Day of the Dead

by J. A. Jance

  By then Delia had collected herself and she was able to smile back. “Yes,” she said. “Things have changed.”

  Gabe Ortiz told her about his position with the tribe and explained how he’d come to Washington for an Indian gaming conference, but that still didn’t make clear to Delia why he’d come looking for her.

  “Did my mother’s aunt Julia send you?” she asked.

  Fat Crack searched her face in a way that made Delia feel he was peering into her soul. “Yes,” he admitted finally. “Julia Joaquin did ask me to drop by. She’s concerned about you. She wanted to know whether or not you’re happy, but that’s not why we’re having this talk.”

  Delia felt a sudden rush of anger. She barely knew her busybody great-aunt. Had Delia passed Julia Joaquin on the street, she doubted she’d recognize her, yet Aunt Julia felt she could interfere in Delia’s private affairs. It took a moment for Delia to realize Fat Crack had stopped talking and was waiting for her response.

  “Why are we?” she asked finally.

  “Have you ever thought about coming back to the reservation?” Fat Crack asked.

  Delia shook her head. “Never,” she said. “I like D.C. I love my job, and I haven’t been near the reservation in years. Why would I want to go back there?”

  “Your aunt tells me that you’re very bright, that you’re working as a lawyer for the BIA. What do you do there?”

  “I study treaties,” she said, relaxing a little. “My job is to try to make sure agreements that were supposed to last as long as the ‘grass shall grow and rivers flow’ continue to have meaning in the modern world. If a tribe signed a treaty about fishing rights a hundred years ago, one they haven’t revised, then the treaty should still apply right now.”

  “Are you having any luck?”

  “Some,” Delia said. “Those Mil-gahn treaty writers were pretty damned tricky.”

  They both laughed at that.

  “You mentioned fishing,” Fat Crack resumed a moment later. “Does that mean you deal with mostly Northwest tribes?”

  “No, they’re from all over. Fishing rights. Timber rights. Mineral rights. Grazing.”

  “Gambling, too?”

  “That’s not usually mentioned, but we’re maintaining that since the tribes are sovereign nations, it’s implied.”

  “We’re going to need a new tribal attorney,” Gabe Ortiz said abruptly, without any additional preamble. “Elias Segundo is about to retire. I’m offering you the job.”

  Delia was dumbfounded. “Based on my aunt Julia’s recommendation?” she asked. “Have you looked at my academic record, talked to my supervisors?”

  “No,” he said, after a moment. “I’ve done none of those things, but I can see you’re your mother’s daughter. That’s good enough for me.”

  “You’re serious, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely someone who’s lived on the reservation all his life would be more qualified than I am.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Fat Crack replied. “Or maybe you wouldn’t. Young people on the reservation, especially the girls, haven’t had the benefit of your education or experience.”

  Delia thought about that for a few moments—about all the girls whose mothers hadn’t been able to do for their daughters what Ellie Chavez, with Ruth Waldron’s help, had done for her.

  “You want me to be a role model?”

  “You would be,” Fat Crack said. “You’re one of the Tohono O’odham’s lost girls. If you came home, maybe others would, too.”

  “My husband would never agree to go back,” Delia told him finally. “This is where his business is—his gallery, his friends.” She didn’t add “and his drinking and drugging buddies,” but she didn’t have to. Fat Crack Ortiz already knew about that. He’d witnessed it with his own eyes.

  “It might be good if Philip went home,” Fat Crack suggested. “Reconnecting with your roots could be good for both of you.”

  It was one thing for Delia to agonize about her husband’s difficulties. Having this relative stranger offer advice about them offended her. She put down her drink. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think it would. Philip will be fine, and so will I. He’ll find his way.” She stood up then. “Thanks so much for the offer, Mr. Ortiz. I really appreciate it, but I can’t accept. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get home.”

  “Sure,” Gabe said. “I understand.”

