Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [43]
Tomorrow, Ellie started her days off. She decided a trip to LA was in order.
The afternoon sunlight drenched the mountains with a golden hue. Cramped from sitting on the floor digging through boxes of junk, Ramona stood, bent over, touched her toes, and stretched. Behind her, Detective Matt Chacon was on his hands and knees with a flashlight trying to fish something out from behind the back of one of the built-in cabinets. Paul Austin, the other detective, was labeling Baggies filled with samples spooned from the various containers for analysis.
“Let’s wrap it up,” Pino said. “We’ll take everything we’ve got to the lab and see what they can make of it.”
“What some folks won’t do to commit murder,” Chacon said with a grin as he got to his feet, holding a dusty, white pharmaceutical packet in his hand. He shook it gently. “It’s got stuff in it.”
“Bag it, tag it, load everything up, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Ramona said, grinning back at Chacon.
Kim Dean was still on the run and, according to Ellie Lowrey, apparently not in hiding at the estate in Montecito. Even with that bit of bad news, Kerney finished up his day at the office feeling good about the progress of the investigation. Thanks to the evidence found at Dean’s house, they now had a much stronger case. Not perfect enough to go un-challenged by a good defense attorney, but compelling nonetheless.
Claudia Spalding’s possible involvement still bothered Kerney. He hoped that once Dean was in custody he’d provide some answers.
Earlier, Kerney had hand-delivered a copy of his transcribed Spalding notes to Agent Joe Valdez and explained his suspicions. Joe agreed to delve into Clifford Spalding’s business and financial dealings in New Mexico as his time allowed, and report back.
A check of public records on the Spaldings and Debbie Calderwood was proceeding. Kerney didn’t expect too much to come from it, but sometimes routine sources yielded valuable information.
The second-floor administrative suite was empty when Kerney left headquarters. He spent a minute chatting with a gang unit detective in the parking lot before heading out to Arroyo Hondo where Claudia Spalding lived. As far as Kerney knew, only one neighbor, Nina Deacon, had been interviewed, and he wanted to see who else might know something about Claudia Spalding and Kim Dean.
Tucked out of view from the highway, Arroyo Hondo contained the ruins of an old pueblo owned by the Archeological Conservancy, and a nearby parcel preserved as open space. The land away from the arroyo was a semirural residential area of ten-and twenty-acre tracts populated by a well-to-do horsey set. Houses, paddocks, corrals, and barns speckled the fenced pastures and piñon-juniper woodlands that flowed down from the foothills.
Kerney found the driveway to Spalding’s house on Laughing Pony Road and paid visits to the closest neighbors on either side. Nina Deacon wasn’t at home, and the people he talked with only knew Claudia Spalding casually and weren’t acquainted with Kim Dean at all. No one told him anything of value.
He drove away from the last house ready to pack in his impromptu canvass, go home, and call Sara. Up the road he saw a pickup truck turn into Spalding’s driveway. He followed and found an older Hispanic man unloading hay bales from the bed of his truck parked next to the horse barn.
“Mrs. Spalding isn’t here,” the man said as Kerney got close.
“I know,” Kerney said, displaying his shield. “Who are you?”
“Sixto Giron. Is there trouble?” Giron dropped a hay bale on the ground and brushed off his dusty shirt. He had a heavily wrinkled face and a guileless manner.
“No trouble,” Kerney said. “Do you work for Mrs. Spalding?”
“Yes, part-time. A few hours now and then every week, and I look after the horses when she is gone.”
“What about Nina Deacon?”
Giron nodded. “Same thing. She’s also out of town, judging a horse show in Canada.”
“Do you know about Mr. Spalding’s death?”
“Yes, Mrs. Spalding called and told me. That