Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [101]
“My sheriff, who’s not a happy camper, is hovering over my shoulder on this, Detective. When will I get a faxed copy?”
“Give it two or three hours, Lieutenant,” Chacon said, “barring any unforeseen delays.”
“Like what?” Macy asked.
“The district attorney wants to sign off on it. I think he’s talking to your DA as we speak.”
“Are there any political issues regarding Claudia Spalding I should know about?” Macy asked.
Chacon chuckled. “I don’t think Claudia Spalding has any political clout at all in Santa Fe. From what I know about her, she didn’t come here to engage in civic affairs, if you get my meaning.”
In spite of himself, Macy laughed. “Okay. Thanks for pushing it along, Detective.”
“No problem. I’ll have it to you as fast as I can.”
Macy called Bill Price, who had a team of officers on stakeout at the Spalding mansion. “Is everything quiet?”
“No problem, LT. She hasn’t moved, and no one’s been to visit since the lawyer dropped her off.”
“We should have a warrant from New Mexico in two or three hours. I’ll let you know as soon as it comes through.”
“Ten-four,” Price said.
Because Ramona’s tickets had been booked a day before her departure, she wasn’t able to fly directly to San Luis Obispo and had to lay over at the Phoenix airport and catch the last flight to Santa Barbara.
For a time, she sat in the busy concourse oblivious to the people around her and read through the chief’s case notes on George Spalding.
Kerney had put everything in chronological sequence, and his narrative style was crisp, clear, thoroughly detailed, and filled with solid observations. The notes read like a compelling mystery, and by the time Ramona finished she was caught up in the case, eager to know where George Spalding was and why he’d faked his own death.
Ramona wasn’t surprised by Kerney’s investigative skills. She’d watched him work several major crimes, and knew he’d spent most of his career in the major felony crime unit as he rose through the ranks.
Because of his background in investigations, Kerney paid a bit more attention to the unit than most chiefs normally would. But he didn’t shirk his larger responsibilities, and Ramona hadn’t heard any complaints of favoritism from members of the other divisions.
She put the case notes away and did some people watching. Businessmen and -women in rumpled suits traveling home for the weekend wandered back and forth pulling their wheeled carry-on bags and talking on cell phones. Weary parents chased after hyperactive children. Electric carts with flashing red warning lights passed by carrying senior citizens, frail and disabled people, and young mothers holding infants. Teenage girls in tight jeans showing bare midriffs clattered along. There were middle-aged men in baggy shorts and T-shirts, and an abundance of overweight people.
Her flight left on time and the small turbojet flew west into the sun, with Phoenix and its suburbs below spreading out for miles across the desert floor. Not yet immune to the fun of flying, Ramona passed the time looking out the window. When the plane banked and turned on its final approach to Santa Barbara the ocean came into view, shimmering like an enormous undulating sheet, each wave tufted in white as it broke against the shore.
The Santa Barbara airport was much like the one in Santa Fe, which also served only commuter jets and private aircraft. Portable stairs were rolled up to the plane to unload the passengers, and the terminal, a quaint, tidy California mission-style building, was just a few steps away. Inside, the passenger area was empty, and a small cluster of people waited behind the security barrier, manned by a bored-looking guard sitting on a stool next to the baggage screening machine.
A pretty woman, perhaps two inches taller than Ramona, with short, dark hair and a dimple in her cheek, stepped forward and waved in her direction.
“Ramona?” the woman asked with an easy smile.
“You must be Ellie.” Impulsively, she stepped forward and gave Lowrey a hug.
“Welcome to California,