“No wants or warrants?”
Chacon shook his head. “He’s got a clean sheet, a good reputation with other contractors who use him, and requires all his employees to undergo periodic drug screening. I think Griffin made a bogus accusation.”
“What kind of vehicles does Lacy own?” Ramona asked.
“Just one, according to motor vehicles: a late model, midsize, four-wheel-drive pickup truck.”
Ramona pushed back her chair and stood. “Let’s go.”
“Where to?” Matt asked.
“Griffin lied. The toolbox that held the grass fits a full-size truck bed. He just made bail on the harboring charge. We’ve got to find him before he runs.”
To keep himself informed of activities in the field, Kerney often listened to radio traffic while working. He was in his office about to call Alice Spalding and Penelope Parker when a be-on-the-lookout advisory for Mitch Griffin went out, followed by a secure channel broadcast from Ramona Pino alerting dispatch that she and Detective Chacon were on their way to Griffin’s house.
Kerney was certain that Pino and Chacon didn’t know what he’d put into play with Griffin. Did they have fresh information they’d gathered from some other source? Or were they just looking to find him for another round of questioning?
He had half a notion to call Pino for an update, or order her back to headquarters. He passed on both ideas. He thought about tagging along to get a firsthand look at the action, and decided against it, although it certainly wouldn’t be out of character. Instead, he dialed a cell phone number and told the man who answered that Pino and Chacon might be coming his way.
He sat back, wondering what he might have to deal with when Pino and Chacon returned. Because he didn’t run his department by flying a desk in an office, Kerney had built a reputation as a hands-on chief. When time allowed, he liked to get out into the field and watch his officers in action. It reduced the bureaucratic filter between himself and his people.
Occasionally he’d work a patrol or detective shift, pull duty on the Plaza during a major community event, oversee a crime scene investigation, or assist at a DWI checkpoint on a holiday weekend.
He thought back to the event that had established his reputation. During his second week on the job, he’d been driving back to headquarters after a meeting with city hall honchos when a lowered, raked, two-tone ’57 Chevy traveling at a high rate of speed cut him off in heavy traffic on Cerrillos Road. Driving an unmarked unit and wearing civvies because his uniforms weren’t ready, he’d given chase. He forced the driver into a parking lot and put the young Hispanic male facedown on the pavement.
When he approached to do a pat down for weapons, the kid told him he was a city undercover narcotics officer on assignment with the Tri-Country Drug Enforcement Task Force. He carried no credentials, and was dressed like a gangbanger in baggy jeans, an oversized baseball shirt, and expensive athletic shoes.
Kerney questioned the kid, who rattled off the name of his supervisor and said he was on his way to a drug buy at a city park. Unconvinced, Kerney asked dispatch to send a patrol supervisor to his location ASAP, and left the young man spread-eagled with his hands clasped at the back of his head in full view of traffic on Cerrillos Road.
A patrol supervisor rolled up within minutes. The sergeant took one look at the kid on the pavement, killed his emergency lights, and approached Kerney, trying hard not to smile.
“Chief,” the sergeant said, “I see you’ve met Officer Aragon. What was he doing?”
“Speeding, reckless driving, and public endangerment,” Kerney said.
“Okay,” the sergeant said slowly in a voice loud enough for Aragon to hear. “Then I think I’d better pretend to arrest him, otherwise we might blow his cover. He’s an undercover narcotics officer, you know.”
Kerney tried to keep a straight face. “So he said.” He watched the sergeant cuff Aragon, pull him upright, and put him in the backseat of his unit. After a brief exchange of words, the sergeant closed the door and returned.
“Thanks for your help,” Kerney said, trying not to look sheepish.
“Sure thing, Chief,” the sergeant said cautiously. “You do know that only uniformed officers in marked units are authorized under state law to enforce the motor vehicle code and write traffic citations.”
“I do know that,” Kerney said flatly. “What did Officer Aragon have to say for himself?”
“Except for being worried that he started out on the wrong foot with the new chief, Officer Aragon said he doesn’t mind that you busted him. He thinks it will give him credibility with the gang-bangers he’s infiltrated.”
“Tell him I was glad to be of help,” Kerney said, “and to slow it down.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll give him the word.” The sergeant eyed Kerney cautiously. “Technically, I should record this incident in my log and dailies.”
“Write it up, Sergeant,” Kerney replied. “There’s no reason for both of us to be rule breakers.”
The sergeant smiled with relief.
“Don’t embellish the story too much, Sergeant.”
The sergeant’s smile changed to a grin. “There’s no need for that, Chief.”
As Kerney expected, news of the incident had spread like wildfire throughout the department, creating a lot of amused head shaking among the troops about their new chief.
Kerney returned his thoughts to Sergeant Pino. It was quite likely she’d come looking for him with blood in her eye if she happened to encounter DEA Special Agent Evan Winslow.
He called Penelope Parker, hedged a bit on the details, and told her he had some indication that George Spalding might not have died in Vietnam.
“Oh, Alice will be so happy to hear that,” Parker replied, a pleased lilt to her voice. “Will you be coming out here to do more investigating?”
“I doubt it,” Kerney said. “I need to know where George is buried.”
“At the Fort Bayard National Cemetery in New Mexico,” Parker said. “At least what could be found of him.”
“Meaning what?”
“The bodies had basically been incinerated in the crash. Identification was made primarily by dog tags, remnants of uniforms, and dental records.”
“Who supplied the dental records? The military or the family?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were all the victims’ identities verified?” Kerney asked.
“You’re asking me for information I don’t have,” Parker replied. “Remember, this happened long before my time. I do know that after the divorce, Alice wanted George’s remains disinterred so that a DNA test could be made. She wanted to use the latest technology to prove that he was still alive. But Clifford stopped it by getting a judge to rule that both parents would have to agree to the exhumation.”
“Who was the judge?”
“I don’t remember his name, but he was located in Silver City, New Mexico, near the cemetery where George was buried. I typed all the original correspondence. Alice’s lawyer should have the particulars.”
“I’ll need those,” Kerney said. “Would Alice be willing to resubmit a request to disinter the body and also provide a DNA sample for comparison purposes? A simple cotton swab for saliva inside her mouth should be all that’s required.”
“I’m sure she’ll want to cooperate.”
“Give me her lawyer’s name and phone number and I’ll get the ball rolling.”
“How quickly do you plan to act?” Parker asked, after reading off the information.
“I’d like to move fast and get the skeletal remains tested and compared to Alice’s DNA as soon as possible,” Kerney replied. “We can use a private lab in Albuquerque to do the analysis. How soon can you get Alice in for a mouth swab?”