"Not yet," Kerney said.
"Maybe it's something you'd rather not tell her."
"That's not true."
"So you say," Clayton replied, as he swung around to leave.
"Thanks again," Kerney said.
"I already told you, I'm not doing it for you," Clayton answered over his shoulder.
"Still, I appreciate it."
"Just don't read anything personal into it, okay?"
"Whatever you say," Kerney replied. He watched Clayton leave, wondering exactly what it was Clayton had tried to tell him. If it wasn't personal, where was the help coming from?
The employee list came with social security numbers and birth dates. Eric Langsford's name was on the books as a groundskeeper. Kerney made a copy and waited for Agent Mary Margaret Lovato to get off the phone.
Mary Margaret had inherited her given names from an Irish grandmother. She was an exceptionally attractive young woman with long jet-black hair, a creamy complexion, and soft brown eyes that hid her toughness. She hung up and started talking before Kerney had a chance to speak.
"That was Drew Randolph, Chief. He just got off the phone with Linda Langsford. He told her about her father's murder. She's cutting short her vacation and coming home right away. He said she was totally stunned by the news."
"Where is she now?"
"Randolph doesn't know. She said she'd get back to Roswell as fast as she can. She should be there this evening."
"Good deal," Kerney said, handing Mary Margaret the employee list. "Get me wants and warrants, plus state arrest and conviction records for all the people on this list. Highlight everybody from Langsford's judicial district."
"This is going to take some time, Chief."
"I know."
Mary Margaret stood up, paused, and bit her lower lip.
"Do you have a question?"
"I just wanted to say that Randy Shockley was an asshole, sir. I attended a training course with him in Albuquerque last year. The man didn't understand the meaning of the word no."
"He came on to you?"
"Big time."
"Did you report it?"
"No, but it was pretty intense."
"The next time you get hit on or harassed by a fellow officer, report it, Agent Lovato."
Mary Margaret laughed. "Would you like a daily or weekly report, Chief?"
"It's that bad?"
Mary Margaret shook her head. "It's mostly harmless stuff. I can handle it."
Kerney studied the young woman. Quiet by nature, Mary Margaret had a self-assurance and no-nonsense style that Kerney liked. "I bet you can. But if it gets out of hand, write it up."
"In a heartbeat." She paused, looked down at her shoes and then back up.
"I hope you don't mind my asking, but is somebody stalking you, Chief? This thing with your unit is getting serious."
"Either that or they're making a statement. I've put Duran on it. Work that list hard for me."
Mary Margaret smiled. "Yes, sir."
Owned and operated by the Mescalero Tribe, the resort and its adjoining casino offered luxury amenities in a lush, tranquil setting. Guest accommodations radiated out from the sides of the main lodge, providing rooms with views of landscaped lawns that ran down to the lakeshore with forested mountains in the background. Vacationers could boat, fish, golf, play tennis, and, of course, drink, dine, and gamble.
At the main lodge, Kerney found the personnel office and met with Wheeler Balatche, Clayton's cousin and the human resources director. Built low to the ground, Balatche was thick through the chest. A droopy eyelid made his face look asymmetrical.
"I remember Eric Langsford," Balatche said, in answer to Kerney's question. "He would be a hard one to forget."
"Why do you say that?"
"He worked here right at the time his father ruled against our casino operation. Nobody knew he was even related to the judge until then. But when Langsford issued his order to close down the casino, Eric went ballistic."
"What happened?"
"Well, first you gotta know Eric. He was one of those Anglos who shows up here and falls in love with Indians. He did everything he could to look like an Apache: grew his hair long, went cowboy, tried to hang out with the tribal members he worked with-that kind of stuff."
"Was he successful?"
"As long as he bought the drinks."
"How did Eric go ballistic?" Kerney asked.
"When the judge issued his ruling, I called a series of staff meetings to reassure everybody that the tribe had filed an immediate appeal that would allow us to stay open, and that nobody was going to lose their jobs. Eri'c got up at the meeting he attended and went into this long harangue about how his father was a racist, and that the workers should take action against him."
"What kind of action?"
"Letters of protest, picketing, a sit-in at the courthouse."
"Did he suggest anything stronger than that?"
"He ranted about how white people practice economic and legal genocide against native people, and how they should be held accountable for their crimes. He wasn't wrong, but it wasn't like we weren't aware of his brilliant political insight. We've lived with it all our lives."
"What did you do?"
"I cut him off, and after the meeting, I fired him. We didn't need a gringo agitator in our midst."
"How did he take getting canned?"
"He got upset. Not with me, but with his father. Went on about how Langsford ruined people's lives and shouldn't be allowed to remain a judge."
"Did he make any specific threats against his father?"
"Not that I can recall."
"At the meetings, did any other employees show an interest in taking political action against the judge?"
"Nope."
"You seem to remember these events with great clarity."
"It was an intense time," Balatche said, "and seeing Eric yesterday jogged my memory. He came in, stoned out of his mind, looking for a job."
Kerney stifled his surprise. "Eric Langsford was here?"
"Yeah."
"Stoned on what?"
"At least booze, and maybe pills."
"I take it you didn't hire him back."
Balatche shook his head. "And not just for being a lush, either. Eric worked here at a time when we employed a lot of Anglos. Now, we don't hire outside the tribe unless we have a shortage or a candidate possesses special skills we need. To be courteous, I let him fill out an application, but I'd never hire him again."
"Did he leave an address?"
"I'm sure he did. My secretary has the paperwork."
"Mind if I take a look?"
"Go ahead."
Eighty road miles south of Ruidoso was the tiny settlement of Pinon.
It boasted a senior center, post office, general store, church, and a few dwellings scattered along a two-lane highway that looped out of the Sacramento Mountains through dry, tree-dotted foothills. To the southeast, a chain of hills sliced down to flats that wandered off in the direction of the Guadalupe Mountains. Windblown dust turned the morning sky a mixture of ivory and aquamarine, and the faraway peaks had a ghostly presence.
Never much of a settlement to begin with, Pinon stayed barely alive because of the dry land area ranchers who controlled the grazing rights on vast tracts of state and federal acreage.
On his job application Langsford had given a Pinon rural route address. Kerney stopped at the general store, asked for directions, and was sent down a paved county road that turned to dirt as it wandered through a draw. He spotted Langsford's van just off the road, parked beside a small house.
Beyond the clapboard hideaway, the weather-beaten remains of a much larger house leaned precariously on its foundation. A skeletal windmill missing blades and a drive shaft stood nearby. An old post-and-wire fence enclosed about ten hard rock acres sprinkled with juniper trees and scrub oak.