Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  Those piercing blue eyes were his most striking feature, and they were thoroughly taking in everything within sight. They swiftly completed their scan of the area before their owner turned back as someone on board handed down two black bags. One looked to be a folded-over garment bag and the second looked more like a satchel, which was quickly slung over a shoulder as he hefted the first bag and headed toward her.

  “Agent Del Rio?” she said, extending her hand as he neared. “I’m Lucy Chee, Navajo Nation Police. Welcome to New Mexico. I’ve been assigned to drive you wherever you need to go.”

  “Well,” he replied with a slight smile as he shook her hand, “since we’ll be working together, call me Jack. I have to admit I haven’t had a prettier babysitter.”

  “Agent Del Rio, I wasn’t assigned to ‘baby…’” she began to protest before he cut her off.

  “Officer Chee,” he said gently, “this is your case on your turf, and now some outsider has been called in. If our roles were reversed, I’d be pretty pissed off about it. I’m betting you and just about everyone else in your department is, too, correct?”

  “I wouldn’t say pissed,” she allowed.

  “Ok then, not pleased at the very least,” he replied. “Worse yet, here you are having to lug me around everywhere, all the while keeping an eye on me to report back to your superiors.

  “Look,” he continued, taking her silence as confirmation, “I’m not here to showboat or put your department down or make anyone look bad. I’m here for one reason, to do what I can to help put whoever is responsible for three murders behind bars. That’s my one and only agenda here. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she replied after a moment.

  “Good,” he said, opening the rear passenger door and setting his bags on the seat. “Then we can be friends. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. I need to meet with your President and then I want to see all three crime scenes. You can call me Jack.”

  She shook her head as she made her way to the driver’s side while he climbed into the passenger seat. He was definitely a charmer, not that she was going to let him get away with anything. As she got in, she took off her brown Smokey Bear hat that was standard with the tan uniform of the NNPD. Normally, she would deposit the hat in the passenger seat; as it was occupied, she flipped it up onto the dashboard in front of her and started the engine.

  “So,” Del Rio said, “where to first?”

  “First,” she said, pulling around the terminal and heading for the exit, “we make a little detour. A meeting has been requested between you, the mayor of Gallup, the Chief of Police for Gallup PD, and the McKinley County Sheriff here in town before we head out to the Res., which is why your plane landed here in New Mexico instead of twenty miles west of here over in Arizona.”

  “I had wondered about the last minute change in itinerary,” Del Rio remarked dryly.

  “This town depends on two sources of income,” Chee replied. “Shopping from people coming in off the Res, and the money spent here by tourists.”

  “Ah yes, nothing scares a politician more than a threat to the money tree,” Del Rio said with a sigh, just noticing as he looked Chee’s way the color of her hair — wrapped in a tight bun that had fit under her hat — was the same color as the woman’s hair in the dream he’d had two nights before.

  Nonsense, he chided himself, even if the length of the hair is the same you never saw her face. Even as he tried to dismiss the line of thought, it occurred to him that Chee was about the same height and build as the woman in the dream. Before he could sort out why he was trying so hard to connect the two, Chee caught him staring at her.

  “What?”

  “Officer Chee, Navajo Police,” Del Rio replied quickly, hoping he wasn’t blushing at having been caught staring, “the name sounds familiar for some reason.”

  “It’s the same name as a character in a bunch of western mysteries,” Chee said with the air of someone who’d been asked the same question too many times, “and no, I’m not related.”

  “It gets old doesn’t it,” Del Rio said adding, as she shot him a ‘how would you know’ look, “I get people all the time asking me why I quit coaching pro football to join the FBI. So, was that why you became a cop, because you had the same last name as a fictional cop?”

  “No,” she replied softly. “I wanted to be a cop ever since I was six, when my parents were killed and they never found out who did it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Del Rio said after a few quiet moments. “What happened?”

  “They’d left me with my grandmother one night; wanted to go out for dinner, have some time for themselves. They were supposed to pick me up first thing in the morning, but they never came back.

  “They were found by the side of the road, their car miles away from where they’d been killed. They had been stabbed and left for dead, nothing stolen and nothing else done to them. Just killed and discarded. The NNPD detective working the case kept looking right up until he retired. They sent an FBI Agent up from Phoenix who went home after a few days. So now it’s a cold case and all we have is a unique knife pattern that has never been found on any other victims that we know of.”

  “So he, or they, were either very lucky or very good,” Del Rio said. “You said it was a cold case, and yet you keep looking?”

  “Every time there’s any kind of assault with a knife,” Chee said, “I check the wound hoping it will match the knife that killed my parents. With each passing year, I worry the guy is already dead, or in prison for something else, and I’ll never find him, or even worse, he hasn’t been caught and has changed the way he kills, or gotten rid of the knife and we’ll never tie it to him.”

  “So you became a cop to try to find their killer while trying to make sure another little girl never had to grow up without her parents?”

  “Yeah,” Chee said, shooting a look at Del Rio as she pulled up to a red light, “something like that. So why did you become an Agent?”

