The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [97]
Clayton went looking for the deputy county assessor, Marvin Rickland, and bumped into him in the hallway.
“Have you got a minute to tell me about the Bluewater Canyon Ranch?” he asked.
Rickland nodded. “What a place. It’s amazing what money can buy. The senator sure hasn’t spared any expense. I bet the landscaping alone set him back a half million or more.”
“What does he use it for?”
“Right now, just for friends, family, business associates, clients, and his political pals. He caters to a lot of rich people who are looking to buy property through his real estate company and who want anonymity while they’re here. The last time I talked to him he said eventually it was going to be a resort-type dude ranch. Why he doesn’t open it up right now beats me.”
“You’ve done all the property assessments,” Clayton said. “Describe it to me.”
“It’s really spread out,” Rickland replied. “Each guest house is at least a mile from the main residence and very private. The style is Santa Fe adobe, with portals, patios, courtyards and all those Southwest touches like corner fireplaces and beamed ceilings. Around the headquarters you’ve got the meditation center, the swimming pool, staff housing, and a horse barn and stables about a quarter mile away. He’s even got an airstrip on the property, along with all-weather gravel roads, and a grader to keep them in good repair.”
“Do you have any trouble getting in?”
Rickland laughed. “I was just talking to Ray Kelsey about that the other day. He’s the general construction inspector for the state, who works out of Ruidoso. He was telling me the senator has submitted plans to build a sweat lodge and a pond along a creek bed and put in a Japanese-style garden. We were laughing about how we always have to call ahead and make an appointment to get on the property. It’s completely fenced—the whole twenty thousand acres—and he has it patrolled regularly. Everybody who works there has to sign a confidentiality agreement not to talk about the guests or the ranch. Those rich people really like their privacy.”
Clayton asked a few more questions and learned that an electronic gate with a speaker box controlled access to the ranch road, and the headquarters were about five miles beyond the gate. There were no neighbors within a ten-mile radius, and Rickland dealt with Norvell’s live-in manager when he needed to make a tax assessment inspection. Rickland had never seen any of Norvell’s friends or clients during his visits, but there were usually cars parked at the guest houses and a plane or two on the landing strip.
Clayton thanked Rickland and went looking for the sheriff, who was due back in the office. His secretary told him Hewitt was running late and wouldn’t be in until around two. He went to his hallway desk and started writing out his chronological report so he could have it ready when the sheriff arrived.
Until the Indian cop arrived at the county courthouse, Fidel was bored and restless. He’d left his motel room early, thinking it would be maybe an hour before the cop showed at work, and he’d wound up waiting almost all morning. Fidel didn’t know why Rojas wanted him watched, but it would be fun to follow the cop around for a while, sneaky like. Of course, it would be way more cool to kill him.
He wondered why Rojas was worried about Istee. Did it have something to do with the hit at Casey’s Cozy Cabins? That had been a bitching cool kill, and taking out Staggs had also been kick-ass. He’d made Staggs beg before blowing him away. The old man pissed in his pants and cried like a baby.
The thirty grand Fidel had taken off Staggs’s body made it his most profitable hit yet, better than