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  The sprinklers were on, pumping fine streams of water in arches over the golf course, and the grass glistened in the soft light from a hazy sun. As he parked and walked toward the entrance, Gilbert wondered what bureaucratic idiot had approved such a waste of water. Arid New Mexico survived on groundwater and snowpack runoff; it was not a commodity to be wasted on a rich man's playground.

  Before he reached the entrance, the door opened and a stylish woman in her late forties stepped out to meet him. Her blond hair was carefully curled and tinted. She wore a long Santa Fe-style dress that accentuated her trim figure and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. She held a cellular telephone in her hand.

  "I'm afraid we're closed today," she said, before Gilbert could introduce himself.

  "I need to speak to the concierge," he replied.

  "I'm the concierge," the woman replied with a casual glance at Gilbert's badge and ID.

  "I can't talk to you right now. I'm very busy."

  "I'd like to ask you about the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum benefit event held here last month."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Who attended the function?"

  "I'm sorry, I can't help you."

  "Don't you keep a guest list?"

  "Of course we do. But this is a private club. We don't release any information without the permission of the board of directors."

  "Your cooperation would be helpful," Gilbert replied.

  "Could you bend the rules this time?"

  "Certainly not," the woman said.

  "If you want access to any information, you'll have to talk to our legal counsel. If your request is approved, I'll be glad to cooperate with you."

  "And who is that?"

  "Cobb, Owens, and Mackintosh."

  "Is there anyone else besides your lawyers who might be able to help me?"

  "The staff at the Museum of New Mexico Foundation co-sponsored the event and sent out invitations to their members. You might want to talk to them."

  "Would they have a complete list of all the guests?"

  "Only the museum foundation members, I would imagine," the woman said.

  "A blanket invitation went out to all Rancho Caballo residents through our monthly newsletter."

  "I'm particularly interested in talking to a gentleman with a Hispanic surname. Supposedly, he owns a home here. He may be Spanish or Mexican." Gilbert consulted his notebook and read off the description Prank Bailey had provided him.

  "Do you know anyone like that?"

  "As I said before, I'm afraid I can't help you."

  Gilbert got the concierge's name, thanked her, and walked back to his car. Nothing about this case seemed to come easy. He checked the time. First, he would try the two women Roger Springer had admitted taking on late-night tours of the Roundhouse. He had been unable to reach either of them yesterday. After that, he would stop at the county assessor's office and get a listing of who owned lots and homes in Rancho Caballo.

  He doubted that too many Hispanic surnames would pop up on the tax records for the subdivision. gilbert's interviews with the women confirmed Roger Springer's account of impromptu, innocent after hours tours of the governor's suite. But Gilbert came away with the sense that he'd heard a canned, rehearsed story from each woman. Neither had struck him as the type who would be thrilled by the opportunity to have just a private tour of the Roundhouse. He couldn't help but harbor the suspicion that Springer and the women might have had a completely different agenda for the late-night visits-like having sex on the floor in the governor's private office.

  It wasn't all that kinky. Once, when investigating a report of fraud at a state agency, Gilbert had walked in on a manager who had forgotten to lock his office door while he was performing oral sex on his girlfriend.

  He walked down the long wide hallway of the old county courthouse, a lovely WPA building two blocks from the plaza. The hand-carved beams, finely crafted corbels, delicate tin light fixtures, and the sweeping staircases had been retained, but the guts of the building had been ripped out and modernized after the district court and sheriff's department had moved to other locations.

  As a child, Gilbert had occasionally accompanied his father to the courthouse when it still housed all the county services. Back then, his father knew most of the people who worked there on a first-name basis. Gilbert knew none of the workers he passed in the hallway, and it only deepened his feeling that he was a stranger in his hometown.

  Maybe it had been a mistake to take the promotion to sergeant and move back to Santa Pc. So far, it had been nothing but a painful, disconnected experience.

