“I don’t know a damned thing,” Chee said. “Not about that oil well explosion. You think the Vineses had something to do with it?”
Sena shook his head. “He didn’t live here then. And she didn’t get here until his first wife died. I think Dillon Charley told Vines something. Anyway, it’s a damned cinch Mrs. Vines knows something. Why else would she connect stealing that box with that bunch of peyote freaks?”
“I don’t know,” Chee said.
The room fell silent. An ambulance turned off Lomas toward the BCMC emergency room entrance, its siren abruptly growling out.
“Nothing to tell me, then?” Sena asked.
“Not that I haven’t already told you,” Chee said.
Sena pursed his lips, glanced at his watch. “It’s a hell of a way to kill a man,” he said. “Blowing ’em to pieces like that. We didn’t hardly find enough of Robert to bury. And part of what we buried might not have been him. Had one of his legs with the boot still on it. Part of the torso we could recognize because his belt buckle was in it. Never found a lot of him. The coyotes and the buzzards and things had had a couple of days to carry it away.” Sena’s eyes were hard and bright, staring into Chee’s eyes. His jaw muscles were rigid. “My mother used to go out there and look. She’d walk around in the creosote bush looking for pieces of bone.” Sena produced a series of sounds that might have been a laugh. “I think she wanted to put Robert all back together again. What do you think of that?”
Chee could think of nothing to say. White people’s attitude toward their dead was beyond his understanding.
“Two things,” Sena said. “One I’m asking you, and one I’m telling. If you can tell me anything about that peyote bunch, or the Vineses, or anything that will help me, well, I’d appreciate that. I’d remember it. I never forget a favor. And two, I’m telling you to stay out of my jurisdiction. This whole business is mine. The burglary and the killing and everything else. It’s mine. It’s been mine for most of my life, and I don’t want you in it. I told you that once, and you didn’t pay attention to me.” Sena’s voice was shaking. He stopped talking for a moment, gaining control. “Now, I got a name for being hard,” he continued. “I’ve killed a man or two in the line of duty, and there’s some that says I’ve killed some that didn’t need to be killed. However that is, I’ll tell you this. You think you’re unlucky that blond man run into you out there on the malpais. Fact is, you’re lucky it wasn’t me.”
Sena got up and placed his chair neatly against the wall under the television set. He went through the door without a glance or a word.
On the television screen, a barrage of commercials replaced Hollywood Squares and gave way in turn to what seemed to be a soap opera. The screen was filled with the tear-wet face of a woman. Her lips moved soundlessly, and she dabbed at her eyes. Chee shifted his own eyes to the left, and stared out across the central campus of the University of New Mexico. He thought first about Gordo Sena’s hatred. And then about the pattern of his questions. It had not been a debriefing—one officer collecting information from another. It had been an interrogation—the probing of a hostile witness, skillfully done. But exactly what had Sena wanted to learn?
Part of that was obvious. Part of it wasn’t. Chee sorted it out in his mind. Three times, in three different ways, Sena had tried to learn if there had been any communication between him and the blond man. Why was that so important to Sena? Was the blond man working for the sheriff? Had Sena hired the man to get the box away from Tomas Charley? There was no way to answer that question. It would seem more logical that he had been hired by Vines.
The telephone rang. Chee groaned.
“I’m Sergeant Hunt,” the voice said, “with the Albuquerque Police Department. You feel like having a visitor?”
It was a soft voice, very polite.
“Why not?” Chee said.
“You’re going to have to tell that nurse, then,” the voice said. “She wouldn’t let me in.”
“I’ll tell her,” Chee said.
“Be right up, then,” Hunt said, and hung up.
Chee pushed the button to summon someone from the nursing station. Why would the APD send a man to talk to him? It was an FBI case, or, as Sena insisted, the Valencia County sheriff’s. That would depend on whether you counted the abduction, which had happened in federal jurisdiction on the reservation, or the murder, which was probably in Sena’s territory, depending on where the lines fell on the checkerboard. Either way, it would be of zero interest to the Albuquerque law.