  “One of my father’s best friends was an FBI Agent,” Del Rio replied. “I never got tired of hearing his stories; finally realized that’s what I wanted to be. Out there solving crimes and putting bad guys in jail. He helped point me in the right direction, and here I am.”

  “Your father was a cop, too?”

  “No, my old man’s talents lay in finance. Take away everything from him save for one dime and he could turn it into a small fortune and not even break a sweat doing it. If he ever made a wrong move, I never heard of it. Made himself and a lot of people a lot of money. More importantly, he helped a lot of charities generate the kind of money they needed to make a real difference.”

  “He wasn’t disappointed that you didn’t go into the same business?”

  “No, my parents knew where I was going career-wise, and they were okay with it.”

  Chee had caught the past tense in both word and tone, and guessed some of what was coming next.

  “When I was eighteen,” he continued, “my parents went out for an afternoon sail. They came back the next day on a Coast Guard cutter, in black body bags. To this day, no one knows exactly what happened out there, and there’ll never be any way to know for sure.”

  Chee stopped at another red light, and took advantage of the location to change the subject and lighten the mood.

  “That’s where you’ll be staying,” she said, a wave of her hand indicating a building to Del Rio’s right. “They’ve got a two-room suite all set up for you.”

  Del Rio looked out the window with some concern. The hotel looked like something that might have been brand new in the nineteenth century, resembling an old west ranch house with another ranch house stacked on the top. Despite looking like it was well-kept, Del Rio wasn’t sure the sign above the entrance was telling the truth about its purpose.

  “The El Rancho,” Del Rio read aloud. “You don’t have hotels out in Window Rock?”

  “We do,” Chee said, trying not to laugh at the look on his face, “but the President wanted you to st
ay here since you would be doing some work in town anyway. Besides, it’s a really nice place. They used to film a lot of the old westerns out this way and a lot of Hollywood stars stayed here. They’ve got their pictures on the wall. The rooms are named after those that have stayed there. It’s got a lot of charm.”

  “I don’t wonder,” Del Rio said as a thought occurred. “Does it strike you as a little odd that Yazzie seems to be looking for help away from the very people he should be looking toward instead? I wonder if he has an idea that the solution to this is a little too close to home?”

  Chee had no answer as the light turned green and she continued on to their destination. He did have a point though and she began wondering why Yazzie was reaching for outside help. Two blocks later she pulled into the driveway of a restaurant and parked the car.

  “Richard’s Cafe,” Del Rio said. “I take it Mr. Richard’s establishment is the place to go in Gallup?”

  “It is for some people,” Chee answered, “but it’s owned by the Earl family. No Mr. Richard, not even a Richard Earl, is to be found anywhere in the family tree.”

  “So why is it called Richard’s?”

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “Ah. Gotta love Small Town, USA,” Del Rio said with a shake of his head. “Let’s set that particular mystery aside for later then. What are those people doing over there?”

  Del Rio pointed at a group of people busy setting up folding tables in front of the restaurant.

  “They’re vendors,” Chee explained. “They’re mostly people from all the three of the reservations around here, Navajo, Zuni and Hopi, that come in to town to sell their wares; jewelry mostly, but some pottery and other things they make by hand that they sell to the tourists who eat here. You’ll see them walking around inside with trays that you can buy from, too.”

  “Really? The restaurant is fine with that?”

  “They’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember. Feel like you’re in a foreign country yet?”

  “Not yet,” he allowed, “but we’re getting there. Well, let’s not keep our hosts waiting.”

  They walked on in and were quickly accosted by the manager, who’d evidently been waiting for them.

  “Welcome to Richard’s. You must be Agent Del Rio,” the man said. “The mayor and his party is right this way.”

  Del Rio paused to let Chee go ahead and was surprised when she made no move to follow the manager.

  “I believe they wanted to see you alone.”

  “Well that’s just too bad,” Del Rio replied. “You’re a cop, you’ve been assigned to work with me. Where I go in this investigation is also where you go. Besides, I might find myself in need of a translator from Western US civilization to Eastern US civilization that I can trust. So come on.”

  “They’re not going to like it,” she warned. “They tolerate the people from the three local tribes around here. It doesn’t mean they’d shed a tear if we all suddenly just packed up and left. Tourism be damned.”

  Del Rio let a long-suffering sigh escape that told her what he thought of local politics in general, and of the politics connected to this case in particular, as he followed her into the back area of the restaurant. The manager led them to a large table where three older men were already seated who had apparently just finished eating their breakfasts.

  Del Rio noticed the same annoyed look pass across all three of the men’s faces as Chee seated herself across the table from them. He took a seat next to her, wondering if what they had intended to say to him was now being heavily edited with Chee’s uninvited presence at the table, and sat directly across from the only one of the three men not wearing a uniform.

  “Mayor Hollinger,” Del Rio said to the older man — he’d spent the flight out familiarizing himself with all of the players he was likely to come into contact with — and then swept his eyes down the table at the other two. “Sheriff Nelson, Chief Begay. What can I do for you?”