  He found the assessor's office and asked for the Rancho Caballo subdivision property tax records. The printout he got wasn't helpful at all. No Hispanicsurnamed owners were listed, but a sizable number of the houses were owned by out-of-state corporations and foreign companies.

  He compared the records with the names Fletcher Hartley and Frank Bailey had given him. None were listed as Rancho Caballo owners. But one local business, Kokopelli Design Studio, was carried on the books as a corporate owner of two homes.

  Gilbert noted the address for the studio. It was one block off the plaza.

  On his way out of the building, he stopped at the land-use planning office and asked to speak to the director.

  Gilbert had one question to ask, of purely personal interest.

  "How much water does the Rancho Caballo golf course use?" Gilbert asked, after introducing himself to the head of the planning office.

  The director, a nearly bald, gray-faced older man, scowled at the question.

  "On the average, between three hundred thousand and four hundred thousand gallons a day."

  "How did that kind of consumption get approved?"

  "Rancho Caballo was initially approved to use only recycled gray water for the golf course," the man answered.

  "That was part of the original subdivision master plan."

  "That's impossible," Gilbert said.

  "There isn't enough development in the area to supply that volume of gray water."

  "Rancho Caballo bought additional water rights from an adjoining landowner last year. They can legally pump hundreds of acre-feet of groundwater from now until the wells run dry."

  "Who sold the rights?"

  The man chuckled sourly.

  "You don't follow local politics much, I take it. Sherman Cobb sold the water rights to the corporation. He owns a couple of sections of land that butt up against the subdivision. It caused quite a stink in the press, and the environmentalists raised hell about the depletion of the underground aquifer. But it got approved anyway."

  "I see," Gilbert replied, thinking maybe not much had changed in the 150 years since the end of the Mexican-American War, when the Stars and Stripes were first raised over Santa Fe. at the museum foundation offices, just behind the fine arts museum, Gilbert was directed by a receptionist to the publicist's office on the second floor. He climbed the stairs and found Fletcher Hartley sitting at a cluttered table in a small staff lounge near the stairwell, poring over photographs.

  "What are you doing here?" Gilbert asked.

  Fletcher waved off the implied censure.

  "I'm doing research. The publicity director is an old friend. She was more than willing to share the guest list for the O'Keeffe benefit, as well as photographs she took at the gala."

  "Aren't you supposed to be calling art dealers?"

  "I've done that, to no avail. Now I'm gazing at candid snapshots of smug art patrons. Care to join me? From the look of it, there are untold numbers of potential suspects. So far, I have ten shots taken of Amanda Talley with distinctly different groups of people. She appears to be quite the social butterfly."

  "Hand me a stack," Gilbert said as he sat down at the table.

  They sorted through the pictures and assembled two piles of photos. One accumulation featured Amanda Talley in every shot, while a larger stack included everyone else who had been photographed at the gathering.


  With the help of the publicist, they whittled down the number of unidentified people in the photographs to slightly under twenty.

  "What's next?" Fletcher asked.

  "Do you know who owns a company called Kokopelli Design Studio?"

  Gilbert asked. He stretched to ease the stiffness in his shoulders, and started stuffing the two sets of pictures into envelopes.

  "Bucky Watson owns it. Buckley is his given name.

  He's unscrupulous. Once he made me an absurd offer to buy my inventory of completed works. I threw him out of my studio."

  Gilbert picked through the Amanda Talley photographs until he found one with Watson, Roger Springer, and Frank Bailey standing in front of the dub- house bar with two unidentified men. He studied the picture.

  "Watson's design studio owns two houses in Rancho Caballo," Gilbert said.

  "Both in the million-dollar range."

  "My, my, Bucky's doing quite well for himself."

  "Can a design studio generate that kind of cash flow?"

  "Bucky is really a small conglomerate. He owns the design studio, a gallery on Canyon Road, and an art crating company. And he also dabbles quite a bit in commercial real estate."

