by Don Travis
MRS. W. and her guest both seemed to be getting along fine. He complained—albeit mildly—about all the vitamins and minerals she’d stuffed down him, but he was more relaxed than yesterday.
“I talked to Klah,” he volunteered after we took places around the kitchen table with some of the promised cookies on small plates before us. She’d decided that cold milk went better with her rich cookies than coffee and provided tumblers of cow juice. After a taste of each, I couldn’t argue with her logic.
“Everything okay with the Hatahles?” I asked.
“Yeah. No strangers knocking on the door. Can Klah go with us to the rez?”
“I know you’re anxious to see him again, but this thing isn’t over. Do you want to put him in danger?”
Jazz sighed, and I could see a bout of depression approaching despite being loaded up on vitamins. “No. Can’t do that.”
“We’re leaving for the Double Eagle Airport early. I want to be in the air by eight o’clock. Lieutenant Enriquez is going to pick us up at seven. He’ll accompany us.”
“Will I be under arrest?”
“No, but if the tribal police have been asked to hold you for APD, then APD will be right there with us.” The room fell silent as I eyed Jazz across the table. “Why didn’t you tell us about Jonas Hartz and his wife?”
“Who?”
“The couple who fed you and allowed you to sleep in their barn.”
He sat straight as if hit by a cattle prod. “Jeez, BJ, I didn’t remember them. Didn’t even know their names. I’d… I’d been off the green tea and some of the vitamins for a couple of days by then. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Charlie found them and showed them your photo. They alibied you for the day Nesposito was murdered.”
“Thank the Lord,” Mrs. W. murmured as she patted Jazz’s hand. “The rest of you need some more cookies, but it’s time for this fellow’s special snack.” She left the table and returned with a tin of chocolate chips for us and a saucer loaded with slices of beets, broccoli florets, chick peas, almonds, and some unidentified items for Jazz. He sighed but didn’t argue, merely picked through the plate, trying to act as if he enjoyed the things.
Then she told us in no uncertain terms that Jazz needed to be in a recovery program where they could deal with some of the psychological problems she’d observed.
THE NEXT morning, Gene picked Paul and me up before driving around to the alley behind Mrs. W.’s house. Jazz, looking a thousand percent better than yesterday, hopped into the front seat of the APD Ford with Gene. Mrs. W. pressed a thermos and small knapsack on him, which undoubtedly contained things needed for his anti-inflammatory diet. I put him in the front seat because I knew my old APD partner was anxious to grill Jazz and wasn’t about to wait until we were airborne to start asking questions. In fact, he asked the first before we were out of the alley.
“You sure Silver Wings is one of the Haldemains?”
“Not sure of anything, sir, except that one of the photos BJ showed me is Silver Wings. You’ll have to ask him about the name.”
“We don’t have time to dance around the barn, son. Just answer my questions.”
“Yes, sir. But I want to answer them exactly. If I said I knew his name was—”
“Okay, okay. We got the ground rules down. Do you think you could identify which brother he is if you saw him in person?”
“If I saw him and heard him speak, yes, sir.”
Gene spoke over his shoulder. “BJ, Roscoe’s in district court this morning. We could swing by and let Jazz have a gander.”
“Tempting, but we’ve already delayed the Navajo Tribal Police once. Don’t want to do it again.”
“Okay, Double Eagle Airport it is.”
On the twenty-minute ride, Gene peppered Jazz with questions. I knew why he zeroed in on the August 17 time period, but Jazz did not. That was the day the massacre at My Other Home Motel took place. Jazz wasn’t much help, because he’d been turned over to Silver Wings by then and was confined to a small house at the back of a big backyard fronted by a mansion surrounded by a big adobe wall. Originally he’d been locked in, although later the door was left unsecured. He confirmed that the man called Tom who attended Wings’ pool parties was Bolton four different times when Gene asked the question four different ways.
Then he popped the same question over his shoulder at me. “No question in your mind it was Bolton?”
Jazz answered for me. “The uniform in the picture changed things some, but the man in the picture was the one called Tom.”