  As Delia walked away, she knew it was true. Fat Crack Ortiz understood far more than she wanted him to.

  After spending most of the night awake, Lani didn’t wake up until early afternoon. In the kitchen she made toast and a pot of coffee, then she settled in to study. For some reason she couldn’t keep her eyes open. No matter how hard she tried, the words on the pages drifted into nonsense and her head drooped.

  Sometime later, a ringing telephone startled her from a sound sleep. As she reached for the phone, she glanced at the clock. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Lani?”

  “Wanda?” Lani asked, struggling to recognize the woman’s voice. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” Wanda Ortiz said. “I went outside to check on him, Lani. Fat Crack’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Lani took a deep breath and closed her eyes. There was no need to ask what “gone” meant. “I’m coming home,” she said. “I’ll call Mom and Dad first, then I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  It took several hours to contact her various professors and make arrangements for her finals as well as for having her belongings packed and shipped home. Once that was accomplished, she called for airline reservations. The only flight available meant she wouldn’t arrive in Phoenix until early afternoon the next day. Only after purchasing her ticket did Lani try calling her parents.

  She knew from experience that when dealing with offspring, her dad was a far softer touch and more understanding than her mother. Diana was the tough one—the disciplinarian. Brandon was a pushover. From the time Lani was tiny, she had been smart enough to play both those ends against the middle.

  She tried her dad’s cell phone first, but he didn’t answer. She hung up, but before she could dial again, her own phone rang.

  “Lani,” Diana said uncertainly. “Honey, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. I just heard from Wanda Ortiz and—”

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Lani interrupted. “I already heard. Wanda called me, too. I’m on my way. I’ll be on the Northwest flight from Minneapolis that gets into Phoenix at one tomorrow afternoon. I’ll catch the shuttle from there home.”

  Lani expected her mother to say she shouldn’t come rushing home, but Diana surprised her. “Don’t even think about the shuttle,” she said. “Someone will be there to meet you.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Lani managed. They both heard the catch in her throat. “See you tomorrow.”

  Fourteen

  They say it happened long ago that the Tohono O’odham first came to the northern lands looking for new hunting grounds. Because it was very hot and dry, the first thing the hunters needed to find was water. In some mountains with very steep slopes they came upon a hollow shaded by mesquite trees, and in this hollow was a pool of water. There was a rock in the middle of the pool and on it sat a coyote.

  When Coyote looked up and saw the hunters, at first he was very frightened because he didn’t know what the hunters would do to him. Then he looked back into the pool and said in a very loud voice, “Stay down there. Don’t come out and hurt these people.”

  This, nawoj, my friend, was back at a time when the Indians and the animals all still spoke the same language. When the hunters heard this, they were very puzzled because coyotes usually run away and hide somewhere.

  The hunters stopped at the edge of the water and looked around, but they could see nothing. Finally, one very old man stepped nearer and asked Coyote why he was talking.

  “Can’t you see?” Coyote asked. “I’m talking to my people who live in this pond. I d
o not want them to come out and kill you.”

  The hunters were surprised and told Coyote that they did not know his people lived in the water. Poor Coyote was trembling with fright but he answered bravely. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Up here many coyotes live in the water except when they hunt.” And then, looking back down into the water he said, “Do be quiet and let these people have some water.”

  And so, one by one, with Coyote watching, the hunters came to the pond and drank. After that, whenever Coyote saw the hunters coming, he would hurry to the pond. And there he would be, sitting on his rock, where the hunters first saw him.

  And that, nawoj, is where the village of Ban Thak—Coyote Sitting—is to this day, near the rock where Coyote sat to guard his pond.

  Please tell me about your sister,” Brandon said to Andrea.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. Was Roseanne smart?”