Hunt was a small man, with pale-gray eyes and a narrow, bony face.
“Looks like you forgot to dodge,” Hunt said. “In case you wondered, the bullet broke up, but it looks like a .22. Probably a hollow point.”
“It looked like it might have been a .22 pistol with a silencer on the barrel,” Chee said. “Felt like a cannonball.”
“I’ve got the report you gave to the state police here,” Hunt said. “Sounds like you got a pretty good look at him.”
“Yeah,” Chee said. “Close enough.” He tried to remember what he had told the state policeman. It was all hazy. They had started to walk back to the highway. Mary Landon and he. It had quickly become slow and painful. Each step produced a stabbing pain in his chest. Soon he had been dizzy. He had sat beside the track. Mary had spread her coat on the ground and made him lie down, and she had gone, running, intending to flag down some driver and get help. He had dozed and awakened and dozed again. Finally, when the sun was almost directly overhead, he had awakened to see a man in the black uniform of the New Mexico State Police bending over him. He remembered talking to the policeman, and Mary’s worried face, and driving to the interstate, and being transferred to an ambulance. He remembered Mary riding with him. But that was about all he remembered. Where was Mary now?
“We’d like to get another description,” Hunt said. “Have you go over it again.”
“Medium-sized,” Chee said. “About thirty. Probably weighed about 150. Five ten, probably less. Looked to be in good shape. Hair was very blond, medium short. Sort of prominent bone structure, as I remember. Strong chin, blue eyes, light eyebrows. No mustache. No beard. Light complexion. Pale. Ears fairly large and laid close to his skull.”
Hunt had been making notes. Chee closed his eyes, seeing the face again as he had seen it at the auction, the light-blue eyes watching him. “I can’t think of any more details. He looked smart, if you know what I mean by that.”
Hunt had opened a manila folder. “He look anything like this?” he asked. He handed Chee a sketch done in pencil on thin white cardboard. It looked like a sketch made by a police artist. It also looked a lot like the blond man.
Chee handed it back. “Could be him,” he said. “Probably is. Who is he?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Hunt said.
Chee’s rib throbbed. He felt a sudden wave of sickness. His ears were ringing. He was not in the mood for coyness. “God damn it,” he said. “Let’s not play games. Who was the sketch supposed to look like? And how come it’s APD business? It’s a hundred miles out of your territory.”
“That takes a minute to explain,” Hunt said. “We have a file on old unsolved homicides in the detective division, and I’m the one who keeps track of it. You know, review it every six months or so to see if anything new fits in. Anyway, last summer we had a funny double killing. Two guys on a wrecker were going to tow an old pickup out of a reserved parking zone, and the thing blew up and killed ’em both. We got lucky and found a witness who’d been sitting at a window watching the world go by. She had seen somebody who looked like this”—Hunt tapped the sketch—“put a package in the back of the pickup before it went boom.”
“Ah,” Chee said. He was no longer conscious of the ache in his left side, or of the nausea. Part of the pattern that had been trying to form in his mind for hours took firm, clear shape. Hunt was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a comment. “That’s interesting,” Chee said.
“It is,” Hunt agreed. “We never could figure it out. Obviously the bomb wasn’t intended for the wrecker crew—although we finally even checked on that. You’d figure if a guy puts a bomb in a pickup, he wants to waste the pickup driver. But the driver was a poor-boy Navajo who was already on his last legs with cancer. Already dying. No motive to hurry it along. Then we checked on the guy who had the parking space reserved. Big shot doctor. Money. Wife trouble. Maybe she wanted an instant divorce. No evidence, but we figured the doctor was the target. Now it looks like we got our bomber killing another Navajo, and he’s got the same last name.”
“They’re father and son,” Chee said.
Hunt slapped his leg. “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say. That, or maybe brothers. You know for sure?”
“I know it for sure,” Chee said.
