Under the Color of Law (19 page)

"Let's watch the tapes," Kerney said.

Some of the videos were brief, and none ran over twenty minutes. An ex-Canadian intelligence officer talked about the National Security Agency sending cryptologists to Brazil for an unknown purpose. A former DEA agent revealed that the Joint Military Intelligence College had developed a field-intelligence and drug interdiction curriculum for the Ecuadoran army. A professor of economics explained "dollarization," an effort to persuade Latin American countries to join Panama and Ecuador in adopting U. S. currency as their official legal tender.

A treasury official detailed information about a financial crimes advisory on Panamanian drug-laundering schemes. An expert on international banking summarized the ways in which large sums of money were electronically transferred between foreign and domestic financial institutions.

Kerney quickly ran through the tapes Sloan had previewed and then clicked off the VCR with the remote.

"What do you think, Chief?" Bobby asked.

"I've been thinking about geography," Kerney said.

"Panama, Ecuador, Venezuela, and Brazil. If I'm not mistaken, all of those countries border Colombia. Some political analysts are saying that Colombia could be our next Vietnam. Half of the country is controlled by rebels, including a lot of the coca-growing regions.

Maybe the government is getting all their ducks lined up before they send in the troops. That kind of planning can't be done openly. It would raise too much of a stink here at home."

"A secret trade mission might be the way to go," Sloan said.

"I'd say a major clandestine military and civilian intelligence operation has been launched," Kerney said.

"A trade mission could well be part of that strategy."

"We always seem to come back around to the ambassador," Sloan said. His butt felt numb. He shifted in his chair to ease the discomfort.

"It does seem that way," Kerney said. He straightened the leg with the blown-out knee and rubbed the sore tendons.

Sloan yawned.

"This stuff about banking, money laundering, and international finance may have something to do with cutting off the drug money flowing in and out of Colombia."

"Maybe so," Kerney said.

"Without money the jefes couldn't fund their private armies and pay off the rebel forces they do business with."

"So what did Father Mitchell learn that the government didn't want him to know?"

"That's what we've got to find out," Kerney said.

"Have you dug up any more background about him?"

"A couple of things. Like his brother, Mitchell pulled a tour of duty at Fort Benning. In fact, that was his last post before he retired. He could have probably stayed on active duty if he'd wanted to. I cruised the Internet and learned that army chaplains are in real short supply.

He made some trips back to Benning recently, but I haven't found any documentation by Mitchell about it yet. Maybe something will surface on the audiotapes.

"Mitchell ran up travel expenses of over five thousand dollars in the last three months. You don't have that kind of money to throw around on a retired major's pay, especially if you're sending half your pension to a group called the School of the Americas Vigil Committee. I think somebody helped Mitchell out financially. He made two recent deposits totaling ten thousand dollars."

"Follow the money, Bobby," Kerney said.

"First thing in the morning."

"What's this School of the Americas Vigil Committee all about?"

Sloan swallowed hard and pinched his throat to cut off the bile.

"It's run by a peace and human rights advocacy group. They want the school shut down and refer to it as 'the school of assassins." They say it violates U. S. foreign policy, doesn't promote democracy, and infringes on human rights. If that's true, I can see their point."

"Let's wrap it up," Kerney said, eyeing Sloan's tired face.

"I want you to make a complete copy of everything we've got-the papers, letters, videos, and audiotapes-everything. Do it first thing tomorrow and get it to me. Nothing goes into evidence until I say so."

"You've got it, Chief."

"Tell no one in the department about this," Kerney added.

Sloan nodded.

Kerney helped Sloan pack up. They carried everything downstairs, where library staff were roaming around announcing closing time.

"Remember when this building was city hall?" Sloan asked.

Kerney nodded.

"City hall, the jail, and a fire station combined."

"Doesn't seem that long ago," Sloan said.

"Stop it, Bobby. You're making me feel old. Let me buy you a late dinner."

Sloan rubbed his gut.