  "So, he's got big bucks. I get the feeling you don't like him,"

  Gilbert said.

  "I do not," Hetcher replied, as he reached for his topcoat.

  "Besides being greedy, he has no aesthetic sense and a shallow charm that wears thin."

  "Why do people like Watson come here?" Gilbert asked.

  "I see we share the same resentments about the new pioneers," Hetcher noted.

  "While Santa Pc still has appeal, it is not the place we once loved."

  Outside, in the lateness of the day, Gilbert said goodbye to Hetcher, who waved his umbrella in response, and jaywalked to the plaza.

  Gilbert smiled as he watched. He remembered the image of Hetcher sitting in the deep shade under the portal of his house on summer evenings, sipping his single malt scotch, and entertaining the endless stream of friends who dropped by.

  Gilbert's family had a standing invitation to Fletcher's informal soirees, and the gatherings sparkled with eccentrics, bohemians, artists, writers, and the intelligentsia. Fletcher's friends were men and women of every imaginable persuasion and inclination who loved the city with a passion that made them a vital part of the community.

  For Gilbert, going to Fletcher's house had been like opening a window on the world. He smiled at the memory of Pletcher and his pals leading everybody off on a walk to the plaza for band concerts and other festivities.

  Those were magical evenings when Gilbert was young.

  What did Fletcher call the people who had recently migrated to Santa Fe? New pioneers-that was it. The dry was glutted with affluent colonists busy discarding identities, leaving relationships, abandoning careers, forging new lifestyles, pursuing New Age aspirations, and picking through the Santa Fe scene like shoppers at an outlet mall.

  There were probably more psychic healers, spirit guides, psychotherapists, and self-help gurus per square foot in Santa Pc than anywhere else in the country.

  Stolen art and stolen culture, Gilbert thought. He pushed back the sour feeling. It was close to the end of the business day. Maybe Bucky Watson would still be at his design studio on Water Street.

  "I felt like I was the target of an investigation," Bucky Watson said.

  He'd been bitching from the minute he'd arrived in Roger Springer's office to discuss his meeting with Sergeant Marrinez.

  "Stop worrying," Springer said. He sat across from Bucky, who drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair and shifted nervously.

  "I told you on the telephone the state police would be asking questions," he added.

  "About the O'Keefle fund-raiser," Bucky shot back.

  "Not my property holdings."

  "It's no big deal. I talked to Vance Howell at the governor's office.

  They've got no leads, so the cops are taking a scattergun approach to the case, hoping something will turn up."

  "I still don't like it." Bucky ran a hand through his hair.

  "Is Amanda really a suspect?"

  "Howell says the working assumption is that her loose talk may have planted the idea for the robbery."

  "Can't she straighten this thing out?"

  "She's on vacation in Belize."

  "Do the cops know about you and Amanda?" Bucky asked.

  Roger laughed.

  "Amanda likes to keep her trysts secret."

  "And I like to keep my business affairs private," Bucky snapped.

  "Relax. I can ask the governor to flex a little political muscle, if need be. Given the size of your contribution to his reelection campaign, I'm sure he'd oblige."

  "That would help," Bucky said.

  Tm always glad to be of service to a friend."

  Bucky changed the subject.

  "I need to move more money into Rancho Caballo. What's the status on the equestrian center plans?"

  Springer got up and went to the desk.

  "It's ready to go. All I need is a signature and a check." He picked up a document and walked back to Bucky.

  "Now that we've attracted the wealthy golfers, it's time to bring in the rich horsy set."

  "How much?" Bucky asked, taking the papers.

  "Nine million, to cover design, planning, and land acquisition. Can you swing it? The corporation is cash poor until we finish selling the remaining lots. We went overbudget on the clubhouse and golf course."

  Bucky scanned the papers for the bottom line.

  "Cobb stands to make a hell of a profit on the land sale to the corporation," he remarked.