  Andrea Tashquinth stared off into the middle distance. “I think she was smart,” Andrea said finally. “When someone told a joke, she’d laugh along with everyone else. She never did any homework, but she could read. She loved reading books, especially the Bible. One of the nuns at Topawa told my parents there was a convent where she could go, a contemplative convent—where no one was allowed to speak. When our mother told Roseanne about it, she smiled and nodded. It was something she would have been good at and someplace where she would have fit in.”

  “Did she have boyfriends?”

  Andrea shook her head adamantly. “No. Never. We didn’t hang around with boys the way some girls do. Our parents wouldn’t let us. They wanted us to be good girls. They didn’t want people to think we were too easy.”

  “But Roseanne was pregnant when she died,” Brandon pointed out. “How do you think that happened?”

  Andrea Tashquinth shrugged and didn’t answer.

  “You say Roseanne didn’t have a boyfriend, and both you and your mother seem to think your father had nothing to do with it. Besides your father, then, were there any other men or boys who were around your house regularly? A visiting cousin or younger brother, perhaps?”

  “No,” Andrea answered. “Not that I remember.”

  “What do you remember, Ms. Tashquinth?” Brandon asked.

  It was warm sitting in the Suburban with the hot afternoon sun beating down on the roof. Through the windshield, Brandon saw families with laughing children pile out of pickups, vans, and SUVs. They trailed in and out of the store, returning with carts piled high with groceries. Silence lingered for several long moments. Brandon Walker was content to keep quiet forever. Andrea was the one who blinked.

  “It had to be at the hospital,” she whispered finally. “I tried to tell Law and Order that at the time, but nobody was interested in what I had to say. Nobody listened.”

  “What hospital?”

  “That one,” Andrea said, gesturing with her head in the direction of the Indian Health Services Hospital just up the road. “That summer Roseanne got sick and had to have her appendix taken out. After she got out of the hospital, she was supposed to be better, but she wasn’t. When school started that year, she was too sick to go. Finally, my mother took her to the doctor. He put her in the hospital for tests. When they let her out, Dad was supposed to go pick Roseanne up after work to bring her home. When he got there, she was already gone. Everyone assumed that she had just walked out of the hospital on her own. We never saw her again. The next week somebody found her body in an ice chest out along the road.”

  “You believe something happened to her while she was in the hospital the first time, for the surgery?” Brandon asked.

  Andrea Tashquinth turned so she was looking Brandon square in the face. “I know something happened to her,” she said fiercely. “I think my sister was raped.”

  “By whom?”

  Andrea’s diffidence returned. “I don’t know. Someone who worked there, maybe? An orderly or a nurse. They had a few male nurses back then. Or maybe it was someone who was at the hospital visiting someone else.”

  “You told this to people at the time?”

  “Tried to,” Andrea said. “But I was sixteen. No one was interested in my opinions.”

  “Especially since they were all convinced that your father was the culprit.”

  “Yes,” Andrea agreed.

  “Did your parents or anyone else ever ask to see Roseanne’s medical records?”

  “I doubt it,” Andrea said. “When I told them that I thought something had happened to Roseanne at the hospital, my parents didn’t listen, either.”

  “What made you think that?” Brandon asked. “Did she say anything to you about it—communicate anything?”

  “No. It was just a feeling I had. It was probably nothing.”

  Maybe not, Brandon Walker thought to himself as he jotted a reminder in his notebook.

  That was one thing TLC had taught him. When you were doing cold-case investigations, you had to be willing to follow up on the dead leads everyone else had ignored.

  By the time Erik reached Pontotoc Road, he looked as though he’d been through a war. His clothes were a mess. He was dusty, hot, thirsty, bloodied, and sweaty, and his ankle hurt like hell. He was sure now that it wasn’t broken, but it was badly sprained. What he wanted to do was shower and then ice the damned thing, although this late in the game, icing was probably beside the point.

  He was surprised to see a cop car with a single occupant parked in front of his house. Erik hobbled up to the vehicle.

  “What’s up?” he asked as the officer rolled down the window. “Is something wrong?”

