“But it’s true.”
“I’m not going to argue the history of the Anasazi with you. I’m just saying he’s setting the stage for you to embarrass yourself … again.”
Lawrence picked up his glasses and set them back on his face.
Steve continued. “If you go in there and react, our esteemed colleagues are going to laugh behind your back like they did when you published your book without proof.”
“Did you laugh, too?”
“No. I did the ‘I told you so’ thing, remember? And if you go to this meeting and play into his hands, I’m going to do the ‘I told you so’ thing again.”
“But if they find Edgerton, perhaps—”
“Look. You earned this grant. You put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into getting the committee to approve it. Westerberry knows that and knows you deserve the recognition. But he would love to temper your success with a poke at your Anasazi fiasco. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don’t let him bait you.”
The kettle clicked off.
“Come on, sinner, grab your coffee and let’s go.”
Surprised, Lawrence turned to the teakettle. Next to the kettle sat his mug, the Folgers label dangling down the side.
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 11:07 A.M.
BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
Joe was typing up a transfer document for one of his cases when he heard a commotion by the office entrance. He stepped out of his cubicle to see what was happening. Cordelli, Stretch, Sadi, and Tenny were guffawing as they passed Ginny’s desk. They went silent when they saw Joe.
“What’s up, tiger?” Cordelli asked.
Tenny snickered.
They were all wearing cargo pants. An op?
“Did I miss something this morning?” Joe asked.
Cordelli walked past Joe, close enough to brush elbows. “I had an arrest.”
“We knew you were busy with the Edgerton thing,” Stretch said.
“Yeah, busy. That’s new.” Sadi snorted.
Joe ignored her comment. She was the only female on the squad, and her attitude was as tightly wound as her hair, which she kept in a taut bun at the back of her head. She was a good agent, efficient and tough, never trying to prove herself, because she didn’t have to. She’d spent nine years as a criminal investigator in the Pueblo of Zuni before joining the BIA.
“Fine,” Joe said. He’d lost their respect.
Sadi and Tenny went to their desks. Stretch hung back.
“Come on,” Stretch said. “Let’s take a ride.”
“Where?” But it really didn’t matter. Joe didn’t want to be in the office.
“Pueblo Pintado. I gotta find a guy.”
“For Sadi?”
Stretch looked toward her cubicle. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”
On the way out, Ginny handed Joe a FedEx package. It was the case file on Arlen Edgerton. Joe took it with him.
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 11:56 A.M.
STATE ROUTE 550, SANDOVAL COUNTY, NEW MEXICO
Route 550 cuts through Zia Pueblo, a small community northeast of Albuquerque. The brown and beige of the New Mexican desert turns slightly greener there, mostly due to the Jemez River, which borders the road to the east. But the scenery didn’t interest Joe. He’d been reading the Edgerton file for the past thirty minutes, allowing Stretch to navigate the winding road in silence. But now, having skimmed most of the file and realizing there had been few leads developed back when the congressman went missing, he felt he needed a break.
“What’s in Pueblo Pintado?”
“Shit, you’re still here,” Stretch said.
“Sorry, I needed to cool off.”
“It’s all right. We’re going to see Eddie Begay. He’s in front of the grand jury tomorrow, but he’s not answering his phone.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t want to testify.”
Stretch nodded. “Probably not. Thing is, he’s the whole case. No physical evidence. I want to take him back to Albuquerque and stash him in a hotel. He likes the bottle. We can’t depend on him to show.”
“Like me?”
Stretch looked at Joe, then turned away.
“Is that why you guys didn’t tell me about the arrest this morning? Am I undependable, too?”
“You know that’s not—”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
Stretch didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared out the windshield at the barren desert to the west. Joe waited.
“They feel you’re washed-up. Cordelli doesn’t think you can do the job any longer. He’s saying you’ve lost your edge.”
“He’s an asshole. And he’s still wet behind the ears. I’m over the hill, yeah, but I haven’t lost my edge.”