“Well, now,” Hunt said. “That tells us a couple of things.”
Yes, Chee was thinking. It should tell us a lot. But he couldn’t think of what.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Like that bomb wasn’t intended for the doctor. If that hit man was aiming for Charley Junior, he must have been aiming for Charley Senior.”
“Yes,” Chee said. His head ached. Who would hire a professional killer to murder a man who was already dying? Why would anyone want to hurry the death of Emerson Charley? There were no apparent answers. Hunt was watching Chee, waiting for more response.
“Did Emerson Charley’s body ever turn up?”
Hunt frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Tomas Charley told me that the hospital lost his daddy’s body. Emerson died one night, and Tomas came to get the body the next morning, and it was gone out of the morgue.”
Hunt opened his mouth, and closed it again. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “Be damned. Why wasn’t it reported?”
“Tomas reported it to APD,” Chee said.
Hunt’s embarrassment showed. “You know how that’d be,” he said. “Probably told some clerk at the front desk, and filled in a form, and somebody did a little calling around, and that was about it. Nobody pushing it. By then the bombing case wasn’t active. And nobody up front would have a way to know the detective division was interested in a sick Navajo.”
“Guess not,” Chee said.
“I’ll check on it. Right away.” He frowned again. “How can a hospital lose a body?”
“Tomas thinks it was stolen.”
“Stolen? Why? Who’d steal it? This guy?” He tapped the drawing.
Chee didn’t feel like talking about the Vineses. “Tomas thinks a witch stole it,” he said. “Why? Who knows?” But a reason was forming in his mind.
And, apparently, in the mind of Hunt.
“What did he die of?” Hunt asked. “They told us he had cancer.”
“But maybe the guy who tried to hurry him along with the bomb found another way to hurry him along. That’s what you’re thinking?” Chee found himself respecting the way Hunt’s mind worked, and liking the man.
“Exactly,” Hunt said. “And if the body’s gone, there’s no autopsy. I’ll check into that.”
“Good,” Chee said.
“I’ll let you know,” Hunt said. “And there’s one other thing.” He fished the sketch out of the folder again and looked at it. “If our man here is the same as your man, I think he’s a biggie. I think the FBI’s going to be very interested.”
“They were here this morning,” Chee said. “The nurse wouldn’t let ’em in. What do they want?”
“Past several years they’ve had a run of professional killings done a lot the same. People shot in the head with a .22. Nobody hears a shot. And then there was a couple of cases where they had one person hit with a .22 and one bombed. A couple of hoods in the construction union in Houston and witnesses in an extortion case in Philadelphia. Anyway, mostly the little silenced pistol and a couple of times with the bomb. And both times the bombs seem to have been the kind that get set off by tilting the package. That’s the kind of bomb he used here.”
“Tilting the package?”
“Clever as hell,” Hunt said. “It uses mercury to make the electrical connection. You just set the damn thing down and take off the safety gadget, and the next time the thing moves, or tilts, or shakes, the mercury slides and it goes off. No timer to screw you up, no wiring it up to the ignition. No fuss. No muss. If the driver doesn’t see it, it goes off when the car moves. If he does see it, it goes off when he picks it up.”
“Then what went wrong here?” Chee asked.
“Luck. Wrecker crew was going to haul off the truck,” Hunt said. “They started to hoist the rear end. Tilt. Boom. But that was sheer bad luck. It’s quite a gadget. Understand the CIA developed it.”
The FBI arrived as Hunt was leaving. His name was Martin. He was young. He wore a brown suit with a vest. His mustache was trim, and his haircut would not have offended the late J. Edgar Hoover. Being second to an Albuquerque policeman did not please him.
“The nurse told me you were asleep,” he said. It was more an accusation than a statement.
“No,” Chee said. “I was watching Hollywood Squares. I guess she didn’t want to interrupt. Ever watch ’em?”