  The cop hustled out of the car. “My name’s Detective Brian Fellows,” he said, flashing a badge. “I’m an investigator for the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. And you are?”

  Erik glanced at his truck to see if it had been damaged in some way, but the Tacoma was fine and still parked where he’d left it. “I’m Erik LaGrange,” he replied. “I live here. What’s going on?”

  “You seem to be hurt,” the officer responded without really answering. “What happened?”

  “I fell while I was up on the mountain.”

  “When was that?”

  “A while ago. I don’t know exactly. I’m on my way inside to shower and ice my ankle. You still haven’t told me what’s up.”

  Just then a second sheriff’s department vehicle pulled up and parked. A second plainclothes officer stepped out and hurried over to Erik and Detective Fellows.

  “Got it,” the second cop said to the first one, who nodded. The meaningful glance that passed between them gave Erik an uneasy feeling. This wasn’t just a routine neighborhood disturbance call. Something was going on—something out of the ordinary.

  “This is my partner, Detective Hector Segura,” Detective Fellows said. “This is Mr. LaGrange.”

  Instinctively, Erik held out his hand. Instead of taking it, Detective Segura reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded paper, which he placed in Erik’s outstretched hand. Erik unfolded the document and examined it. For what seemed like the longest time the words didn’t penetrate, didn’t register.

  “A search warrant?” he stammered finally. “You want to search the house? My house? My car? How come? What the hell’s happening here?”

  “A young woman was found murdered in the desert near Vail this morning,” Brian Fellows said easily. “Your business card was found among what we believe to be her effects.”

  “Somebody’s dead? Near Vail? I haven’t been anywhere near Vail in years. I know nothing about any dead girl. I have no idea why she would have had one of my business cards, but I work with a lot of people. Someone else could have given her one.”

  Erik heard the rising hysteria in his voice. He couldn’t help that any more than he could quell a growing sense of panic. Obviously these two cops thought he had something to do with this poor murdered girl, but how could that be?

  “Please, Mr. LaGrange. Don’t get yourself all worked up.”<
br />
  Worked up? he thought. What the hell am I supposed to do?

  When Erik spoke next, he made a concerted effort to sound calm and reasonable. “Look, you guys,” he said. “There must be some kind of mistake. I had nothing to do with whatever happened. And what about probable cause? It’s a long way from finding a business card to getting a search warrant. You can’t just walk in here and—”

  “Would you mind stepping this way, Mr. LaGrange?” the detective named Fellows asked, leading the way to the tailgate of Erik’s Tacoma.

  He was polite enough, so Erik voiced no objection.

  “Take a look at that.” Detective Fellows pointed to something on the bumper—a brown stain of some kind.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” Erik said. “What is it?”

  “From my training and experience, I’d have to say it looks like blood,” Detective Fellows said. “Do you mind if we open this up?”

  “I…” Erik began.

  “You’ll find this vehicle specifically mentioned on the warrant,” Fellows added. “Go ahead, Detective Segura.”

  Slipping on a latex glove, the other detective twisted the latch and raised the back door on the camper. Then he stood to one side, allowing all three of them to peer into the bed of the pickup. The smudge on the bumper had been baked brown in the sun. The pools of blood that lingered in the bed of the truck were still clearly red. Erik’s knees gave way beneath him. One of the officers grasped him by the elbow and kept him upright.

  “Easy,” Detective Fellows said, leading him toward one of two waiting Ford Crown Victorias. “You’d best take it easy for a while. Are you armed, Mr. LaGrange?”

  “Armed?” Erik asked. “Are you kidding?”

  “Sir, would you please lean up against my vehicle…” Detective Fellows said.

  Not believing his senses, Erik did what he was told. He stood with his hands on the Crown Victoria’s blistering hot hood and with his legs spread apart while the detective patted him down. Moments later, his backpack was removed and his hands were behind him, secured with some kind of plastic handcuff.