Oscar Sweetwater twisted the pencil this way and that, watched the lead pop in and out. “What do you know about this white man we hired on to the police force?”
“Jim Wolfe?”
“Do we have another matukach on the SUPD payroll?”
He’s a bit testy today. “I don’t keep up with the new hires. Since the last time I talked to him, Chief of Police Whitehorse might’ve loaded up the roster with North Koreans.”
The chairman drew a hat on the stick-figure man. “What do you think about Officer Wolfe?”
“I’ve got lots of cattle and cowboys to occupy my thoughts. Nine days out of ten, I don’t think about Jim Wolfe at all.”
Oscar Sweetwater gave his consultant lawman a stern look. “I understand you were with Wolfe during the recent—ah—incident.”
Moon pretended not to understand. “Which incident was that?”
“At the state police roadblock, when they treed that Apache—Felix Navarone.” Oscar opened a three-ring notebook, squinted at a copy of the arrest report. “Navarone was charged with carrying an open container in his motor vehicle, resisting arrest, flight to avoid lawful arrest, assaulting an officer, and disturbing the peace.”
The tribal investigator chuckled. “Oh yeah—that incident.”
The chairman’s tone was dryly sarcastic. “Seeing as how you’re too busy with your ranch work to be concerned with affairs on the reservation, I will remind you that we are currently providing Mr. Felix Navarone with free room and board over at the tribal detention center.”
“I hope he’s happy with our hospitality.”
Sweetwater snorted. “Not overly much, from what his lawyer tells us.”
“By the way, that reminds me. Felix Navarone’s attorney has hired Eddie Ganado. Eddie’s training to be a legal aide.”
“I know.” Sweetwater continued his doodling. “Being so tied up with your cattle and cowboys, how did you happen to find out about this?”
“Eddie came to see me on behalf of Navarone’s attorney. She wanted to find out what I know about the Apache’s arrest.”
He glared at Moon. “And you didn’t bother to tell me about that?”
“It slipped my mind, Oscar. A few hours later, I dang near got shot.”
“Oh, right. You was with that white man who sells used furniture and stuff.”
Moon wondered what Ralph Briggs would think about this description of his top-drawer antique business.
Oscar drew a scraggly-looking tree beside the stick-figure man on the pad. “Tell me about what happened between this wild Apache and our matukach cop.”
“There’s not that much to tell. Me and Wolfe show up at the DWI roadblock. Felix Navarone gets there about the same time, in this fifty-seven Chevy pickup. State policeman checks Navarone out, spots a open container. The Smokey orders Navarone to shut off the ignition and give him the keys. Navarone makes a run for it, climbs a tree.” Moon decided to skip over Wolfe’s stubborn insistence on tribal police jurisdiction. “When it becomes widely known among the state lawmen present that the man who shinnied up the cottonwood is an Apache, they’ll think it best to let Officer Wolfe arrest him. And it turns out that Felix Navarone is willing to talk to Jim Wolfe, but only if the other cops move away from the tree. So they do, leaving Officer Wolfe with the treed man pretty much to himself.”
The tribal chairman was staring holes in Charlie Moon. “What happened then?”
“I’m sure Wolfe did his best, Oscar. But he wasn’t able to convince Mr. Navarone to climb down from the tree in an orderly manner.” Moon shook his head. “In fact, before our SUPD cop was able to exchange more than a few words with him, Felix jumped off the limb like he planned to fly far away from there. But something must’ve went wrong with his flight plan, because he landed right on Wolfe.”
The chairman raised a heavily veined hand. “You say he jumped out of the tree?”
“You heard me right.”
“Mr. Navarone’s attorney claims his client was shaken out of the tree. And that Officer Wolfe did the shaking.”
“Doesn’t surprise me Felix’s lawyer would say something like that. It’s her job to twist the truth to make things look better for the yahoo we got in the lockup.”
“There’s more.” Oscar Sweetwater produced a pair of remote-control units, gave them an anxious look. “I can never figure out which one’s for the tape machine, which one’s for the TV.” He pointed both units at a console in the corner, began pressing buttons at random.
