by Aimée
Rose smiled. “Like you were?”
Annoyed, Ella turned the conversation back to business. “Mom, I need you to take a look at something connected to an investigation I’m working on. Tell me whatever pops into your head, keeping in mind that there’s supposed to be a secret message here.”
Rose read the pages Ella handed her, then finally looked up. “I don’t know what to make of it. There’s no ending and no obvious moral to this story other than the suggestion that the Dark Ones might end up paying for their betrayals of trust. Some of the animals, such as Trickster, we’ve all heard about in Navajo stories, but I’ve never heard of Gray Wolf and Coyote engaged in bartering or any Dark Ones created in the shade.” She paused. “I can ask Bizaadii,” she said using the nickname she’d given Herman Cloud as a joke—the gabby one. Herman was a quiet man of few words. “I’ll see him tonight.”
“That makes it every single night for two weeks, Mom. It sounds like things are getting hot between you two,” Ella teased, expecting a protest or dismissal.
“He means a great deal to me, daughter,” Rose replied without hesitating. “He and I may make permanent plans. . . .”
“You mean marriage?” Ella gave Rose a shaky smile. She hadn’t expected this day to come so soon.
“Maybe . . . I haven’t decided yet.”
Ella nodded slowly. This was another sign that time was marching on, and the present was as fleeting as dust in the wind. “I’ll see you later, Mom.”
As she walked outside to her unit, Ella’s thoughts weighed her down. Rose had enjoyed two lasting, serious relationships that had shaped who she was and had helped define her. She, on the other hand, had yet to find one that could stand the test of time.
Driving down the dirt road, surrounded by a cloud of dust, she continued to the main highway, then, once she reached the pavement and turned north, picked up speed. She’d traveled a few miles down the empty stretch of road, relatively straight at this point but with occasional low hills to climb and descend, when she spotted a vehicle keeping pace behind her.
Maybe it was because she was cruising at the speed limit and the vehicle following her was satisfied with that. Or maybe it was someone from Shiprock who’d recognized her unit as a tribal police vehicle despite its lack of department markings.
Yet faced with the reality that the carjackers were still out there, a murderer or two among them, Ella speeded up. The vehicle, an SUV, increased its velocity too and kept up—never narrowing the distance between them or allowing it to stretch out beyond visual range.
Ella glanced down at the envelope beside her containing what might have been a dead man’s last written words. It was possible someone wanted to get their hands on those pages before she figured them out. Jimmy Blacksheep’s house had been carefully searched, after all, and the only things known to be missing were stories he’d written before he shipped out.
As she came down a long hill just outside Shiprock, Ella turned at the last minute into a housing area that had grown around a middle school. The vehicle behind her turned as well, following. Ella slowed, as if looking for a house number among the inexpensive tribal development, and called for backup.
Going north, she headed down the street, noting that no children or people were outside in the streets and consequently in danger. When she reached the next intersection, she sped to the left quickly. As she reached the school parking lot, she noted with relief that classes were still in session at this hour and nobody was hanging around outside.
Ella pulled up beside an empty bus, blocked from the street, and waited, her window down, listening. The vehicle that had been following her slowed slightly, then drove on. Eyes still alert for children, she backed up, pulled out into the street, and saw the vehicle that had been following her now moving up the street slowly.
Switching on the sirens and emergency lights, she accelerated and narrowed the distance between them. If he tried to make it to the highway and turned south, she might have a race on her hands, but if he went north, he’d meet officers coming from the Shiprock station. As it was, the driver pulled over to the curb beside one of the area homes and got out of the car.
Seeing Samuel Blacksheep, Ella slammed her hand hard against the steering wheel in anger. Taking a moment to cancel backup, she climbed out of the car.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, going to meet him.
Samuel’s eyes flashed with anger, and his fists were balled up. “Proving you’re not doing your job. You’ve got to find my brother’s killer before the trail goes cold. In murder cases each hour counts—every good cop knows that. Yet here you are on duty driving off to visit your brother and mother. Is that how the tribal PD works these days? Punch in, then go visit your relatives?”
Nothing was as guaranteed to make her lose her temper as having someone outside the department criticize their operation—particularly so unjustly. “Listen to me very carefully, Officer Blacksheep,” she said, biting off the words. “I don’t have to explain how I investigate my cases to anyone outside my department. What you’ve done so far is interfere with my job and behave unprofessionally by working outside your jurisdiction on a case you’d be forbidden to work on. This little stunt of yours has cost me time and manpower I can’t afford to waste. But what really pisses me off is that you’re following me in hopes of getting some leads you can follow up on your own. You’re obviously clueless, because if you knew where to begin you wouldn’t have to follow me, hoping I’d show you the way.”
His face turned red, then redder, but Samuel managed to keep his temper—barely. “I’m working toward the same thing you are—solving my brother’s murder.”
“You’re too close to this case, and you’re going to end up muddying up the trail for me and my team. Back off now. If you bother any of my officers or get in my way, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice. I have no tolerance for this kind of garbage. You get me?”
“He was my brother. I’m not going to just sit back.”
