“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.”
Ramona put the card in her purse. “I’ll be glad to keep you informed, Chief.”
“It’s not just that,” Kerney said with a smile. “Although I’d appreciate updates. I want you to take a very close look at Spalding’s will and his corporate and personal financial records.”
“According to the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department, they found nothing in Spalding’s will that strengthens our case,” Ramona said.
“This is for a completely different matter,” Kerney said. “Clifford Spalding had a son by his first wife, a boy named George, who ostensibly died while serving in Vietnam. I believe he faked his death, is still alive, and that his father knew the truth and covered it up for over thirty years.”
“Why?” Ramona asked.
“I don’t know,” Kerney said as he slid a manila folder across the desk to Ramona. “But it could have something to do with money.”
Ramona opened the folder, which contained a copy of Kerney’s case notes. “I’m not an accountant, Chief. Wouldn’t it be better to use auditors for this kind of assignment?”
Kerney nodded. “It would, if I wanted a full-scale financial investigation. All I’d like you to do is find out if Spalding or his company had any financial dealings with four people: Debbie Calderwood, who was George Spalding’s teenage girlfriend; Dick Chase, a Santa Barbara police captain; Ed Ramsey, the former police chief; and Jude Forester, a young detective in the department.”
“Cops on the pad?” Ramona asked.
“Possibly. I think you’ll understand my reasoning after you’ve read the file.”
“So much for sneaking in a day at the beach in sunny California,” Ramona said with a smile.
Kerney laughed. “Is your bathing suit packed?”
Ramona grinned, nodded, and got to her feet. “That was wishful thinking on my part, I guess.”
“Go swimming, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” Ramona turned on her heel and left the office.
Kerney lowered his gaze to the desktop, where there were letters to be signed, memos to be read, agendas of meetings to attend, and messages to be returned before he could leave for Virginia.
Kerney put his book aside as the plane taxied for takeoff at the Albuquerque airport. The afternoon summer sky was an unusually low gray blanket of formless clouds that dissolved at the base of the foothills, allowing sunlight to pour down on the mountains east of the city.
Once the plane was airborne, he tried to return to his book, a biography of Benjamin Franklin, but his thoughts were already in Arlington with Sara and Patrick. He had a vivid memory of the Cape Cod-style house where his wife and son would be waiting, and the events that put them there.
He remembered the long cross-country drive in Sara’s SUV with Patrick tucked safely in his infant seat, their arrival in Arlington, and the scramble to find housing within a reasonable distance of the Pentagon.
Sara had thought an apartment would be best, so they toured an area of Arlington known as Crystal City, with high-rise apartments, condominiums, hotels, and malls with trendy stores strung out along a busy thoroughfare.
Many of the apartment and condo rentals had magnificent views that looked across the river and took in the Washington Monument, the long grassy mall, and the Capitol in the distance. Kerney had liked none of them; they were boxy and the rents were totally preposterous.
One evening they left their hotel room with Patrick snug and happy in his carriage and took a walk through a nearby residential neighborhood.
“I don’t know why you’re so dead-set against an apartment,” Sara said as they walked the quiet, hilly streets of older homes with green grass lawns and big trees that towered over them. “Besides, you won’t be spending much time there.”
“Marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, plush carpeting, cedar closets, and city views aside,” Kerney said, “I just wouldn’t be happy back in Santa Fe thinking of you and Patrick living in some high-rise box.”
“Oh, I see,” she said teasingly, “this is all about you. Unfortunately, my basic housing allowance won’t cover anything but a rental.”
“How many real houses have you lived in since you graduated from West Point?” Kerney asked.
“Except for the brief times I’m in Santa Fe, not one,” Sara said as she bent down to give Patrick a quick look, who gurgled in response at the sight of her.
They sauntered around a corner and climbed a small rise where the homes and lots were larger, except for one vacant house at the bottom of the far side of the hill. It was a small brick house with a shingled pitched roof containing a row of second-story gabled windows. The front door, accented with pilasters, was reached by three steps. First-floor casement windows were lined up neatly on either side of the entrance. A FOR SALE sign in the front yard advertised “Immediate Possession.”