  "Stop complaining, Bucky. You get what you need out of the arrangement."

  Bucky scrawled his signature and handed the papers back to Springer.

  "When do you want the check?"

  "Anytime this week will do." neil ordway fumed as he slugged back the double shot of whiskey. He wanted to grind the shot glass into the face of the owner of the Cottonwood Bar, who stood behind the counter smirking. His scuffle with Kerney had been reported to the town council, and instead of accepting his resignation, the council had fired him instead. His chances of getting another law enforcement job were now less than zero.

  It had taken all of thirty minutes for the news to spread throughout the village.

  After turning in his equipment, the keys to the office and patrol car, and his badge and commission card, Ordway had walked from the town hall to the bar brooding over ways he could get back at Kerney.

  He glared at the proprietor, a chunky man who always dressed Western and prided himself on looking like Kenny Rogers, the country singer.

  Ordway was sure the man dyed his carefully trimmed white beard and razor-cut long hair to intensify the similarity.

  He pointed at his empty glass. The owner filled it quickly and moved away.

  It was dinnertime and Ordway was the lone customer in the bar. The Cottonwood, a sleazy joint that smelled of sweat, stale liquor, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, catered to hard-core boozers. The crappy, dingy atmosphere suited Ordway's shitty mood perfectly.

  He downed his drink, ordered one more for the road, drank it quickly, bought a fifth to carry home, and stepped out into a cold night wind.

  There was no one in sight, and the main drag was virtually empty except for a few cars parked across the street in front of the Laundromat.

  Ordway buttoned up against the cold and started walking. A car passed by and he stiffened with embarrassment as the glare of the headlights caught him.

  Even though his rented house trailer behind the Shaffer Hotel was just a few minutes' walk away, Ordway felt humiliated at the thought of being seen hoofing it home. He hurried across the main drag before another car cruised by, and ducked down a side street.

  At the corner where Pop Shaffer's old, long-deserted motor lodge cabins stood, Ordway stopped and looked down the sidewalk toward the hotel. He
smiled wickedly at the sight of Robert Cordova parading up and down in front of the weird concrete fence next to the hotel.

  Half drunk, Ordway remembered getting a message earlier in the day that the county jail had released Cordova from protective custody. He stuffed the paper bag with the whiskey bottle inside his jacket, walked to Cordova, reached out, and yanked Robert's hands away from his ears.

  "Hey, Robert," he said pleasantly.

  Robert opened his eyes.

  "Puck you," he snarled, trying to pull away.

  "Be nice. I got something for you."

  "You ain't got nothing I want," Robert said, still struggling to free himself from Ordway's grip.

  "It's from Kerney. He sent you a present, a carton of smokes. Asked me to make sure you got them."

  Cordova relaxed and Ordway released his hold.

  "Where are they?" Robert asked.

  "In my police car around the corner. Come on. Let's go get them." He patted Cordova on the shoulder and walked him away from the hotel lights.

  When they reached the darkness of the motor lodge, Ordway pushed Cordova into die small courtyard that separated the stone cabins and slammed his fist into Robert's mouth. He heard Cordova's rotten teeth crack. He hit him again and felt some teeth break free.

  Robert sank to his knees, blood bubbling out of his lips.

  "How do you like your present, you crazy little motherfucker?" Ordway asked as he brought his knee up to Cordova's chin.

  Robert collapsed on his side and Ordway started kicking him with his steel-toed boots.

  Carlos Ruiz found planes nerve shattering. During the flight, he stayed glued to his seat while the three men with him oiled weapons, loaded ammunition clips, and chatted with one another. He tensed up when De Leon pilot announced through the open cockpit door that they would touch down at the Santa Pc Airport ten minutes behind Kerney.

  Takeoffs and landings bothered Carlos most of all.

  After Carlos had followed Kerney to the airport the night before, De Leon had ordered him to continue the surveillance, no matter where the gringo went.