“You have to, and the very fact that you don’t see why that’s necessary, makes you a liability. Go back to your own department. Do the job you’ve been assigned. The carjackings seem to be at the heart of what’s going on and at least half of those have happened over in your jurisdiction. If you want to do something, see what you get on that.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
As he drove away, Ella followed. With one road leading into Shiprock, she’d be behind him for a few miles. Still ticked off about the stunt Samuel had pulled, she stormed into the station a short time later and nearly ran into Big Ed as she went around a corner.
“Sorry, Chief, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Glad you weren’t on the highway. My office,” he said, then as soon as they reached it, waved her to a chair. “What’s happening, Shorty?” He looked down at the report she’d left for him earlier.
Ella gave him the highlights. “If the victim wasn’t singled out and the carjackers are now escalating to murder when it’s expedient, then we have a huge problem on our hands. The thieves are well organized, and very tight-lipped. None of our usual sources seem to know anything about them. So far the gang’s used an attractive woman who flags down a passing motorist—someone driving alone and always in a pickup. They strike in isolated areas, in the early morning hours. The carjackers leave behind the stolen, older sedan they used to lure in their victim and take the target vehicle. The leave-behind car, always an inexpensive sedan, is invariably wiped clean so we’ll have nothing to go on. Intimidation and strong-arming have been part of their M.O., but there’ve been no deaths—until now.”
“From your written report I gather that some of the circumstances were different this last time. No vehicle was left behind, and guns came into play, for instance,” Big Ed said. “That leads me to believe that the murder wasn’t so much a precedent or an indication of things to come, but rather an isolated instance where the violence got out of
hand.”
“You may be right,” she said, “but there’s also a possibility that Jimmy was their real target. Since I’m not sure, I’ve increased patrols in the areas the carjackers have worked in the past. The Dineh Times has also run a story cautioning people not to stop automatically. The Farmington paper ran a similar piece. But the carjackers are targeting rural areas where people may or may not get the paper. There are fewer witnesses there, too, and pickups are almost a given.”
He nodded, lost in thought. “They’ve concentrated on trucks—so why a rental sedan this time?”
“That’s another discrepancy,” Ella said, “and I have no answer for you. Stealing an inexpensive sedan to set up as bait, but then stealing another inexpensive sedan—admittedly a newer model—still doesn’t quite fit their established M.O. Since none of the stolen trucks have been found, we suspect that the ring takes them out of state—maybe even out of the country to Mexico where there’s a thriving market for hot pickups and SUVs, particularly those that can carry a heavy load.”
“And so far no informants?” Big Ed pressed.
She shook her head. “The ring is staying very much under the radar. I’ll be meeting with Agent Blalock next. The FBI has been very interested in the carjackings because of the suspected south-of-the-border connection. That puts it into federal jurisdiction. But Blalock’s working alone again these days, so he’s swamped. None of the younger agents they send stick around for long. Look at the last one, what, six months?”
“Are you surprised? The Four Corners’ beat isn’t exactly a career-maker.”
“True enough,” she admitted. “When I first joined the Bureau I wanted to be on the fast track, too,” she said, then remembered her father’s death—the case that had brought her back for good. Sadness enveloped her as she recalled meeting up with his image again so recently when she’d had her near-death experience. But she pushed back the memory, knowing that the present, not the past, demanded her full attention now. The past couldn’t be changed, the future was yet to be determined—the present was the only place where she could make a difference.
Big Ed looked down at the incomplete Navajo story Jimmy Blacksheep had sent Ella, skimming it for several minutes before looking up again. “He was trying to tell you something and you’ve got to figure out what that is.”
“I’ll keep digging,” Ella said.
Big Ed nodded. “What about the other members of his Guard unit? What do they have to say?”
“I’ve only interviewed one so far, his platoon lieutenant—whose civilian job is with FPD. Justine got a list for me, and I’ll be paying the others a visit starting with the Navajos living on the Rez. All were from his section, or at least his platoon, I believe.”
“And his sergeant?”
“Name’s Kent Miller, also an FPD officer. The man’s supposedly unwinding—gone fishing—but Farmington PD has somebody trying to track him down. Miller’s not with family, and nobody knows where he might be. There are a lot of places to fish around here.”
“Especially when you include southern Colorado. Keep on it.”
After leaving the chief’s office, Ella went directly to Justine’s lab. “Anything new for me?”
“Jimmy Blacksheep didn’t check in at any area motels. Tache and I called every place in Farmington and on his route here within an hour of travel time. And we stopped at places next to river crossings and where ditches or ponds were close to the road. Nobody saw any impromptu bathers today or last night.”
Ella nodded, frustrated, but tried not to show it.
“I’ve finished processing the evidence, but you’ve already got everything I have, Ella. I did find out that Randy Billey, one of the men who served with Blacksheep, got a hero’s welcome at the Cudei Chapter House when he was well enough to return home, following recovery from his wounds. He’s severely disabled now, and next week he’s headed for a rehab program the Army has set up for GI’s and Marines at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington. His wife is going with him.”
Ella nodded. “I heard about Randy’s return, but I can’t remember what . . .”