"No, thanks, Chief. I've had this gas thing in my gut all day."

Kerney drove through the quiet plaza. The stores were closed, only a few people were out, and traffic consisted of one car turning onto Palace Avenue. Crystal snowflakes drifted slowly past the streetlamps, glistened briefly in the soft light, and then melted away on wet sidewalks. At night downtown Santa Fe still felt like a small town.

After a quick run down Cerrillos Road he dropped Sloan at headquarters and headed home. He couldn't shake the notion that Charlie Perry and Agent Applewhite might be staying on in Santa Fe to monitor the Mitchell homicide investigation. What else was there for them to tidy up? If that proved to be the case, Kerney didn't know how he'd react.

He decided he would have to play it by ear and watch his back as much as possible.

Charlie Perry waited until the lights went out in the second floor room of the public library before stopping the tape recorder. Applewhite pulled out her earphone and shut down the video camera.

"That's it," Perry said.

"We only got half of it," Applewhite said.

In the darkness Perry gave Applewhite a nasty look. After tailing Kerney and the detective to the library and spotting them with binoculars in a second-floor room, he'd hustled to find a way to gain fast entry to the bank office building across the way. Fortunately, the Internal Revenue Service housed criminal-investigation agents in the building, so he'd been able to get in after cooling his heels waiting for the man with the keys.

Perry had called Applewhite as soon as he had a fix on Kerney's location. She'd breezed in well after Charlie had the sensitive long range directional recording equipment up and running. Where she'd been all day and what she'd been doing, Perry didn't want to know.

"This cop may not be as dumb as you make him out to be," Applewhite said.

"Anybody can connect the dots," Perry replied.

"Even Kerney."

"You sound agitated, Charlie," Applewhite said as she lowered the blinds and turned on the lights. Her look reminded Charlie of his second-grade teacher just before she unleashed a scolding.

Perry gave her the finger.

"Calm down, Charlie," Applewhite said, dismissing the gesture.

"All I'm saying is that, based on what we heard, Kerney's deductions are reasonable. But he doesn't have anywhere near the information he needs to figure out what's going on. The last remaining link in the paper trail between Phyllis Terrell and Father Mitchell has been secured."

"You should have been the one to do the job at Brother Jerome's office,"

Charlie said.

"No, I take that back, you would have pistol whipped him."

Applewhite smiled sarcastically and shook her head.

"Let's wrap it up for the night, shall we?"

"What about the evidence Detective Sloan has in his possession?" Perry asked.

"I'll take care of that," Applewhite replied.

"How?"

Applewhite crossed her heart and smiled.

"I promise there will be no pistol whipping, Charlie," she said, although the idea obviously held some appeal.

Bobby Sloan didn't get home until late. After Kerney dropped him at headquarters, he'd decided to get everything duplicated while the building was quiet. That way he didn't have to worry about when he could get to use the copy machine or the other equipment he needed.

Since nothing had yet been entered into evidence, he stowed the copies at the office and carried the originals home.

He stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and slipped into his threadbare terry-cloth robe. It had holes in the armpits and a stain of red wine down the front that had never completely washed out. But Bobby wasn't about to give it up, no matter how much his wife, Lucy, complained about it.

When Sloan got home late he always left the living room lights off and used the small bathroom at the far end of the house so he wouldn't disturb Lucy. He ran the towel over his balding head, brushed his teeth, turned off the light, saw a thin glow seeping under the bathroom door, and silently cursed. He'd woken Lucy up anyway.

He padded down the hall to the living room, ready to apologize, only to find Lucy sitting on the couch in her nightie staring at Special Agent Applewhite with wide, startled eyes.

Applewhite's coat was pulled back behind her holster to expose her semiautomatic. Her FBI credentials dangled from a cord around her neck.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing here?" Bobby asked.

"Official business," Applewhite said, extending the piece of paper in her hand.

