Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [77]
She wanted to share the news about Coe Evans, but she wondered what Pino would think about her ignoring Lieutenant Macy’s order to bow out of the investigation. Granted, their few phone conversations had been cordial, but Ellie didn’t really know Pino. Was she a by-the-book cop who would feel compelled to rat her out to Macy, or more freewheeling when it came to bending the rules?
It didn’t matter. Pino needed to know Coe Evans had been found. She dialed the phone, gave Pino the news, and then explained why she’d no longer be working the case.
“It will make my life easier if you don’t let on to Lieutenant Macy or Detective Price that I’m your source of information about Evans.”
Ramona laughed. “You’ve just eased my load, so the least I can do is cover for you. Besides, who’s to say a CI can’t be another cop? I’ll keep your name out of it when I call Detective Price and ask him to get cracking on Evans.”
“Thanks,” Ellie said.
“Are you really going to stay on the sidelines?”
“I guess I’ll have to.”
“How about I keep you informed from my end?” Ramona asked.
“That would be great.”
The two women talked awhile longer, and Ellie hung up with the feeling that if distance didn’t prevent it, Ramona Pino would make a very good friend.
Sara called Kerney at home just as he was preparing for bed.
“I want to apologize,” he said, wondering why Sara called so late. It was midnight, East Coast time. “I shouldn’t be impatient when I’m asking for a favor.”
“There’s no need for that,” Sara said. “But keep that thought in mind and it will stand you in good stead. You’ve got a green light from DOD to do the exhumation.”
“So fast?” Kerney asked.
“We at the Pentagon never sleep.”
“Are you still at work?”
“Back at work, actually. Patrick’s tucked into bed, fast asleep, under the watchful eye of a sitter, so you needn’t fret about him.”
“What did it take for you to pull it off?” Kerney asked.
“Once I connected with the right person and showed him the material you faxed me, it went smoothly. We’ve opened our own investigation into the matter, and I’m your liaison officer. Aren’t you lucky? If the remains prove to be those of someone other than George Spalding, the Army will assume control of the case.”
“You’re a marvel.”
“It’s about time you noticed. The U.S. Attorney and the VA have been notified. Have fun at the cemetery.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m bushed and want to go home,” Sara said.
“I won’t keep you. Thanks, my love.”
“Give yourself a hug from me. Good night.”
The phone went dead. Kerney punched in the home number of Jerry Grant, the forensic anthropologist, got him on the line, and told him they were on for tomorrow.
He stood at the window and stared into the night, trying to figure out what feelings were eluding him. He felt distant, empty, and totally preoccupied with George Spalding. But why?
Jerry Grant was a transplanted Easterner who taught at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque and did contract forensic work for the state police crime lab. Kerney rounded him up at his office early in the morning, and took the fastest possible route south to Fort Bayard.
A big, beefy man, Grant had thick, droopy eyebrows, a full head of hair badly in need of a trim, and a slightly unruly beard. On the drive, Grant, who’d lived in Albuquerque for ten years, talked eagerly about getting to see a part of the state he’d never visited before.
Kerney wasn’t surprised by Grant’s lack of familiarity with New Mexico. There were many people now residing in the state, especially urban dwellers, who had no inclination to explore their adopted home ground. But they could talk endlessly about exotic, international tourist destinations.
Kerney played historian along the way and filled Grant in on the background of the fort: how it was established on the frontier during the Indian Wars to contain the Apaches; how it had been home to the buffalo soldiers, companies of black enlisted cavalrymen