“There you go,” I said.
“Was Bolton… uh, Tom, present at the same time Zimmerman was there?” Gene asked.
“The cop I saw at To’hajiilee?” Jazz asked. “He was only there once. At the last pool party, as a matter of fact. That’s when Chip… uh, Zimmerman tried to rape me, but I put him on his ass. And yeah, Tom was there. Uh… Bolton, that is.”
Gene snorted. “No wonder Zim’s got a hard—uh, is looking for you so hard. He can’t put up with that kind of shit.”
Jim was waiting for us when we arrived. He hustled us aboard his Cessna 206 Stationair and fired up the engine. In minutes we were airborne and headed northwest toward Farmington. Gene kept questioning Jazz until we set down at the Four Corners Regional Airport, where Detective Lonzo Joe loaded us aboard a San Juan County SUV and plied questions of his own as he raced toward the Navajo Reservation. Christ! By the time Jazz was finished with today, he’d be picked to the bone.
DETECTIVE ELMORE Peshlakai—stocky, jowly, and swarthy—didn’t look very impressive, unless you were on the other side of a wrestling match with him, but it wasn’t long before I understood the apparent esteem Lonzo Joe accorded him. The man peered out of the most unreadable eyes I’d ever seen on a human being as he picked apart and put back together the affidavits I’d brought. And when he learned Charlie obtained one of them, he got my partner on the line and put him through the paces. Once satisfied with those, he relegated my party to the waiting room while he disappeared with Jazz for an interview. I belatedly wondered if I should have brought Del Dahlman with me. He always claimed he wasn’t a criminal lawyer, but he’d pulled my legal butt out of the fire more than once.
After a few minutes, Peshlakai returned and invited Lonzo and Gene to join him. I sat and watched Paul stew and fume and pace restlessly. I nursed some angst as well, but I’d learned to hold mine inside until the crisis was past. Then I could blow.
After two hours, Henry and an older version of Henry came through the station’s double doors. In minutes I shook hands with the legendary Louie Secatero, Jazz’s and Henry’s father. He was as devastatingly handsome as his sons but with a more mature air. They sure made them good in the Secatero clan.
“How’d you know we were here?” Paul asked after things settled down.
“Hell, the whole reservation knows you’re here. As soon as we heard, I called Dad and we started out.”
“Don’t tell me, Louie has a motorcycle too,” I said.
“Damned right. Best way to get around before the snow falls,” the older Secatero said. “Then I drive my truck.” Louie’s voice was more gravelly than Henry’s, which was heavier than Jazz’s. “Can’t tell you how much we appreciate you finding Jazz for us. Bound to have run up a bill. You let me know how much, and I’ll collect some funds from around the family.”
“Mr. Secatero—Louie—Jazz and Henry did me a hell of a favor a few years back when I was searching for a fellow who was lost and hurt. Put themselves on the line for me with the law when we located him. Jazz doesn’t owe me anything.”
“They got paid for what they done. You ought to be too.”
I thought for a minute. “Tell you what, Louie. There is something you can do. There’s a couple down in To’hajiilee who took Jazz in and gave him shelter. The woman started him on the road to recovery from the drugs the kidnappers hooked him on. She sold a family heirloom, an old squash blossom necklace, to help him. Can you c
heck and see if we can get it back to her?”
“Who is she?”
“Dibe Hatahle.”
“The hand trembler? Who’d she sell it to?”
“If I remember right, a man named Abbo. Hosteen Abbo.”
Louie scowled briefly. “It’s done. I’ll take care of it.”
The blunt way he said it gave me a quick chill down my spine. “Uh….”
“He’ll sell it to us,” Henry said. “We know the family.”
“If you need any help from me, let me know,” I said.
“Won’t need any. But thanks.”
Peshlakai walked into the room at that moment, followed by Jazz, Gene, and Lonzo. Jazz looked worse for the wear. A smile played at the corners of Jazz’s broad mouth when he spotted his father and brother, but the Navajos kept their “Indian face.” Gene gave me an almost imperceptible nod of the head.
