The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [114]
“Several neighbors have seen Potter running in the morning, and he keeps a change of clothes in his office closet,” Otero said.
“So Potter kept to a daily schedule,” Kerney said, “which means this might not be a random shooting.”
“That’s the way we read it,” Molina said.
“Have you contacted Jack’s life partner?” Kerney asked. Norman Kaplan, Potter’s significant other, owned an upscale antique shop on Canyon Road.
“According to Potter’s secretary, he’s in London on a buying trip and not due back for three days,” Otero said. “I called his hotel, but he’s not there. I’ll try him again later on.”
“Are there any other next of kin?” Kerney asked.
“Not that we know about yet,” Otero answered. “But the story is already on the airwaves, thanks to the photographer who showed up before our people arrived on the scene.”
“What happened?” Kerney asked.
“He walked through the blood trail, took pictures, and called the newspaper on his cell phone to tell them Potter had been gunned down,” Molina explained. “Detective Piño had to order him away from the crime scene.”
“Do we have this bozo in hand?” Kerney asked.
“Yeah, he’s outside in the panel truck cooling his heels, waiting to give a statement,” Otero said. “He’s not too happy about it.”
“Have a detective take his statement and then arrest him for tampering with evidence and interfering with a criminal investigation,” Kerney said.
“Those charges probably won’t stick, Chief,” Otero said.
“I don’t give a damn if they stick or not,” Kerney said. “Let the DA sort it out.”
Otero eyed Kerney, who was usually levelheaded when it came to dealing with the media. He wondered what was biting the chief. It had to be more than a stupid photographer’s mistakes. “Are you sure that’s what you want us to do?” he asked.
Kerney bit his lip and shook his head. “You’re right. It’s a dumb idea. Put a scare into him instead.”
“We can do that,” Molina said.
“Get a handle on this fast, Sal,” Kerney said. “Let’s find someone with a motive—friends, clients, enemies—you know the drill.”
Molina nodded.
“I’ll talk to the reporters,” Otero said.
“Give them the usual spiel, Larry,” Kerney said, heading for the door, “and keep me informed. Call me on my cell phone.”
The spat with Sara had put Kerney in a bad mood, and Jack Potter’s murder only added to it. He decided to cool down before going home, and drove to the South Capitol neighborhood where Fletcher Hartley lived. In his seventies, Fletcher was a highly regarded Santa Fe artist, a retired museum director, and an old friend who’d assisted Kerney in a major art heist investigation several years ago, during Kerney’s tenure with the state police.
A colorful eccentric, Fletcher was a prominent fixture in the gay community and a potential source of good information about Jack Potter’s personal life.
Fletcher’s sprawling adobe was nestled at the bottom of a large sloping lot behind a beautifully landscaped, expansive front yard filled with hedges and trees that screened the house from the street. Situated in a neighborhood of older homes lined up in tidy rows, Fletcher’s hidden rural oasis was the crown jewel of a charming residential area that still retained a small-town feel.
Kerney rang the doorbell and listened to a Beethoven piano sonata that flowed through the open windows of the front room. Fletcher opened the door, clutching a book. He wore his favorite kimono and a pair of screaming-pink silk pajama bottoms. Reading glasses where perched on his nose, which had recently been made perfect by plastic surgery. Fletcher fought the aging process by every possible means. In the past, his cheeks had been lifted and his wrinkles tucked to give him the face of a fifty-year-old.
Kerney had heard about the nose job, but hadn’t seen it until now.
“I know,” Fletcher said with a smile, noticing Kerney’s quick appraisal, “I’m a vain old coot.” He turned to give Kerney a view of his improved profile. “Do you like it?”
“You look great,” Kerney said. “Sorry to bother you so early.