“I can’t place it, but it will come to me.”
They headed down the hall.
Bernie said, “I’ll get my backpack and my weapon. Let me use Palmer’s phone to call Robert. Maybe he knows something.”
“I’ll check around and meet you at the unit.”
Chee learned that the desk clerk had been in the back, focused on the day’s report, and hadn’t noticed a tall man in a white shirt and Pendleton jacket leave the building. He scanned the hotel parking lot, hoping to find Palmer smoking a cigarette. No Palmer, but he noticed the Volkswagen of Protest was back. This time, Bebe Durango had parked near the entrance, farther from the building. If his dog barked, maybe no one would complain. Bebe was standing at the open side door.
“Officer?”
He wanted to ignore him, but maybe he’d seen Palmer. “Sir?”
“Come over here a minute.”
Durango disappeared up the step and inside the vehicle, leaving the door ajar. Chee saw a table stacked with newspapers. The inside of the old camper was neat and well organized. He climbed the steps, noticing that the dog hadn’t barked. He wondered why, and what the old man wanted.
“I need to thank you and the other cops, especially the lady, for trying to keep things calm out there. I forgot to take my medicine this morning, and when that happens, I get riled up. I’m glad nobody arrested me, you know, took me to the slammer.”
Chee smiled. He had never heard anyone say that. “No need to thank us. We were doing our jobs. Have you seen Mr. Palmer out here recently, smoking or something?”
“I might have.” Bebe stroked his chin with the knuckle of his index finger. “There was a tall man in a colorful jacket over by the building. A pickup came and he climbed in. I couldn’t say for sure it was him, or what he was smoking.”
“What color was the truck?”
“It was a light one. White, maybe, or gray. I don’t know if it was a Chevy or a Ford or a whatever.”
“Thanks.” It could have been Katie, he thought and flashed back to earlier in the day when the mediator arrived in a truck. He remembered silver.
Bebe said, “What time and where is the meeting tomorrow?”
“As far as I know, the session will start back at the Justice Center at nine.” Chee turned to leave. “I’m glad your dog calmed down.”
“Oh, I’m sure that stinker is barking his head off somewhere. My friend Bruce took him so he won’t have to spend the day in the camper while I’m out working to save the planet.”
Chee drove his unit to the entrance, arriving as Bernie left the hotel. She’d brought his jacket from their room, he noticed with relief, and was wearing hers. The backpack was on her shoulder.
“The man in the VW says a guy in a colorful coat left with someone in a truck a few minutes ago.”
“Well, that narrows it down to about half the vehicles in the county. I’ll call Robert while you drive.” Bernie retrieved the phone from her pack and turned it on. “Darn. Password protected. Any ideas? I need four of something. Numbers, letters, symbols, combinations.”
“What about the year he was born?” Chee said.
Bernie made a few estimates. None of them worked.
“Try 2–4–6–8 or 1–3–5–7. Something easy, you know.”
“I’ve got an idea.” Bernie fiddled with the phone. “I’m in.”
“What did you use?”
“S-C-23.”
“My wife, the genius. Why that combination?”
“I remembered his jersey number. You know what they say: ‘Once a Chieftain, always a Chieftain.’ I put in the S for Shiprock.”
“You remembered it from high school?”
“Not really. He had the same number at the alumni game. What now?”
Palmer’s most recent missed call had a 480 area code—that wasn’t Shiprock, or even New Mexico. Maybe Phoenix. She dialed and switched to speaker.
“About time you called me.”
“Robert, this is Officer Manuelito. Do you know where Mr. Palmer is?”
The line was silent for a moment. “No friggin’ idea. You told me you were keeping track of him.”
She waited for him to say something else. “I called because I wanted to talk to him about my mom, get it? That’s all. It was something personal, not police business. If you find him, tell him to call me. And give him his phone back.”
He hung up.