“He saved three other soldiers who were trapped when their supply truck got hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. He got shot up in the process and lost use of his legs, and one of his arms. Randy’s been home a month now, so he wasn’t with the unit when they shipped back.”
“But they spent months together in Iraq, and Randy was in Jimmy’s section, so he might know something. I want to go see him today. Who else have we got in this area from that unit?”
“John Lee Charley.”
Ella nodded. “Wasn’t he one of the guys we hauled in on a drunk-and-disorderly over near the chapter house a few days ago?” Ella asked.
“Yeah. His enlistment was up a week ahead of most of the others, so, unlike Jimmy, he was discharged as soon as the unit returned. John sure ruffled some feathers at the chapter house. Always had a wild streak a mile long. Guess the military didn’t settle him down any. Glad to be rid of him, probably.”
“Do you know these men?”
“In passing. They’re friends of Jayne’s. She dated John Lee for quite a while,” Justine said, with a sigh. Jayne was Justine’s sister, and Justine’s polar opposite. Jayne had her own wild streak, and it was no secret that the two sisters were often at odds. “I’ve got their addresses. Shall we go pay them a visit?”
“Yeah—but we’re going to have to tread carefully. To the tribe, those men are heroes because of their service in a war zone. If any soldiers are involved in what happened to the deceased, we’re going to have to get some very solid evidence before we make any waves,” Ella said.
“Randy can be ruled out, I’d guess, because of his injuries. And I’m not sure what, if anything, he’ll want to talk about. He got a silver star, by the way, but I’m told he left it in the box and never looks at it.”
“That isn’t unusual. Many vets do the same,” Ella responded. The medals represented nightmares they’d relive for the rest of their lives—a time when they’d seen friends die. Medals were for the public, who often needed heroes. They were a symbol that was held up for others to see—a standard in an age where few ever rose to the level of courage and honor where special recognition was due. But the label of a hero could also demand that the recipient meet the expectations of others. The public wanted the larger-than-life fantasy of legendary deeds of war, but the reality was much more down to earth, stained with blood, pain, and the stench of death.
Justine nodded. “Soiling the reps of any returning soldiers will put the entire department on risky political ground, and it could hurt our community support.”
“We’ll be careful but we can’t afford to let anything keep us from doing our jobs. If the killers are Navajos, I’m going to nail them to the wall—whether or not they were soldiers.”
“Let’s go talk to them,” Justine said.
“I need to stop by Agent Blalock’s office first,” Ella said.
“Okay.”
While Justine drove, Ella considered everything she’d learned. Instinct told her they’d barely scratched the surface, and there might be a dozen or more witnesses with important information still untapped. As usual, the pressure to find answers mounted with each passing hour.
Realizing that time was critical, she used her cell phone to call Tache and Sergeant Neskahi, giving them potential witnesses from Jimmy Blacksheep’s unit to interview. They were to report their findings to her in writing, by phone if the information was more immediate and critical.
They arrived at Agent Dwayne Blalock’s Bureau office, atop the mesa north of the river, a short time later. The generic brown brick-and-glass office was located in a row of several tribal agency buildings, part of a complex that once had held a boarding school.
Dwayne Blalock had earned her respect over the years. He worked hard and expected a lot from himself and any other resident agent assigned to his office—which partially explained why none of the younger agents
who came ever stayed. The other half of the explanation, as Big Ed had pointed out earlier, was that no agent in the Bureau ever moved up the ladder by handling cases here. If you wanted advancement, you needed to be in the New York, Chicago, DC, or LA offices.
As they walked in, Ella saw the middle-aged but fit-looking Agent Blalock at his old metal desk, phone in hand. Blalock looked up at her and Justine, nodded, and waved them toward chairs. The office had held two agents, but even pared down to one again, it seemed small. At least he had a window.
As Blalock hung up and looked over at her, Ella was reminded of why the Navajos had nicknamed him FB-Eyes. A hard-edged but good-looking man with a tinge of gray around the temples, Blalock had one brown eye and one blue. “I’ve been cross-referencing the blood types Justine found on the scene,” he said.
“Cross-referencing them against what?” Ella asked.
“I took a shot in the dark and decided to take a closer look at the other men in Jimmy Blacksheep’s unit—at least in his platoon. I figured that was something I could do to get the ball rolling in another investigative direction, just in case the carjackers weren’t in on this.”
“And the Army gave you the men’s records?” Justine asked, surprised.
“No, not ‘gave’, not exactly. I went around the usual roadblocks and got the information unofficially.”
“How—” Ella started, then clamped her mouth shut when he held up a hand. “Never mind. Forget I asked.” She looked over at Justine, who rolled her eyes.
“Here’s what I’ve got, though you two already know the first part. The deceased had blood type O, so that leaves the source for type B as unknown. Based on my information none of the men from his unit who live in this immediate area have type B blood.”
Ella sat back and regarded him thoughtfully. “That brings us back to the carjacking ring. These perps are careful and they’re savvy. I would have added cool under pressure, too, but the thing with Jimmy puts that under question.”