Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  Ellery looked at his almost-empty glass of Johnnie Walker Red, cradled, forgotten, in his left hand.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “You shouldn’t watch that, Mr. Gates. It’s not healthy.”

  “When you reach my age, you care less and less about what people think of you. Any visitors today?”

  “A few, but Gustavo chased them off.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a lot for both of you. Why don’t you and Gustavo take off this weekend. On me. Somewhere nice.”

  “Thank you, but we should stay. Those news folks are loco. Gustavo caught one climbing the fence.”

  “No. I insist. I’ll get Ernesto to stay the weekend.”

  She didn’t look happy. “Thank you, sir.”

  SEPTEMBER 30

  THURSDAY, 8:17 A.M.

  BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  “You old fox,” Cordelli said when Joe walked into the office. “I didn’t know you were stepping out with the ladies. Where’d you meet that hot little number? Gillian, right?”

  “Drop it,” Joe said, heading for his desk, not turning around.

  “Hey, I’m trying to pay you a compliment. She seemed nice.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  Half a dozen “While You Were Out” notes rested on his keyboard. Ginny could easily have transferred all those calls to his voice mail, but she was old-fashioned and liked taking messages. The top one read “Sierra Hannaway—again!” He closed his eyes. Damn. She’d seen the news about the body. And he hadn’t thought to call her. He let out a breath. Maybe the squad was right. Maybe he had lost his edge. Maybe a person’s edge was simply staying on top of cases. Sierra deserved to find things out from him, not the evening news. He’d decided he would give that courtesy to her and to Grace Edgerton. And he’d do the same for the driver’s family, too.

  “You know your problem, Joe?” Cordelli said. He stood at the end of Joe’s cubicle, his forearm on the filing cabinet. “You ain’t part of the team. It’s Team Joe or nothing. You’re a dinosaur, man. You somehow survived the meteor, but now the world’s a different place and you don’t quite fit in, do you?”

  “You’re right. The world is different. I used to run with meat eaters. Now I’m stuck with toads like you.” Joe walked forward, shouldering past Cordelli.

  Stretch and Sadi stood at the end of their cubicles, watching. Ginny looked up from a telephone call. Joe had an audience. A reality show free of commercials. Joe Evers: A Life Faded. He knew they were waiting for him to explode or fall apart like he had last year. Cordelli was still talking as Joe made his way to Ginny’s desk. She hung up the phone as he approached.

  “Ignore him, Joe,” Ginny said, her eyes expressing sympathy. Another person butting into his life. He didn’t need her pity.

  “Did you notify Nick Garcia’s parents that we were reopening the case?” Joe asked. Ginny mailed out all the victim notifications.

  “No,” Ginny said. “His parents died some years ago. He doesn’t have any siblings. I even looked—”

  “You didn’t think to tell me that sooner?” Joe raised his voice. “I’m the case agent, Ginny. I need to know those things.” She cringed, but Joe continued anyway. “You don’t think I can handle my cases, either, do you?”

  “No … I never…” She looked around for help.

  Cordelli’s voice: “Now you’re going off on Ginny. What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”

  Joe’s jaw tightened. “Back off.”

  Stretch whispered something to Cordelli that Joe couldn’t hear. Et tu, my friend.

  Cordelli raised his voice. “You lost your wife, Joe. Bad shit happens, but you have to move on and take care of what’s in your life now, because that’s all—”

  “Shut your mouth, Cordelli,” Joe said, spinning around, advancing on him. “Don’t you ever mention my wife again, you arrogant little prick.”

  Cordelli fell silent, a look of uncertainty on his face. He took a step back. “Joe, all I’m trying to say is—”

  “You’ve said enough already.” Joe was ten feet from him and closing, intent on smashing a fist into the little prick’s smug face. Maybe two or three times. He wouldn’t count.

  A hand grabbed Joe’s left shoulder. Stretch’s voice: “Take it easy.”

  He shrugged it off. Only two strides separated Joe and Cordelli. Joe’s hands balled into fists. Cordelli took another step back. Joe smiled.

  “You better watch yourself, old man.” Cordelli’s voice wavered. “You come at me, I’m going to put you down.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sadi stepped between them, her back to Joe. “You need to back off, asshole, before Joe beats your half-Mediterranean ass back to Italy.”

  Stretch grabbed Joe’s arm. “You don’t need this. Don’t bring more shit down on yourself.”

  Joe turned to Stretch. “I have only three months left. And I’m KMA, remember.” Stretch had kidded Joe about being kiss my ass–eligible, meaning that if Joe got in trouble now, the process to sanction him would take longer than his time left in the bureau. He had a total of twenty-two years in government service and could retire at any time.

  “What the hell is going on?” Dale bellowed from his office doorway.

  “Nothing,” Stretch said. “We’re good.”

  “Good my ass. Get in here, Joe!”

  “I need to get out of here,” Joe said, turning to go.

  “I’m not asking.”

  “We’re good, Dale.” Joe’s anger waned. Cordelli’s being afraid of him had been therapy enough.

  “Get in here or go home … for good.”

  Joe walked back but paused at Ginny’s desk. “Sorry for snapping. It wasn’t meant for you.”

  “I know.” But she leaned back when she said it.

  Dale stepped aside. Joe entered. Dale followed, closing the door.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Wonder Boy talks shit sometimes.”

  “Toughen up. Life’s a bitch. You, of all people, know that.”

  “Cordelli was pushing my buttons. He thinks he’s God’s gift to the BIA.”

  “Yeah, he may be full of himself, but you’re a pain in the ass. You drag your sorry ass around here every day crying, Woe is me. Even Stretch has to work to be your friend.”