Apparently the Secateros and the Shiprock detective knew one another, and I didn’t want to inquire how. They were reasonably civil to one another, but Louie’s “What about my boy?” held a little aggression.
“He’s free to go. He didn’t have anything to do with old Hard Hat’s murder. But the murder might have something to do with him.”
Louie let out a grunt. “Huh?”
“That warlock was trying to run down Jazz for somebody in the outside world. Somehow that got him killed. They’d tried it once before”—he threw a thumb at Lonzo—“but Detective Joe here chased the killer off before he could do more than throw a couple of rounds at the old man. Apparently the bozo finished the job out on Black Hole Canyon later.”
Peshlakai half turned and glanced at Henry. “Course, that don’t mean this one didn’t do the deed for his brother.” He favored Louie with a blank-eyed stare. “Or you, for that matter.”
“Pesh, we been all over this before. We didn’t do it, and you ain’t got nothing that says we did.”
“You’re right. Not yet. But Jazz is clear of it. You can all go.”
WE TOOK Jazz by his house in Farmington to briefly reunite him with his mother and uncle. The situation was too dangerous to let him stay permanently, and the jury was still out as to whether he would go deeper into the reservation with his brother or return to Albuquerque with Paul and me.
Eunice Penrod was still the small, shy woman I saw three years ago, but she had aged. More lines in her pleasant face, nervous starts of the hands now and then… doubtless due to her son’s disappearance. She folded her tall, handsome son in her arms and cried softly on his shoulder as he murmured reassurances.
Riley, her brother and Jazz’s uncle, hadn’t pumped up his six-foot stature, but he’d added twenty pounds. Still, he looked like someone you didn’t want to mess around with. His eyes lit up a little as he watched mother and son engage.
“Glad you found him. He looks good.” Riley addressed the words in my general direction.
“He’s recovered some,” I said. “But he’s not free of the cocaine yet.”
“Don’t know if he’ll ever be,” Paul put in.
“Damned bastards!” Riley fumed. “Don’t see how they got him hooked. That boy never even tried marijuana, much less the harder stuff.”
“They’re good at manipulating people,” Gene said.
“Hope you got the whole damned bunch of them in jail.”
“Not yet,” Gene came back at him.
While the Penrods reconnected, the five of us stood in the small front yard of the neat cigar-box house that looked like every other residence on the street… except for the trellis roses Eunice nurtured on either side of the front door. Henry got us started.
“I think he oughta come with Louie and me. We can put him so deep on the rez nobody’ll ever find him.”
“Except another Navajo,” Lonzo Joe said. “And you’ll be surrounded by them.”
“And not a one of them will lay a hand on him,” Louie said.
“Don’t kid yourself,” the county detective responded. “The traffickers have already replaced Nesposito. Probably with more than one. I’m sure Hard Hat wasn’t in this all alone. And we won’t know who they’ll be. Not for a while. In the meantime, they’re free to hunt him down for their Albuquerque bosses.”
“And don’t forget,” Gene added. “We need Jazz to identify Silver Wings. He’s got it narrowed down to two men, but we’ve got to be sure we pick up the right one.”
“So who’s going to protect him in Albuquerque? You?” Henry snorted. “I hear APD’s in this thing up to their ears.”
Gene flushed. “Yeah. Just like you Navajos have some bad apples, so do we. But we know who they are now. We just have to root them out.”
“That’s not going to be easy, is it?” Paul asked.
“No, but we’ll stop the rot.”
“BJ, what do you think?” Henry asked.
“Jazz and I talked this over some. There’s nothing he wants more than to snag Silver Wings. He wants him locked up and the key thrown away. He can’t help us do that from the reservation.”
“What about the danger?” Louie asked. I’d always held the opinion that the man more or less abandoned Jazz and his mother except for some financial help, but I began to understand that as he’d gotten to know his son over the last few years, he was more engaged… more of a father.
“I believe we can protect him. I trust Lieutenant Enriquez, and he knows who to trust inside the department. Jazz doesn’t stay with Paul and me, but he’s nearby where we can show up in a moment’s notice. I believe he’ll be safe with us.”