“It’s not just him. Tenny and Sadi agree. They don’t trust you. They don’t think your head’s in the game anymore. Ever since the Longman trial. Maybe even before then.”
“Screw Tenny. The guy never had a thought in his head unless Cordelli put it there.”
“What about Sadi? She calls it straight.”
Joe had no answer.
They were passing the southern edge of Fenton Lake State Park. Half a dozen crows circled over a wooded area to the east, perhaps planning to kill one of their own who lay injured on the ground below. They were known to do that. Was he projecting? Maybe. Joe had heard enough truth about himself. “So what’s your case about?”
“Our guy got jammed up on a CSA and squealed. He told the FBI he sold a Navajo artifact to some collector in Santa Fe. They called us because they knew we tried to bust the same buyer a few years back.”
“Who’s that?”
“Arthur Othmann. He likes to spend his daddy’s fortune on art.”
“And the artifact?”
“Begay chiseled off a thousand-year-old petroglyph from Chaco Canyon.”
“Bold little bastard. What’s something like that go for?”
“He only got twenty-five hundred. He’s a pedophile and an idiot.”
They rode in silence for a little ways, the conversation seeming to have reached a natural ebb. Joe tried to appreciate the land around him. In a few months, he might never work in the field again. Almost all the jobs he’d responded to were deskbound. Except for one, an insurance adjuster for a small firm out of Rio Rancho. The pay sucked, but at least it wouldn’t be all pushing paper. And he’d be able to do most of that from home, e-mailing in his reports. But they hadn’t called him back. Maybe he should send them a follow-up letter. He supposed, if he had to, he could live just on his pension for a little while, but he wouldn’t be able to help Melissa with college or pay off the rest of Christine’s medical bills.
“So what did you get from Edgerton’s file?” Stretch asked.
“A little, not much. It was worked pretty much as a fugitive case. Though they did track down one threat, a hate letter from an AIM member out of Crownpoint. But they really didn’t follow up on it.”
“Did they check out the wife? I prefer simple motives like jealousy.” As usual, everything was black and white for Stretch, which was often the best approach for most investigations.
“I can see her taking out the husband and girlfriend, but the driver?”
“Just a witness she couldn’t let live. She got his congressional seat, right? Did she get his money, too? Maybe a little jealousy, a little greed. Kind of like a tossed salad of motives.”
“I thought you like to keep it simple. And anyway, she’s got her own money.”
“You’re right. Keep it simple. Put me down for the jealousy angle. A woman scorned. Powerful shit.”
“Speaking of scorned females, how’s the wife?”
“She loves me.”
“Taking the whole family to Italy helped, I’m sure.”
“Didn’t hurt.” Stretch gave a sly smile.
Silence.
“So … do you need any help on the Edgerton case?” Stret
ch asked.
No doubt Stretch wanted to change the subject. Joe knew it was awkward talking about family to someone whose own family had fallen apart. But Stretch really did deserve the Best Dad award. He paid his dues every day. Did all the fatherly stuff. Spent time with his kids. Coaching, volunteering, attending all the crappy school plays, even a cool vacation every year. His kids were teenagers now, but he still seemed able to stay involved in their lives. Joe felt an ache in his chest.
Joe’s phone rang. It was Bluehorse, reporting the latest development. When he finished, Joe provided a sage response.
“Shit.”
Bluehorse responded in kind.
“Well, we knew it would get out fast,” Joe said. “Forget about it. We got a dog team coming out from Albuquerque tomorrow at nine. Do me a favor, though. Hold off on telling your chief.”
Joe clicked the phone off. “That was the NPD officer I’m working with. Apparently, the Gallup Herald put out a story about the bullet holes in Edgerton’s vehicle. They’re really hyping it up.”
“What newspaper wouldn’t?”
He didn’t want to make the next call, but he had promised Dale he would keep him updated. Joe swallowed. He tasted pride again.
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY 12:45 P.M.
RESIDENCE OF EDDIE BEGAY, PUEBLO PINTADO, NEW MEXICO
“Looks abandoned,” Joe said.
