“Have you checked with his ex-wife in Colorado?” Claudia asked. “She constantly calls Kim to come and deal with his son when the boy acts out. The child has serious behavior problems.”
“That’s good to know,” Ellie said. “Where else might he have gone?”
“I have no idea,” Spalding said.
Ellie looked meaningfully at the guesthouse. “Would he be coming here?”
“No,” Claudia said emphatically.
Ellie stared hard at Spalding. “If you know where he is and refuse to tell me, you can be charged as an accessory to murder.”
Spalding waved her hand in annoyance. “You must be joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Then tell me what in the world makes you think Kim killed Clifford.”
“I can’t go into that, Mrs. Spalding.”
“Well, whatever your reasons, it’s all absurd.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Kim isn’t a violent person by nature. He’s very low-key. Calm and easygoing.”
“Why did you go to Dean’s pharmacy immediately after you picked up your husband’s thyroid prescription?” Ellie asked.
Claudia’s eyes turned angry. “I’ll answer your silly question and then you must leave. It’s the only store in Santa Fe that carries the perfume I use. Kim stocks it especially for me. Now, I have a funeral to arrange and a husband to bury. If you have any more questions, speak to my lawyer. Please wait here; Sheila will show you out.”
Ellie watched Spalding move across the patio and into the house. Was Dean a bully who, according to Ramona Pino, browbeat his employees? Or a low-key, pussycat kind of guy, as Claudia Spalding characterized him? The steel inside Claudia Spalding made Ellie doubt the woman would be attracted to a subservient man. But anything was possible. Maybe Spalding was a closet dominatrix.
Ellie tried to visualize Claudia Spalding cracking a whip while wearing spike-heel boots and leather. The idea of it almost made her laugh out loud.
Sheila, the woman who’d escorted Ellie to the patio, arrived and guided her back through the house. Along the way, Ellie learned that Clifford Spalding’s corporation was headquartered in Los Angeles, at Century City, and that Spalding had been in his office briefly the same day he’d driven to the horse ranch in Paso Robles.
Tomorrow, Ellie started her days off. She decided a trip to LA was in order.
The afternoon sunlight drenched the mountains with a golden hue. Cramped from sitting on the floor digging through boxes of junk, Ramona stood, bent over, touched her toes, and stretched. Behind her, Detective Matt Chacon was on his hands and knees with a flashlight trying to fish something out from behind the back of one of the built-in cabinets. Paul Austin, the other detective, was labeling Baggies filled with samples spooned from the various containers for analysis.
“Let’s wrap it up,” Pino said. “We’ll take everything we’ve got to the lab and see what they can make of it.”
“What some folks won’t do to commit murder,” Chacon said with a grin as he got to his feet, holding a dusty, white pharmaceutical packet in his hand. He shook it gently. “It’s got stuff in it.”
“Bag it, tag it, load everything up, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Ramona said, grinning back at Chacon.
Kim Dean was still on the run and, according to Ellie Lowrey, apparently not in hiding at the estate in Montecito. Even with that bit of bad news, Kerney finished up his day at the office feeling good about the progress of the investigation. Thanks to the evidence found at Dean’s house, they now had a much stronger case. Not perfect enough to go un-challenged by a good defense attorney, but compelling nonetheless.
Claudia Spalding’s possible involvement still bothered Kerney. He hoped that once Dean was in custody he’d provide some answers.
Earlier, Kerney had hand-delivered a copy of his transcribed Spalding notes to Agent Joe Valdez and explained his suspicions. Joe agreed to delve into Clifford Spalding’s business and financial dealings in New Mexico as his time allowed, and report back.
A check of public records on the Spaldings and Debbie Calderwood was proceeding. Kerney didn’t expect too much to come from it, but sometimes routine sources yielded valuable information.
The second-floor administrative suite was empty when Kerney left headquarters. He spent a minute chatting with a gang unit detective in the parking lot before heading out to Arroyo Hondo where Claudia Spalding lived. As far as Kerney knew, only one neighbor, Nina Deacon, had been interviewed, and he wanted to see who else might know something about Claudia Spalding and Kim Dean.
Tucked out of view from the highway, Arroyo Hondo contained the ruins of an old pueblo owned by the Archeological Conservancy, and a nearby parcel preserved as open space. The land away from the arroyo was a semirural residential area of ten-and twenty-acre tracts populated by a well-to-do horsey set. Houses, paddocks, corrals, and barns speckled the fenced pastures and pinon-juniper woodlands that flowed down from the foothills.
Kerney found the driveway to Spalding’s house on Laughing Pony Road and paid visits to the closest neighbors on either side. Nina Deacon wasn’t at home, and the people he talked with only knew Claudia Spalding casually and weren’t acquainted with Kim Dean at all. No one told him anything of value.
He drove away from the last house ready to pack in his impromptu canvass, go home, and call Sara. Up the road he saw a pickup truck turn into Spalding’s driveway. He followed and found an older Hispanic man unloading hay bales from the bed of his truck parked next to the horse barn.
“Mrs. Spalding isn’t here,” the man said as Kerney got close.
“I know,” Kerney said, displaying his shield. “Who are you?”
“Sixto Giron. Is there trouble?” Giron dropped a hay bale on the ground and brushed off his dusty shirt. He had a heavily wrinkled face and a guileless manner.
“No trouble,” Kerney said. “Do you work for Mrs. Spalding?”
“Yes, part-time. A few hours now and then every week, and I look after the horses when she is gone.”
“What about Nina Deacon?”
Giron nodded. “Same thing. She’s also out of town, judging a horse show in Canada.”
“Do you know about Mr. Spalding’s death?”
“Yes, Mrs. Spalding called and told me. That’s why I’m here.”
“Tell me about Kim Dean.”
“I work for him also, when he needs me. Mostly I haul away manure, or bring fresh straw for the stalls. He does most of the other work himself.”
“What can you tell me about his relationship with Mrs. Spalding?”
Giron shrugged. “Not much. They trail ride together, usually on weekends. Sometimes I see him visiting here, sometimes Claudia is at his house. They’re good friends.”
“Do they have a favorite place to trail ride?” Kerney asked.
Giron pushed his cap back and scratched above his ear. “They like to take the horses on some property Dean owns up on the Canadian River. He bought canyon land that doesn’t have a right-of-way road access to it, so he got it for real cheap.”
“Where is it, exactly?” Kerney asked.
“I don’t know. But Tito Perea, my primo, does. Kim hired him to pack in some building supplies so he could fix up an old cabin. Tito made four or five trips with his mules two summers ago.”
“How can I reach Tito?”
“He lives in Pecos, but he isn’t home. He’s outfitting for a group of turistas who are riding in the mountains for a week.”
“I bet Tito has a cell phone,” Kerney said.
Giron laughed at himself. “I forgot. He gave me the number, but I never use it.” He pulled out his wallet, and read off Tito’s cell phone number.
Kerney helped Giron unload the hay before he left. It was too late in the day to have anyone go looking for Dean on the Canadian. Northeast of Santa Fe, the canyon lands were a place with few roads, bad trails, quicksand, twisting gorges, and dangerous rimrock passages.
If he could contact Tito Perea tonight and get directions, he’d call the Harding County sheriff in the morning and ask him to check out Dean’s cabin.