerney could see into the kitchen. Bullet holes riddled the pantry next to the passageway, and the garage door had taken sustained heavy fire. Outgunned and outnumbered, Gilbert had put up one hell of a fight.
Outside, the driveway had been cordoned off and the garage door was open. Portable gas-operated klieg lights washed away the night.
Officers and technicians swept the grounds, searching for additional evidence.
Inside the garage, Pletcher's car looked as though it had been attacked by a heavy-weapons squad. The windows were shattered and dozens of bullet holes pierced the vehicle. A storage shelf had been strafed, and paint and solvent from demolished cans dripped onto the bloodstain on the concrete pad- Gilbert's body had been moved to an ambulance.
Kerney looked inside the open doors. The body bag was zipped shut.
Without thinking, Kerney reached in and gently touched Gilbert's leg.
He pushed away the thought that he was the one who needed some consolation, not Gilbert.
At the entrance to the lane, television crews stood in a semicircle around Andy, their camera-mounted lights raw beacons in the night.
Kerney checked by radio with the hospital on Officer Rasmussen's condition while he waited for Andy to finish with the media. An ER nurse reported that Rasmussen required surgery, but a full recovery was expected. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise terrible night The camera lights went dark and Kerney spotted Andy coming down the lane toward the house. He met him halfway.
"Thank God, that's over," Andy said.
"Do you want me to notify Gilbert's wife?" Kerney asked.
Andy paused momentarily.
"I'll do it. Do you know what pisses me off, Kerney?"
"What's mat?"
"I don't even know her name. What does that tell you?"
"I don't know her name, either."
"That makes us both shitheads. Will you be able to tie the hit men to De Leon "I don't think De Leon is that sloppy. But I'll find a way to get to him."
"Squeeze Bucky Watson," Andy said.
"I plan to, just as soon as I get all my ducks lined up." agent Joe Valdez sat in the conference room and watched Kerney read through the file on Matador Properties. Kerney had called Joe at home and pulled him back to the office without explanation. He had heard about Gilbert's murder from the radio traffic on his drive to headquarters, and the news had stunned him into an angry silence.
His silence didn't matter; Chief Kerney wasn't asking any questions or talking. He had his elbows on the table, fingers at his temples, head lowered, and his eyes focused on Joe's paperwork- His mouth was a hard, thin line. He finished reading, closed the file, and looked up.