Presently, the television screen crackled with electricity, turned a bright cobalt blue. Moments later, the tape began to turn. There were a couple of minutes of jerky frames from a fishing boat that Moon thought was on Navajo Lake. Then, quite abruptly, there was a scene filled with police cars and running cops. Off in the distance, a tree. A zoom of the camera’s telescopic lens revealed a man in the cottonwood. Beneath the tree, the backside of an SUPD officer—Jim Wolfe, of course. Wolfe was making impatient gestures at the dark-skinned man on the limb a few feet above him. The treed man shook his head, said something. Wolfe moved to the trunk of the cottonwood, put his hand out as if to lean on it. Navarone toppled off the limb. The scene was momentarily blocked by the out-of-focus figure of an overweight tourist. Seconds later, the camera had the tree in view again. Officer Wolfe and Felix Navarone were rolling on the ground; the state police were rushing to give aid to their brother officer. A gaggle of tourists moved in front of the video camera.
The tribal chairman pressed the Stop button on the VCR remote unit. He got up to eject the videotape, turned to wave the plastic cartridge at Moon. “One of our tribal members was stopped at the roadblock. She happened to have a new video camera in the car. I found out about it, used up some favors to get the cassette. From what I’m told, this is the original tape—but there could have been a copy made. If Navarone’s lawyer don’t know about the tape yet, she will before long. And if she finds out I’ve got the original, she’ll demand to see it and the tribe will have to give her a copy.” Feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders, Oscar Sweetwater sat down behind his desk. “Charlie, you were there. You saw what happened. You claim that Apache jumped out of the tree on Officer Wolfe. I believe you. But if Felix Navarone’s lawyer gets up in front of a jury and tells ’em her client was shaken out of the cottonwood like he was some kind of animal, and pounced on by a Southern Ute police officer—this videotape could be used to support that allegation. We see Officer Wolfe reaching out for the trunk of the tree, then we see Felix Navarone fall off the limb. After that, we see our SUPD cop rassling around on the ground with Navarone. And though it wasn’t in his report—and you haven’t seen fit to mention it—I have it on good authority that Wolfe made verbal threats to kill the Apache.”
“That kind of talk don’t mean anything, Oscar. Wolfe had just been in a fight. He had his dander up.”
“That’s just your opinion. What matters is that Felix Navarone heard the threat made, and he told his lawyer about it. And his lawyer says she’ll file a suit against the tribe if we don’t turn that wild Apache loose.” He began to count on his fingers. “Unlawful arrest and physical assault. Navarone has a dislocated shoulder.” He grimaced. “And did you know Wolfe bit that Apache on the nose?”
Moon nodded. Barely suppressed a smile.
“Where was I? Oh yeah—the charges that nasty woman is threatening against our police department.” Sweetwater counted the third and fourth fingers. “Harassment. Verbal threats of deadly violence.” He glared at the tribal investigator as if Moon were responsible for this mess. “She’ll ask for ten million dollars.”
Lawyers made those kinds of threats five or six times a day. Moon thought Oscar was taking this far too seriously.
The chairman’s face was like chiseled flint. “And that’s not all. She claims Officer Wolfe is a bad cop. And that she can prove it.”
“Wolfe must have a clean slate, or Wallace Whitehorse would’ve never hired him.”
“No matter what’s in Wolfe’s file, there could be something ugly in his past. Something that lawyer has found out about—and could spring on us if this Navarone business goes to trial.” He stared at Moon. “Officer Wolfe has become a liability.”
The former SUPD policeman could hardly believe his ears. “Felix Navarone’s attorney is pressuring the tribe to fire Officer Wolfe?”
Oscar felt a sudden surge of heartburn. “And you know why—much as I might like to do that—I can’t.” The chairman sighed. “If the tribe fires Wolfe without due cause, he can turn right around and sue us.”
Moon nodded. “And Wolfe’d probably win.” And ought to.
The old man set his jaw. “So you see the spot we’re in.” He pitched the videotape onto his desk. “I haven’t told our legal counsel about this evidence.”
Moon understood. Once the tribe’s attorney had seen the tape, it would be his duty to turn it over to Felix Navarone’s lawyer.