A few minutes later, Jazz came outside and put an end to the speculation. “I’m not gonna live my life hiding out. I’m going back to Albuquerque and put those sons a bitches away.”
ONCE JIM Gray got us airborne and headed toward Albuquerque, Gene and I did some strategizing. He didn’t say much about his talk with the police chief, which I understood and honored. But I got the feeling they’d agreed to delay bringing in Internal Affairs. Gene had a little time, but not much. There was always the possibility Bolton would go to IA on his own to lodge a complaint against Gene.
“I don’t think so, BJ. So long as they don’t think I’m proceeding against them, I believe Bolton will let sleeping dogs lie. A move like that would assure him I’d lodge a complaint, and he’d be down in the swamp right along with me. If we can proceed quietly, then we’ve got some time.”
“Not sure how to proceed quietly. Once you start asking questions—”
“I’m not. You are.”
“Okay, and the place to start might be the CAHT. Betsy Brockmire.”
“Are you thinking of taking Jazz into the lion’s den?”
“Why not? He can face the two Haldemains and pick out Silver Wings.”
“I dunno, BJ. It’ll be Jazz’s word against that of a prominent attorney. Who do you think’s gonna be believed?”
“Jazz can describe the guy right down to the way his testicles hang.”
“How the hell do you get a judge to agree to make a man disrobe for a personal inspection of his gonads? And that’s not exactly proceeding quietly.”
“No, but the best way to keep Jazz safe is to get his testimony on record.”
“I know some people who’ll argue with you about that.”
“Okay, what do you think about us meeting Betsy outside the office and having a private talk with her?”
“Better. But you’re assuming the whole bunch isn’t tainted. What if she’s a part of it? What if the whole council is?’
“I’m open to suggestions. But if there’s a reaction, it won’t be through the Albuquerque Police Department. It’ll be a face-off. Maybe a deadly one.”
“Eat your words! Don’t talk like that.” Gene relented. “But in view of the killings at the west-side motel and Nesposito’s death, you may be right. Hard to believe anyone at APD’s involved to that extent.”
“Who was in charge of investigating the My Other Home Motel killings?”
Gene screwed his
face into a scowl. “Bolton. All right, I’ve got an open mind. So who’s gonna call Betsy?”
“I will.”
Chapter 33
EVEN THOUGH autumn did not officially start for five more days, Betsy already celebrated the season when she walked into Elderberry’s Kocina on North Fourth wearing a white blouse with an orange-and-brown leaf pattern. Harvey Elderberry obviously wasn’t Spanish, and he’d perverted the Spanish word cocina by spelling it with a K, but he served good food in an out-of-the-way location. And his place was as rich in delectable odors as any other Mexican food place in Albuquerque. Gene and I stood as Betsy made her way to us. Jazz and Paul sat at a nearby table.
She acknowledged us and then started in on me about insisting on lunch on such short notice. “I hope it’s something important,” she finished.
I beckoned toward Paul and Jazz. “Gene and I think it is. Betsy, I’d like you to meet my companion, Paul Barton.”
She gave him a sweet smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“And this is Jazz Penrod.”
Her eyes went owlish. “The Jazz Penrod?”
“One and the same. The object of our search. Jazz, meet Betsy Brockmire of the Citizens Council Against Human Trafficking.”
He smiled, dimpling one cheek. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Thank goodness you’re safe! Tell me what happened.”
“Sit down, guys. This is going to take a while, so we’d better eat first.” By design, Jazz took a seat at her left.
“Just a bowl of posole for me,” Betsy said. “I want to hear his story.”
Once we were through the rushed meal, I handled the discovery bit, explaining how we’d managed to run Jazz down and get him to relative safety. After that, Jazz told her what she really wanted to know. How he’d been snared, trapped, and exploited. I was proud of him. He told it all logically and methodically, withholding nothing and carefully choosing words so as not to sound vulgar. He flushed at times, went pale at other times, and grew morose during the telling, but it all came out.