Slow Kill by Michael McGarrity

off for the weekend, down in L.A.”
    “An officer may want to speak with her,” Kerney said.
    “I’ll call her on her cell and let her know what’s happened.”
    “Was Mr. Spalding in residence before he left for Paso Robles?”
    “No, he hasn’t been at home for two weeks. What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “Since we’re not sure of the cause of death, it’s important to know where he’s been,” Kerney replied, making it up as he went along. “He may have been exposed to a virus, or had food poisoning, or become infected on his travels, especially if he was out of the country. But the proper tests can’t be conducted unless we know his itinerary.”
    The man nodded as though Kerney’s answer made good sense. “He was visiting several of his hotel properties. One in Mexico, and several in British Columbia. Sheila would have his exact itinerary.”
    “Good,” Kerney said. “But the name Kim Dean doesn’t ring a bell?”
    “No. The only person from Santa Fe who has been here as a guest is a neighbor of Mrs. Spalding’s, a woman named Nina Deacon. She’s visited five or six times.”
    “Thank you for your time,” Kerney said.
    “That’s it?” the man asked.
    “For now,” Kerney answered. “If there are more questions, you’ll probably be hearing from a Sergeant Lowrey.”
    On the short drive back to Santa Barbara, Kerney called Santa Fe and left a message for Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino to contact him as soon as possible. On State Street, near the pier, he stopped at a bicycle rental store and asked a clerk how to get to police headquarters.
    Following the clerk’s directions, he continued along State Street, turned on Figueroa, and found the police headquarters building sandwiched between the old county courthouse and two small, somewhat run-down 1920s cottages, apparently rental units, in need of fresh coats of paint. They were the first houses he’d seen in Santa Barbara that didn’t look picture-perfect. In an odd way, Kerney was pleased to see them after driving through so much opulence. Maybe some real, ordinary working people lived in the city after all.
    He drove by the two-story headquarters building. A series of steps with landings leading up to the front entrance were bordered by carefully tended, terraced planting beds. On the second landing a large tree towered above a flagpole where an American flag fluttered in a slight breeze. The building was white with a slightly slanted red tile roof, and two rows of rectangular windows ran across the front, their symmetry broken only by an arched, recessed entry.
    Kerney figured the public access door would be locked on the weekends, so he parked and walked to the back of the building where he found the staff entrance. He pressed the bell and held his shield up in front of the video camera mounted above the door.
    A uniformed officer wearing sergeant stripes on his sleeves opened up and inspected his credentials. “You’re a long way from home, Chief,” the sergeant said. “What can I do for you?”
    “I’d like to speak to Captain Chase,” Kerney said.
    “He doesn’t work on weekends unless he’s called out.”
    “Can he be contacted?” Kerney asked.
    “Is this important?” the sergeant asked.
    “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” Kerney replied.
    “Let me see if he’s home.” The sergeant stepped aside to let Kerney enter and led him down a corridor past a line of closed doors, around a corner, and into an empty bullpen office filled with standard issue gray desks, file cabinets, and privacy partitions that defined work cubicles for investigators.
    The sergeant got on the horn to Chase, explained that he had a police chief from Santa Fe who needed to see him, and turned the phone over to Kerney.
    Kerney gave Chase a rundown of the events that had brought him down to Santa Barbara.
    “Jesus H. Christ,” Chase growled. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few. Wait for me in my office.”
    Chase’s office was