He and Stretch walked to the trailer. Several sheets of peeled aluminum sheathing exposed rotted plywood beneath. The trailer had once been painted yellow; now it was the whitish gray color of oxidization.
Stretch climbed the wooden steps that led to the front door. He placed each foot with care. Joe stayed a few paces back, watching the windows. Several were covered with trash bags.
Stretch knocked. They waited. An unpleasant smell tainted the air. Spoiled food maybe.
When no one answered, they walked around back. Cardboard covered another two windows.
“I’m guessing he didn’t put any of that twenty-five hundred toward renovations,” Joe said.
“More likely he pickled his liver with it.”
Joe lifted a corner of the cardboard and peered inside. Empty, except for discarded beer cans and saved trash.
When they went around the other side, heading back to the front, Joe noticed an animal lying on the ground. A dog. He walked over. Its head had been crushed. Dry blood caked the animal’s ear and jaw. From the degree of decay and the colony of insects, Joe guessed the animal had been there a few days, which explained the smell.
“Do you think he would have left his dog like this if he was staying here?” Joe asked.
Stretch shrugged. “The guy’s a dirtbag. Who knows?”
Begay’s trailer wasn’t part of a community. It sat by itself in the open country, like so many of the residences on the reservation. No electric, no water, no paved driveways, just desert and sun. About a quarter mile to the south, there was a hogan, the traditional Navajo dwelling, a small, round wooden structure with an east-facing door. The Navajo believed in greeting the morning.
“Let’s check out the neighbor,” Joe said.
“Why bother? He got scared and ran off. I’m sure he’ll turn up in a few weeks.”
“We’re already here.”
“Fine.” Stretch plodded back to his Suburban.
Joe looked down at the dog. It was a mutt, mostly Lab. He hated to leave it out there to rot, but he guessed that was nature’s way. He checked the sky. No crows. Strange. A crow could smell decay for miles. Were they afraid of this place? Ridiculous. But Joe sensed that somehow this dog was wrong. Perhaps it was a harbinger of things to come.
Stop it, he told himself.
He didn’t like thinking that way. Life was already chock-full of crap, no need to conjure up more.
“I’ll walk. Stretch my legs a little.” And clear my head, too, he thought.
Stretch nodded and climbed into his vehicle.
Joe started toward the hogan. He forced his mind back to his job search and the insurance adjuster position. He decided he wouldn’t send out that follow-up letter. A desk job might be nice for a change.
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY 1:04 P.M.
WASHINGTON POST HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Helena Newridge had one unusual physical tic that she’d noticed in herself a number of years ago. She probably had others but never bothered to take inventory. It was during the time she studied mass media at UDC and had seen Bree Simpson talking to Barry. Bree was the typical buxom-beauty media darling. And Barry, whose last name she no longer remembered, was someone Helena wanted to trounce after a bar run. It was when she’d seen the two of them talking, and how easy it was for someone like Bree to attract the attention of a man, that she felt her right eyelid do a dance. And now, as she weaved through the pool of respected contributors granted cubicle space, her right eyelid performed the Macarena. It made her realize just how much she wanted to be one of the regulars, and not a gossip nobody.
“One day.” She said those words quietly so as not to disturb anyone, but she knew no one would have paid her mind anyway. Her byline was more of an afterthought than a selling point for the Post.
She strode into the editor’s office. Arvin, the manager of classifieds, slumped in one of the chairs before the desk of Ezra Gray, a managing editor at the paper.
“Morning, boss.” She placed the printout of the article she’d found on Ezra’s desk. She sniffed. Cherry. On the bookcase behind him lay his pipe. She’d never seen him smoke it, but rumor held that he celebrated putting a big story to bed with the pipe and a glass of Royal Lochnagar here in his office, door shut, and the journalist of the moment in company. He had a flair for the old traditions of journalism. That was one of the reasons he held on to the gossip column, while many other papers did away with theirs or went Web only, which was often where Helena’s contributions ended up.