Chee said, “If Bebe is correct, it sounds like our man left willingly. Maybe he arranged for the truck to pick him up. Maybe the man on the phone came for him. Did you remember where you heard that voice on his message machine?”
“No. Not yet anyway.”
“So, let’s look for a white pickup while we figure this out.”
“What’s Palmer’s clan sister Katie’s cousin’s last name?”
Chee paused. “I don’t know. She sped away after she dropped him off this morning, and he said he’d introduce me later.”
“I’ll check his recent calls.”
Chee cruised the streets near the hotel while Bernie searched the phone.
“No Katies. He must sort by last name. “Here’s an Austin with a 505 prefix from yesterday. Think that’s her?”
“It sounds like a name for a rich guy from New York.”
“I’ll try it anyway.” She dialed with the phone on speaker.
Bernie heard the phone ringing four times, then the message: “You’ve reached the service department at Premiere BMW. Mr. Austin and his staff can’t take your call, but we love your business. Please leave a message and . . .” She hit the end call button.
Bernie found three more recent calls, last names only. She called all three. Two were answered by men who didn’t know Palmer or Katie. The third was a generic electronic voice. Since women sometimes use that feature for security, Bernie left a message with her cell number.
“That didn’t work very well.”
He squeezed her hand. “If Palmer is with Katie, he’s probably safe. If the man we heard on the phone picked him up and took him out somewhere to blow him up, he’s in serious trouble. If he’d only . . .”
Bernie said, “If he had his phone, we could just call him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left it behind on purpose. Do you think you should tell Largo or Captain Ward or the feds about this?”
Chee shook his head. “Let’s keep looking.”
They drove for a while with no luck, and then Chee stopped in front of the Hotel Hopi. “I remembered that I need to drop off something.”
“What?”
“It’s an envelope for one of the delegates.”
“I’ll go in with you,” she said. “Maybe I’ll get an idea while I’m waiting.”
Bernie settled into a chair in the lobby.
Chee noticed that the man he’d spoken to earlier was still behind the desk. The clerk glared at him but dialed a number. The phone rang three times and then a voice said, “Blankenship.”
“It’s Sergeant Chee. I’ve got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“An envelope that a person who came to today’s meeting wanted me to give to you.”
The voice on the phone said, “I can’t come to the lobby now. Can you leave it at the desk?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
Chee turned his back to evade the desk clerk’s obvious eavesdropping and lowered his voice. “I’ll walk it over to you. No problem.”
“Who’s it from?”
Chee took a breath to reduce his growing impatience. “An elderly Navajo woman named Mrs. Nez. She said her grandson left it for you. She drove three hours to get to Tuba City.”
“I don’t know any old Indian ladies with grandsons. Bring it to the session tomorrow, and I’ll pick it up. Have a good evening.”
“That was too quick,” Bernie said. She saw the frustration on his face.
“The guy was there, but he asked me to bring the envelope to the session tomorrow.”
&nb
sp; “How did you get involved as an errand boy for this grandmother? I know, you just can’t say no to an old lady.”
Chee smiled. “Actually, it’s your fault. This lady had one of your cards. She gave it to Dashee, and he forwarded the job to me.”
“That’s interesting. What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Nez.”
Navajoland had hundreds of women named Nez. “What did she look like?”
Chee described her.
“She’s the grandmother of the man who was killed. That’s why she had my card. I went with Cordova to give her the news.”
He pulled the envelope from his pocket and opened it. Without removing them, he showed Bernie three one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Holy smokes. That’s a lot of money.”
“Mrs. Nez said the envelope was from her grandson. When I asked why he didn’t deliver it himself, she wouldn’t answer.”
Bernie looked at the name on the outside. “Because the grandson is dead. Mrs. Nez never mentioned the money. Where did he get this, and why did he want Blankenship to have it?”
“Call Cordova and tell him about this.”
She dialed his number and left a message.
Then they sat, staring at the fire, deep in thought.