Oscar glared at the cassette. “Take that thing with you. I don’t want to see it again.”
“I wish I could be sure you’re not telling me to destroy physical evidence.”
“Of course I’m not. I want you to keep it somewhere safe and sound, in case I ever get asked about it while I’m under oath.” Sweetwater’s face crinkled into a sly smile. “Of course, if our tribal investigator has misplaced the videotape by then—or accidentally dropped it in the river…”
This had gone far enough. “Forget it, Oscar. You want it misplaced or dropped in the river, do it yourself.”
“Oh, all right, Mr. Straight Arrow.”
“Are we finished?”
“I am, but you’re not. You are going to pay a call on Eddie Ganado.”
Moon slipped the videocassette into his jacket pocket. “Why would I want to do that?”
The tribal chairman ignored this tart retort. “Seeing as how Ganado’s been hired by Navarone’s lawyer, I imagine the lazy bum hangs around her office most of the time. So he’ll know the scuttlebutt. You go find out whether that Navajo good-for-nothing knows that the tribe has the videotape.” The politician had an afterthought: “And whether that lawyer is actually holding any serious bad news on Officer Wolfe.”
“Why would Eddie Ganado tell me anything?”
“That’s your department, Charlie. I don’t care how you get the truth out of him. Twist his arm. Break his bones. Kick him around till he spills his guts all over the ground.”
The old man watched too many of those old hard-boiled detective movies. “I’ve got some urgent work to do at the Columbine, then—”
Oscar was near the end of his patience. “I don’t want to hear about how you’re too busy branding cows and mending fences and singing Whoopee-Ti-Yi-Yo with your band of cutthroat cowboys to do your job for the People.” He shook his finger at the tribal investigator. “We pay you good money, so for once you’ll do your duty without any griping.”
The hired gun looked the chairman straight in the eye. “Oscar, you are not paying me half enough to take all this guff.” Moon removed a small leather wallet from his shirt pocket. “If you would like to have my badge, just say the word.”
The chairman looked as if he were about to have a cardiac seizure, apoplectic fit, and major anxiety attack all rolled into one. “What would I do with your badge?”
“I am sorely tempted to tell you.”
For a painful moment, the tribal investigator’s part-time job teetered on the brink. Finally, the chairman blinked. “Oh, don’t be so touchy. Soon as you have the time to spare, handle this business any way you want.”
Moon returned the badge to his pocket. “I will take that as a heart-felt apology.”
Oscar Sweetwater had an acidic reply on the tip of his tongue, wisely decided to swallow it.
Not wanting to depart on a sour note, Charlie Moon thought he would sweeten things up with a dash of whimsy. “There’s one last thing.” The tall man put the black Stetson on his head, hesitated as if this was a difficult subject to bring up. “It’s about a matter of professional pride.”
Oscar Sweetwater never knew what to expect from this mercurial employee. “What?”
“I know it’ll sound downright petty. But you have one, with your name on it. And so does Wallace Whitehorse.” Charlie Moon looked out the window, to the spot where the big F-350 gleamed redly in the sun. “A tribal investigator should have a reserved parking space.”
The chairman leaned on the desk, hands clenched over his face. “Please, Charlie—just go away and let me be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE NAVAJO TENANT
After several miles on a bad road that got worse with every jarring minute, Charlie Moon slowed the red pickup to a growling crawl, steered around a crater that appeared to be the result of either hostile mortar fire or a recent meteor impact. At a point where the road was petering off into a week-choked, boulder-strewn trail, he spotted a dented steel mailbox fixed to a fence post. The owner of the receptacle had used a Magic Marker to inscribe his name on it: E GANADO.
The rusty flag on the box looked as if decades had passed since it had been raised to announce the arrival of incoming mail.
Moon nosed the F-350 onto a narrow dirt lane that snaked through a drab little apple orchard. Scrawny limbs reached out to scratch at the truck. A fat raccoon waddled across the driveway, its rump disappearing into a clump of huckleberry bushes.