Ezra read the Gallup Herald’s article about bullet holes and blood in Edgerton’s vehicle. He lifted an eyebrow.
Helena shifted her considerable weight from her right leg to her left.
He handed the single page back to her. “It’s interesting.”
“Interesting? Damn right it’s interesting. I’d like to run with it. It’s the trifecta: sex, money, and murder.”
The managing editor laughed. “What about Senator Fordham falling down during the banquet last night? She may have a medical condition she’s hiding.”
“There’s nothing there. She’s fat. I’m fat. You should see me trying to walk in heels.”
Arvin laughed behind her.
She leaned on Ezra’s desk. “I want out of gossip. Give me a chance, please. And I’m smelling front-page serial.” She sniffed. “Ahh, it smells like Pulitzer.”
Ezra laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Bernstein.”
She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a sexy whisper. “Come on, Ezra. You give me seven days in the Land of Enchantment and in seven months you get to enjoy a free lunch at Columbia while I receive my award.”
Ezra’s laugh was worthy of imitation by any respectable archvillain.
Helena’s stomach dropped. “Okay. How about I go out there on my own dime? If you like my angle, you approve my reimbursement.”
“I like your spunk, Helena,” Ezra said. “It’s a deal.”
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY 1:15 P.M.
PUEBLO PINTADO, NEW MEXICO
Stretch was already talking to the occupant of the hogan when Joe walked up. They stood in front of the house, next to an older dark blue pickup, which clearly had earned the moniker Ford Tough. The resident was a middle-aged woman with a slight hunch to her back. She barely reached Stretch’s chest and had to crane her head to talk to him.
“Eddie ain’t been around for a few days,” she said. “He usually asks me for a ride on Fridays to go into town. He don’t drive no more because of his eye.” She pointed to her own right eye, hesitated, then poi
nted to her left.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Stretch asked.
She looked over to Eddie’s trailer. “Is he in trouble?”
“Nope. I just need to talk to him.”
She studied Stretch’s face. “Last week, maybe Wednesday … no, Thursday. He had a visitor. Pretty late. I only looked over because I heard his dog barking. I think they was fighting.”
“Why do you think that?” Stretch asked.
“I heard Eddie yelling.”
“Who was the visitor?”
“I don’t know. I think he was a bilagáana—I mean a white guy. He drove a nice truck like yours, maybe gray. Hard to tell ’cause it was almost dark out.”
“What’d the guy look like?”
She pulled up her baggy bright red Fire Rock Casino T-shirt. Its out-of-shape neck had been drifting downward. “I don’t know. A white guy. Big. They was too far away.”
“Since he hasn’t come back, do you know where he might be now?”
“His mom lives in Shiprock. The trailer there was his dad’s.” She pushed out her lips and chin toward Eddie’s home. Navajo often lipped directions rather than pointing a finger. “He died a few years back.”
“Thank you, ma’am. If I leave you my card, will you call me if you see him?”
She nodded. Joe doubted she would. Stretch handed her his card.
“I have a question, ma’am,” Joe said. “There’s a dead dog by Eddie’s house. Do you know how it was killed?”
“Killed? Someone killed it?” She lowered her head. “We get skinwalkers around these parts. They’ll kill a dog if it keeps barking. And Eddie’s dog liked to bark.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Joe said.
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 4:28 P.M.
MICKEY’S BAR & GRILL, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
The savory smell of roast beef welcomed Joe. The aroma was from the full steamboat cut of beef that Mickey roasted to make his signature sandwich, the Combo, chunks of tender beef on a kaiser roll with a thick slice of provolone cheese, and a wet, sloppy scoop of gravy. His stomach knocked to tell him it was ready. All he’d eaten today was a bean wrap, which he’d gotten that morning from the burrito lady who came by the office carrying a small cooler filled with chicken, beef, or bean. The burrito lady didn’t know she’d been sustaining him for the past several months. Sometimes, he’d buy two or three, storing the extras in the office fridge for lunch or dinner, sometimes taking them home for the weekend.
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