“I don’t understand why a poor Navajo man would give three hundred dollars to a guy like Blankenship. What do you think?”
Bernie pushed her hair behind her ears. “Cordova asked Mrs. Nez if her grandson had ever been to the Grand Canyon, ever talked about it, and she said no. And today’s situation, the way Palmer gave us the slip, doesn’t feel right either. Why would Palmer mention a message that obviously upset him, but lie about knowing who it was from?”
Chee moved a little closer to her. “My best guess is that the call was something personal, something embarrassing. My job is to protect him as mediator, but he obviously doesn’t believe that carries over to his private life.”
“Maybe he didn’t recognize the man at first, a voice from the past or something. And then, after the second call, he clicked on who it was.”
“And he called whoever it was on the room phone and arranged for the pickup?” Chee glanced up at the muted TV behind Bernie, noticing two newscasters behind a big desk and then a commerical.
“I heard that voice when I worked the bomb scene, but I talked to so many people that night, I can’t place it. Palmer grew up in Shiprock.” She shrugged her shoulder. “I don’t think the threats on Palmer are connected to the mediation at all. I think it’s personal. Somebody from his past.”
Chee caught the end of a pain-reliever ad and then the resumption of the evening news. “Hey, look what’s on TV.”
She glanced up.
“That’s footage from when the meeting let out.” Chee leaned closer. “There’s Dashee.”
“Look, there you are.”
Chee winced. “I look like a skinny teenager.”
“I’d call it lean and handsome.”
“There’s the guy with the sign bashing the black car.”
Bernie leaned forward. “One incident of violence and that’s what gets on TV.”
They watched a few more moments. A man came up and stood next to the big couch, watching, too.
“Just like TV to miss the whole point,” he said. “Did they explain what the meeting was about?”
“I don’t know,” Chee said. “The sound is off.”
“They probably didn’t,” the man said. “Everyone oversimplifies issues like this. That’s why the mediation was a good idea. Too bad the guy in charge is in the back pocket of the developer.”
Chee said, “Are you sure about that?”
The man tugged at his ear. “I don’t trust him.” The report on TV switched to something happening in Phoenix. The man walked toward the elevators.
Bernie said, “So what now?”
“I need to find Palmer. Let’s do some more driving.”
“If we don’t spot him, let’s go back to the hotel and see if he’s returned. If not, we can look in his black bag and in the room for something that might help locate him.”
Chee reached in his pocket for the car keys.
17
Aza Palmer looked at the wrinkled face framed by the long gray braids. He’d made a mistake climbing into the old pickup with the dent by the passenger door. He should have told Mr. Duke no. Pressed him to come inside the hotel to talk. But he knew how hardheaded the guy was. Better to just get it done with.
“How long will this take?” Palmer took a drag on his cigarette, feeling the warm smoke in his throat, in his lungs. Exhaling slowly, savoring the sensation.
“As long as you want, once we get there. We don’t have very far to go.”
The old man cruised like a local, avoiding the potholes as he drove through town and then east on gravel roads. Palmer finished his cigarette and added it to the ashtray, a convenience he didn’t find in new vehicles. The one in Duke’s truck was half full of filters.
Palmer had been standing outside the hotel, smoking and thinking about poor dead Rick and wondering why Robert had grown so angry. He heard the truck approach, heading toward the entrance overhang. But it passsed the motel’s front door and continued straight ahead, to where he stood. He’d felt a surge of adrenaline.
The driver lowered the window. “Are you Mr. Palmer, the leader for the meeting about the Grand Canyon?” The voice was the man on the phone.
“I’m the mediator, if that’s what you mean.”
“Hello, sir. I’m Denny Duke. I’m a councilor with the San Juan Paiute. You heard of us?”
“Yes, of course. I recognized your voice on the phone. I got your letters and your voice mails.”
“I got your answers. I didn’t like them much, and that’s the truth. I need to show you something.”
