The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [24]
Larry looked nonplused. “Of course. We do it with every new hire. It’s procedure.”
“My point exactly,” Kerney said. “I’d like to review applications and meet prospective employees once they’ve been selected. But unless either of us sees a problem, in the future just sign these things yourself.”
He leaned back and gave Otero a smile. “From now on, think of your job this way: When I’m not here, you’re the chief. When I’m sick or on vacation, you’re the chief. When I don’t want to be found, bothered, or I’m out of town on business, you’re the chief. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
Otero smiled back. “I do. What happens when I get my ass in a sling?”
“Then I’m the chief,” Kerney said with a laugh, “and I get the privilege of taking full responsibility for all the screwups, including yours and mine.”
“So, it’s full speed ahead,” Otero said.
“Yeah, your honeymoon is over,” Kerney replied.
“I can handle that,” Larry said. “How’s the Montoya case going?”
“I could probably put thirty people on it with the same results,” Kerney replied.
“Nothing?”
“Zilch, but there’s still a lot of ground to cover,” Kerney said.
He waved Otero out the door, made a few more phone calls, and left to visit with Anna Marie’s brother and sister, who’d agreed to meet him at their parents’ house.
Cars parked along the narrow lane forced Kerney to leave his unit at the corner. A somber group of visitors filled the small porch and spilled onto the lawn in front of the Montoya residence. Kerney approached slowly, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. His uniform drew some questioning looks as he walked up the pathway, and a few people deliberately turned away. Anna Marie’s brother waited for him at the door.
“I’ve come at a bad time,” Kerney said, looking into the crowded front room.
“We can talk in my mother’s craft studio,” Walter Montoya said shortly, “although I don’t see what good it will do. My sister’s waiting for us there.”
Platters of food filled the coffee table, and empty plastic cups littered the lamp tables bracketing the couch. A framed photograph of Anna Marie, surrounded by lit candles, was centered on top of the television. Mr. and Mrs. Montoya sat on the couch in the company of a priest. Kerney paused and paid his respects as friends and family watched.
“I won’t take much of your time,” Kerney said, after stepping away from Anna Marie’s parents.
“Does that mean you have no leads?” Walter Montoya replied, loud enough to hush a couple standing nearby.
“Let’s talk privately,” Kerney said, touching the man’s arm to quiet him down.
Walter pulled his arm back and led Kerney to a small bedroom that had been converted into Mrs. Montoya’s studio, where Carmela, Anna Marie’s sister, waited. A long worktable with folding legs held neat stacks of fabric, swaths of canvas, and a sewing machine. Within easy reach of a second-hand secretarial chair was a clear plastic four-drawer cart on rollers, filled with yarns, spools of thread, scissors, and embroidery needles.
Both siblings were in their late thirties. Walter, the older by a year, now sported a receding hairline and a mustache that showed a touch of gray. Carmela, who had been married when Anna Marie disappeared, no longer wore a wedding ring. Slim and tense, she shook Kerney’s hand reluctantly.
“To have so many show so much sympathy and support must be very heartwarming to you and your parents,” Kerney said.
His attempt to be conciliatory fell flat. Carmela nodded tensely as though an invisible wire inside her neck had been pulled, and said nothing.
“When will you find the person who killed her?” Walter asked, dismissing Kerney’s words.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough, Chief Kerney,” he snapped.
“Let me tell you what we’re doing,” Kerney said. He took them through the investigative drill, noting how a lack of evidence and the absence of a targeted suspect made for slow going.
“We’ve heard those same rationalizations from your department for eleven years,” Walter said when