Martin denied it. He wanted to talk about what the blond man looked like. And about why anyone would want Tomas Charley killed. And about the Vines burglary. It took Chee less than five minutes to exhaust all he knew about all three subjects and ten minutes more to go over it all twice more from slightly different angles.
“You find anything in the man’s car?” Chee asked. “It was a rental car, wasn’t it?”
“We haven’t recovered it yet,” Martin said. “We think it was rented from Hertz at the Albuquerque airport.” He fished a folder from his briefcase and extracted a copy of Hunt’s sketch.
“Your man look like this?”
“Pretty close,” Chee said.
“The Hertz people identified him as the man who rented a green-and-white Plymouth sedan. Now the car’s overdue. He gave his name as McRae and an Indiana address. It doesn’t check out.”
Chee didn’t comment. Talking to Hunt had tired him. His chest hurt. His ears were ringing. He wanted Martin to go away.
“When you get out of here, we want you to come down to the office,” Martin said. “We want you to look at mug shots and give us more details on the identification if you can.”
“Mug shots? You think you have a record on him?”
“Not really,” Martin said. “We think we have a ten-year accumulation of suspicions. We want you to look just in case. And we want you to spend a lot of time remembering everything you can about him. Everything.”
Chee said nothing. He just closed his eyes.
“It’s important,” Martin said. “This guy’s slick. That little pistol he used must be really silent. And he gets it in places where nobody sees anything. Apparently he scouts everything out very methodically, and then he likes to catch them alone for one quick close shot at the head. In the john is a favorite of his. We know of four found sitting on the john with the stall door closed. And a couple in telephone booths. Places like that. A quick shot and he just walks away. Never any witnesses. Not until the bombing. And now you and Miss Landon.”
Chee opened his eyes. “We’re the first witnesses?”
Martin was staring at him. “The first he knows about. He didn’t know anyone saw him putting the bomb in Charley’s truck. Medium-sized. Blond. So forth. You’re the only two who actually got a look at him and who could pin him to a killing.”
Chee’s head ached. He closed his eyes again.
“You know,” Martin said, “I think I’d be careful if I were you.”
Chee had already had that thought.
16
When Martin left, Chee spent the next ten minutes on the telephone. He got Mary Landon’s number from information, but no one answered when he called it. He remembered then that it was a school day and called the school. Miss Landon had taken the day off. He called hi
s own office, explained the situation, and told Officer Dodge to see if she could find Mary and do what she could do to keep an eye on her. The doctor came in then—a young man with red hair and freckles. He inspected Chee’s ribs, replaced the dressing, said, “Take it easy,” and left. The nurse arrived, took his temperature, gave him two pills, watched while he took them, said, “This isn’t a police station. You’re supposed to be resting,” and left. Chee rearranged himself on the pillow and gazed out across the university campus. He thought about Mary, and about the peyote religion, and B. J. Vines’ keepsake box, and the ways of white men, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. When he awoke it was late afternoon. The sun was slanting through his window and Mary sat in the bedside chair.
“Hello,” she said. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” Chee said. He did feel fine. Vastly relieved.
“Boy,” she said. “You sure scared me. I thought you were dead. I waved down a truck, and he got that state policeman on his CB radio. And when we got back to you, you were just lying there.” She grimaced at him. “Like dead.”
Chee told her what he’d learned about the blond man. “You see the problem? There’s a chance he’s going to decide he needs to get rid of us.”
Even as he was saying them, the words sounded melodramatic to him. In this quiet, antiseptic room, the idea of anyone wanting to kill Jim Chee and Mary Landon seemed foolish.
“Don’t you think what he’d really do is just run?” Mary asked. “That’s what I’d do.”
“But you’re not a professional gunman,” Chee said.
“If that remark’s a reflection on my shooting, I want to remind you that it was you who screwed up the rear sight.”
“Be serious,” Chee said. “This guy kills people.”
The humor left Mary’s face. “I know,” she said. “But what can you do? It’s sort of like being struck by lightning. You can’t go around all the time hiding from clouds.”
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