"I have an order from a federal judge requiring you to turn over all evidence pertaining to the murder of Father Joseph Mitchell."

Sloan tore the document out of Applewhite's grip, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Citing what legal authority?" he asked.

"Read the order, Detective," Applewhite responded, "and then give me what I came for."

Sloan read the paperwork. Sections of federal laws Bobby had never heard of were cited. It had national security written all over it. The name of the federal judge and the signature looked valid.

"The order has a no-knock provision," Applewhite said.

"But your wife was kind enough to let me in."

"Get screwed," Sloan said.

"First I'm going to call my chief."

"Go ahead, Detective," Applewhite said, looking around the room while Sloan dialed Kerney's number. The couch, a recliner model facing a large-screen television, had a center console designed to hold remote controls and beer cans.

The wall held cheap, poorly matted prints in do-it-yourself frames. A particularly gaudy image showed a bright pink pony grazing in a blue pasture against a sunflower-yellow sky.

"Nice place you've got here," Applewhite said to Sloan's dumpy, chubby-faced wife.

"Fuck you," Lucy replied sweetly.

The phone brought Kerney out of a deep sleep. He listened to what Sloan had to say and told him to resist Applewhite's attempt to take possession of the evidence until he could speak directly with the judge who'd signed the order.

After confirming by phone that the order was valid, he called Bobby back, told him to comply, and hung up fuming.

He sat in the small living room of his South Capitol cottage, stared at the pencil drawing of Hermit's Peak that Sara had given him as a surprise gift just before they were married, and fought down the impulse to roust Charlie Perry out of his hotel bed and bounce him off the wall a few times. That wouldn't accomplish anything.

In a way Perry and Applewhite had done him a favor. Kerney no longer had any doubt that the two homicides were connected. But that certainty failed to cheer him. He was into quicksand up to his neck, confronting an incredibly sophisticated intelligence apparatus with unlimited resources that could easily squash him.

The red light on his answering machine blinked at him. He'd forgotten to check for messages when he got home. He pushed the play button.

Sara had called wanting to know why he hadn't phoned her as promised.

Kerney stared at the telephone. Calling her back would only make him miss her more than he already did. In truth, the relationship felt like a long distance love affair, not a marriage. When they were together, everything was perfect. But he wanted more than just a weekend or two with her every month.

He went into the bedroom, thinking that it would be best to keep Sara in the dark about his current entanglement with the FBI, especially since he now knew for certain he was under surveillance. Applewhite's appearance at Bobby Sloan's house had made that abundantly clear. Was it directed at him alone, or were other members of his investigative staff getting the same treatment?

He looked around the cramped bedroom. What in the hell was he doing still living here when he could easily afford so much more? And what in the hell was he doing running a police department in need of a major overhaul when he could be settled on a beautiful piece of land living the good life of a gentleman rancher with the freedom to spend more time with Sara? A baby was coming. He should feel happy. Instead, he felt crabby.

He turned out the light, got into bed, and fell asleep, still grouchy.

An early riser, Kerney woke before dawn. His grumpiness lingered as he set up the coffeepot and tromped outside to get the morning newspaper.

Through the bare branches of the trees the sky was a quilt of puffy low gray clouds except on the eastern horizon, which slowly flushed vermilion before quickly turning gold and fading away.

He passed by his landlord's house, which faced the quiet street, found the newspaper on the snow-covered walkway, pulled it out of the protective plastic sleeve, and scanned the front page. There was nothing in the headlines that he absolutely needed to know about.

Never a fan of the daily local press-so much of what got reported was yesterday's canned news from other sources-Kerney subscribed anyway, figuring that as chief he needed to stay current on what did filter into it about community issues.

Inside, he sat at the small table in the galley kitchen, drank the one cup of coffee that his shot-up gut could tolerate in the morning, and quickly roamed through the paper. A wire-service report from Red River caught his attention. Randall Stewart, a Santa Fe stockbroker on a skiing vacation with his family, had been reported missing.