Palmer told Duke that he was totally occupied with the mediation, asked him to make an appointment.
Duke interrupted. “No, sir, no. I need you to see something tonight. It’s connected with the big meeting.” His distinctive voice had a low, smooth, rhythmic cadence.
“Tell you what. Go get what you want to show me and bring it into the motel. It’s warm in there. We can sit in the lobby.”
“No, sir, that won’t work. You’ll be glad you came with me, but we need to go now.”
“I can’t do it. I’m out here enjoying a smoke and then I’ve got to get back to work and later try to catch some sleep. Like I told you on the phone.” He kept the nervousness out of this voice. Duke was too aggressive, too persistent.
“Your job as mediator is to be fair, right?”
“Yes, correct.”
“Well, you can’t be fair until you see this. I promise you, you won’t regret it. I’ll haul you right back here—I give you my word on that. I’m an old Indian with a bad knee and a beat-up truck. Why are you worried?”
Palmer faked a smile. “Oh, maybe because someone killed my nephew and blew up my car and because whoever did it is still out there.”
“I’m sure sorry about that, but it wasn’t me. Come on now. We could have already been there in the time you spent jawing. It’s warmer in the cab here than out there.” The old man grinned, showing what remained of his front teeth.
“Just let me finish my smoke.”
“You can smoke in the truck. Mother does it all the time.”
The decision was made to exclude Duke’s band of Paiutes from a seat at the table for several reasons, the most obvious of which was the band’s small population—fewer than five hundred tribal members. The mediator had invited them to submit their views in writing and to sit in the audience. He hadn’t noticed Duke in the crowd today, but he could have overlooked him with everything else going on.
Palmer said, “You know, a Navajo cop got assigned to be my bodyguard. He’ll give me grief if I don’t ask him to ride along.”
“Nope. This has to be just between us. Come on, brother. You won’t regret it.”
Chee got on his nerves
and this old man seemed harmless. Interesting, even. In the research he’d done to prepare himself for the mediation, Palmer had learned a bit about the San Juan Paiutes. He’d found nothing about a cultural inclination toward kidnapping or murder. So he walked to the passenger side, pulled the heavy door open, and climbed in.
He noticed the rifle on the rack behind him. Even though almost every pickup in Indian Country had a weapon on a rack, he felt his stomach tighten.
Duke cruised through Tuba City and out past the town’s lights and pavement without conversation.
Palmer knew that this branch of Paiutes had a 5,400-acre reservation, an island inside the boundaries of Navajo Nation. The name of the band came from the San Juan River, which bordered their territory and which they, like the Diné, held sacred. The band had a distinct language, although some tribal members also spoke Navajo, Hopi, and English. They were known for their baskets; many of the wedding baskets used in the traditional Diné marriage ceremony were created by San Juan Paiutes.
Palmer glanced out the truck’s windows into the black night. “Are we going to your house?”
“No, sir, we’re driving to my mother’s place. She’s the one who can tell the story and the one who keeps it safe.”
“How much farther?”
“We’re almost there.”
The truck turned onto a rutted road and bounced over a cattle guard. The road became a track through the sandy soil. Palmer saw the beam from the headlights reflect off the dried vegetation between the tracks and heard the plants scratch the truck’s undercarriage. He looked through the windshield into the velvet evening, no human-made light in sight. That reminded him of the flashlight on his cell phone and that he should have at least called Chee.
He patted his jacket pocket for his phone, then checked his shirt and pants. No luck. He felt around the truck seat.
“Whatcha doing?”
“I think my phone must have fallen out of my pocket.”
“I’ll help you hunt it up when we stop. Those things don’t do nothin’ out here in the sticks anyhow unless you’re lucky. The radio in here used to work. I don’t know what’s gone wrong with it now.” Duke banged on the radio with the palm of his hand and turned the round knob. Palmer heard a click but nothing else. “Getting old like the rest of us.”
Song of the Lion Page 17