Pino said.
"Cooperation I can give, Professor, but my resources are fairly limited right now."
"It must be done."
"I don't disagree," Kerney said.
"Tell me how I can help."
"Give me unlimited access to the site. I'll bring in a team of graduate students from the university. We need to do a thorough mapping, a complete census, and some immediate, temporary erosion control."
"Of course."
"Once the distribution range has been dearly established, the tract must be fenced and possibly even guarded from poachers."
"Who would know about the site?" Kerney asked.
"Harvesting has already taken place, Mr. Kerney. It cannot be allowed to happen again."
"From what I've been told, the woman responsible for the harvesting had no idea the cactus was an endangered plant."
"That may well be," Pino said with a shake of her head.
"But Knowlton's cactus was persistently collected in northwestern New Mexico until the Nature Conservancy stepped in and bought the land.
European collectors have been known to pay over two hundred dollars for a mature plant, sometimes more. Any word of a new discovery will bring out the poachers. They're no different than pot hunters who violate the Federal Antiquities Act."
"How much fencing will be needed?"
"That's impossible to say at this point. I've had less than a day to conduct a spot field analysis. If other viable distributions are found, each will require protection."
"Let me know what you come up with. Professor."
"You will help us save this site, won't you?"
"I can't even promise you that I'll be able to retain ownership of the land. Professor. But I'll do what I can while I can."
With her eyes locked on to Kerney, Ruth Pino held up a hand.
"What exactly does that mean?"
"The land is still in probate, and the tax bite is rather large. I may have to sell off a part of it."
"I see. Would you mind if I brought a few outside experts into the loop?"
"Who might they be?"
"Representatives from organizations who can help me develop a restoration plan for the site. It won't cost you any money."
"By all means."
"Have you ever seen a Knowlton's cactus?"
"I doubt it."
"It isn't a very dramatic or exotic specimen, but it deserves to continue to exist on the planet."
"I agree. I'll help you build the fences and pay for what I can.
Professor. I don't like what was done to the land any more than you do."
Ruth Pino assembled her map and notes, tucked the papers inside her leather-bound journal, and gave Kerney an agreeable smile.
"I may have to revise my opinion of police officers."
"Why is that?"
"It seems that not all of them suffer from authoritarian personality disorders."
Kerney smiled as he stood.
"Can you say the same about university professors?"
"Occasionally."
Emotionally and physically drained from the events of the day, Gabe arrived home to find a car parked next to Orlando's subcompact in the driveway. He left his unit on the street, entered through the side door to the kitchen, dumped his briefcase on the table, and sank down on a chair. From upstairs he could hear music and the sound of male voices coming from Orlando's room. He wondered who was visiting his son.
He rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles felt like corded knots, twisted his torso to relieve the strain in his back, stared at the wall, and thought about his day. The image of Rudy Espinoza reeling under the impact of the shotgun blast kept spinning though his mind.
Gabe walked to the refrigerator. There wasn't much inside. Dinner would have to be canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. He got busy preparing the meal, his thoughts turning to his conversation with Chief Kerney. Having the chief's permission to continue to work the case might not mean squat in the final analysis. He could still get written up for violating departmental policies. That would surely torpedo his chances for promotion. It wasn't a pleasant thought.
But the important issue was getting Orlando through his degree program at the university, and successfully launched. If he had to remain a patrol sergeant and continue to pinch pennies to do it, so be it.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to find Orlando and Bernardo Barela, Nestor's grandson, standing in the doorway.
"Hey, guys," Gabe said.
"What's up?"
"Just hanging," Orlando said.
"How are you, Bernardo?" Gabe asked.
"Fine, Mr. Gonzales," Bernardo said, flashing a smile.
Bernardo's smile had always struck Gabe as smug and insolent. He had his thumbs hooked in the pockets of tight blue jeans that broke at the heel of his cowboy boots. He kept his eyes locked on Gabe.