  “Agent Del Rio,” the Mayor, a pale heavy-set man in his seventies, began despite his surprise at not having to do any introductions, “we wanted to welcome you to Gallup and let you know that anything you need while you’re here is yours for the asking. First, let’s get you some breakfast. I doubt they had much of anything on that little plane.”

  Del Rio’s eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. The plane was far from little, but he hadn’t eaten since dinner with Steve almost twelve hours ago, so he didn’t protest when the mayor flagged down a waitress to take his order.

  “You eat light,” Chief Begay remarked after Del Rio had ordered a bowl of fruit, toast and black coffee. Chee settled on coffee as she had eaten before Del Rio had landed.

  “I was never much of one for eating a big meal early in the morning,” Del Rio explained with a shrug. “I like to sneak up on my food as the day progresses.”

  The cook must have been given a heads up because Del Rio’s order appeared in front of him in record time. He listened to the three men while he ate, only once joining the conversation when the subject of Runningelk’s scheduled autopsy for later that afternoon was brought up. Del Rio caught Chee’s flinch at the name, made a mental note to ask her about it later when they were alone and moved on.

  “I’ll want to be there,” Del Rio said. “I’ll also need copies of everything you have so far. Notes, reports, whatever you have, no matter how loosely related to the case it may seem to be. I’ll pick them up after the autopsy is done.”

  “Of course,” Sheriff Nelson said.

  Other than that, the meeting had turned out to be exactly what he’d feared. The three men weren’t concerned over three dead Indians, only the economic impact any additional murders would have on their city’s bottom line. The underlying tone had been, at least it had seemed to Del Rio, that the Navajo could kill themselves off all they wanted as long as they kept it out on the reservation and out of the town. Chee tightly clamped together her hands, holding them in her lap below the table. Her reaction confirmed that Del Rio hadn’t misread his hosts. He was looking for a graceful exit to end what had been a waste of time for the most part when he noticed a young girl, no more than ten years old, dressed in a colorfully-patterned Navajo shirt and blue jeans, walking around the tables with a large white tray in her hands that was nearly as wide as her height.

  So far no one in the restaurant had taken the time to even glance at whatever it was she was trying to sell. It appeared that it had been the case for her for the entire morning. There was a sad but determined look on her face that was nearly as large as the red-rimmed eyeglasses she wore as she walked around the tables.

  “You don’t have child labor laws in this state?” Del Rio asked Hollinger. Chee thought she heard a slight edge of anger in his voice.

  “The kids come in and help,” Hollinger said. “It’s the family business after all. Besides who can say no to a child?”

  Del Rio refrained from pointing out that everyone currently in the room obviously seemed to fit that description quite well. Instead he waited until she looked in their direction and waved her over, ignoring whatever remark Nelson had just made. It hadn’t sounded very polite anyway, and Chee was doing a good job giving Nelson a dirty look on his behalf. The young girl nearly sprinted to the table, excited to finally have attracted the attention of a potential sale. She placed the tray on the table and waited to see what, if anything, Del Rio would be interested in.

  “Hello young lady,” Del Rio said, looking over the tray of necklaces, earrings, rings and small rock carvings shaped like animals. Everyone else at the table sat and watched Del Rio, curious to see what he was up to. “What’s your name?”

  “Anna,” she answered shyly.

  “Anna, that’s a pretty name.” Del Rio said as he looked over the tray. “Anna, I have a friend who loves jewelry with purple stones in it. I see a necklace and earrings in your tray that she’d love to wear. Did you make them?”

  “No,” the girl answered. “My mother made all the necklaces
and earrings in here.”

  “Well, your mother did a very good job,” Del Rio said. “Did you make anything here?”

  “I did all of these,” she replied, indicating the small box of animal rock carvings.

  “Well, I’ve never seen anything better,” Del Rio said. “I especially like this one right here.”

  He reached into the tray plucking out a small, white buffalo carved from a smooth white stone with turquoise eyes and horns glued on. She had carved grooves into the rock to give it a shaggy look near the head. It was barely two inches in length and less than that again in height; very well done. For a ten-year-old, the girl had remarkable talent.

  “I have a special spot on my desk at home that would be just perfect for him,” Del Rio said as the girl beamed with pride. “So Anna, how much for all three?”

  He’d seen the price tags already and knew the answer. He also had a pretty good idea as to how it worked. Set the prices high and let yourself be talked down to the acceptable price, letting the customer think they had gotten a bargain. He waited as she added up the amounts in her head.

  “That would be eighty but…,” she began, ready to trim the price down, but Del Rio cut her off.

  “Eighty sounds just right,” he said. “Do you have a box we can put them in?”

  The girl quickly produced two white boxes, placing the silver necklace with the oval purple stone and matching earrings in the longer of the two. The buffalo, with some extra cotton padding, went in the smaller box. While she did that, Del Rio had pulled out several bills from his wallet.

  “Here is the eighty I owe you,” he said as they exchanged boxes for bills. As she put the money in a slot under the tray, and before she could turn away to head for another table, Del Rio lightly touched her arm to stop her. “And this,” he said, producing a fifth twenty, “is solely for the artist that created such a beautiful thing as that white buffalo.”