Eddie Ganado’s rickety old house was hunkered down on a scrubby clearing between the orchard and a large bean field. The front windows of the rented home had no curtains, and the sun-yellowed shades were pulled more than halfway down, leaving the impression of sullen, heavy-lidded eyes—as if the derelict building had woken up with a bad hangover and wished to be left alone. The yard was dotted with a variety of hardy bushes that had sprouted from seeds sown by the winds—and a single, lonely, anemic-looking elm. An aluminum-paneled garage was set near the north side of the modest dwelling. Much farther from the house, a rusty-roofed barn leaned precariously, seemingly supported by a capricious enchantment that might be withdrawn at any moment.
The only sight to please the eye was Ganado’s yellow Pontiac. But even this product of Detroit’s glory days had lost its sheen. Parked under a fanlike branch of the elm, the sleek convertible was spotted from occasional spitting rains and intermittent dust-laden winds. Above the classic automobile, parched leaves chattered inanely with the breeze. Moon wondered whether the tribal chairman, who had rented the dismal property to Ganado, was looking for an excuse to evict him.
Having heard the pickup coming when it was almost a mile away, Eduardo Ganado stood at a window, waiting to see who his visitor would be—hoping it was not that person he least wanted to see.
Charlie Moon pulled to a stop behind the Pontiac, waited. After a full minute, he saw the door on the front porch open. Eddie Ganado emerged, a pump shotgun resting easily in the crook of his arm. Wondering what the eccentric Navajo was afraid of, Moon got out of the pickup. As he approached the porch, he instinctively crooked his elbow, placing his right hand a couple of inches closer to the .357 Magnum revolver strapped onto his hip.
This subtle move was not lost on the Navajo, who kept a wary eye on the tall Ute.
Charlie Moon smiled as he broke the silence: “You’re well armed, Eddie.”
“Thought I heard a prowler last night.” He hesitated, then leaned the shotgun against a dilapidated chair. “Prob’ly just a bear, rustling around in my trash barrel.”
Moon allowed his arm to straighten out by his side.
The cuts on Eddie’s face were almost healed, but the small, circular white scars remained like a persistent pox. The bandages on his head had been replaced with a patch of dirty gauze secured with a piece of duct tape. “How’s your scalp coming along?”
“Okay.” Ganado limped a few steps, reached out to pump the visitor’s hand. “When I got tired of paying twenty dollars a pop to that nurse at the clinic, I started doctori
n’ myself.”
From habit, the lawman scanned the shabby grounds. No sign of a dog. A pane in a loft window was cracked. The steel roof was rusted in several spots. A shiny new television antenna was mounted on a sandstone-and-cement chimney. A cord of firewood—all cottonwood logs—was stacked neatly against the side of the garage. It was not nearly enough for the long winter, and there was no propane tank in sight. “How long you been living here?”
“Almost three years now.” Ganado’s dark eyes followed the Ute’s gaze with a curious, almost surprised expression, as if he were examining the rental property for the first time. He tried to think of a compliment to apply to this seedy estate. “It’s quiet.” He made a sideways nod. “Come on inside—I’ll get you a cold brew.” And then he remembered whom he was talking to. “Or a soft drink.”
“Thanks anyway.” Moon hitched his thumbs in his belt. “I won’t be here that long.”
“This a social call?” Ganado sounded hopeful.
“Wish it was. The chairman sent me out here to have a few words with you.”
“What for? I ain’t behind in my rent.”
“This is not about your rent.” Moon looked up at the thirsty elm, decided he might as well have some fun. “It’s a legal matter.” He paused to let that sink in.
It did. And hit bottom. “About what?”
“Eddie, you have attempted to influence a witness to a criminal offense.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. You tried to talk me into lying about what I saw when Felix Navarone jumped out of that tree and assaulted Officer Wolfe.”
“No I didn’t, all I did was—”
“If your employer decides to sue the tribe over Navarone’s arrest, I’ll have to get on the stand and tell the whole truth and nothing but.”
“Look, Charlie—I was just doing my job for that lawyer. I didn’t mean to suggest that you should say somethin’ that wasn’t true.” His voice took on a whining tone. “Let’s talk about this—maybe there’s some way we can work it out.”
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