  “Me and Stretch are fine.”

  “Damn it, Joe. We were never close, but even I can see how you’ve changed.”

  Joe stood up and faced Dale. “Is that all you wanted me in here for? To tell me I’m miserable? Mission accomplished. Can I go?”

  Dale walked behind his desk. “You’re incredible.” He sat down. “People are reaching out to help, and you push them away.”

  Joe felt his anger returning. “Yeah, you’re a big help. You and that review board. Thanks. You’re a peach.”

  “I called that board because you became unfit. You stopped caring about your cases. You even stopped caring about yourself. Our victims deserve more than that. Longman’s family deserved better than you gave them.”

  “You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I regret what happened? But it was a mistake. I screwed up. We all screw up. No one’s perfect doing this job, even your golden boy Cordelli. But I don’t deserve to be canned over it.”

  “You weren’t canned. They asked you to retire. You agreed.”

  Joe pursed his lips. “Are we done? You need anything else, boss?” He looked over at the bookcase full of model cars. Dale’s pride and joy. One good shove would send the whole miserable collection to the floor.

  “What’s the status of the Edgerton case?”

  “I’m working follow-ups. I want to interview Senator Holmes. He was Edgerton’s chief of staff.”

  “Forget it. I’m not calling Washington on that one. You’re not fishing around in his pond. Not with the press watching our every move.”

  “You want me to solve this case, or just run it into the ground?”


  “Funny. I got a call from a Chris Staples. He was concerned about the same thing. He was afraid you would try and run Grace Edgerton’s campaign into the ground.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Any other time, I’d say I know you better than that. But now, with what just happened, I’m not so sure.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I gave it to you. Run with it. Sink or swim, it’s yours.”

  Part of Joe was relieved. But only a part. He wanted to work the case. Perhaps he could figure out what happened to Edgerton and go out on a high. But another part of him knew cold cases were often unsolvable. There was a better chance he would go out on a low. Even lower than he was right at that moment, which, honestly, seemed impossible.

  “Then let me do my job.”

  “Doing your job is what I’ve been asking you to do for a year now.”

  SEPTEMBER 30

  THURSDAY, 9:10 A.M.

  UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  “Special Agent?” the girl behind the reception desk said. “What makes you special?” She tilted her head and smiled up at Joe. Too bad she was Melissa’s age.

  Joe put away his credentials. He returned the smile. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I like to think it’s my personality.”

  “You carry handcuffs?”

  “I do.” Joe was looking around now, hoping no one was overhearing their conversation. Students and faculty moved through the hallway behind him, oblivious to the bold flirting by this nubile teen. He didn’t know if she was a teen. She could be twenty-five. Wishful thinking. Thankfully, the university had cranked up the air-conditioning.

  “I’ve never been handcuffed.”

  Time to put an end to this before he needed a shower. “That’s because you’re a good girl. And I hope you stay one.”

  She wasn’t deterred. “Maybe I’m not a good girl.”

  Maybe he should test her convictions. “Professor Trudle?”

  She actually pouted, but she pointed down the hall. “Last door on the left.”

  He got out of there—quick.

  The girl had put him in a better mood. A different mood. After he finished with the professor, he planned to grab some lunch, then head over to the New Mexico Museum of Natural History and Science, where Sierra Hannaway worked. He had called her during the drive to the university, and she’d agreed to meet him at two.

  The doors along the hall listed names and titles. The one the girl had indicated bore Professor Lawrence Trudle’s name on a small plastic plaque. The door was open. A balding man, quite a few years older than Joe, with big, round professorial eyeglasses, sat behind a desk.

  “Professor Trudle?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here about Congressman Edgerton.” Joe threw the name out there, watching the man closely for a reaction, but there was no need for scrutiny. The man wore his emotions on his sleeve.

  “I’ve been following the news. I was hoping someone would come talk to me. Are you an investigator or with the press?”

  Joe showed his credentials. The professor didn’t ask him why he was special.

  “The Bureau of Indian Affairs. I remember speaking to an agent from there back when all this occurred.”

  The professor stood and shook hands. Joe eased into a chair in front of the desk and took out his notepad.

  “I appreciate your time, Professor.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything I can do. I was told I was the last person to see the congressman and Faye that day.”

  Faye? Joe felt a tingle of suspicion creep up the back of his neck.

  “What do you remember?”

  “Oh, I remember everything. That day changed my life. Well, actually, finding those artifacts changed my life.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’d been contacted by Faye Hannaway, Congressman Edgerton’s secretary. She said the congressman was working on a piece of legislation to protect Native American antiquities. He wanted to come out and talk with me and visit my site, where a number of artifacts had been stolen. I said of course. I mean, I wanted those artifacts back. I thought that if a congressman could throw some of his weight around, perhaps the police would actually take the case seriously.”

  “What do you mean, take it seriously?”

  “I’d reported the theft to the Navajo Nation police, but I’m not even sure they made a report. It happened a week before the congressman visited the site. I made the report the night of the theft, and when I followed up a few days later, they couldn’t find the original report. I think William Tom squashed the whole investigation.”

  “William Tom? The president of Navajo Nation?” Joe groaned inside. Not another conspiracy theory. He jotted the name down anyway.

  “The same. But he wasn’t president back then. At that time, he was the director of Navajo Antiquities. Smart man, very ambitious. He always talked like he knew what was best for the Navajo people. His words, not mine. He always said ‘my people’ when he spoke about the tribe. A little grandiose, if you ask me.”

  “Help me understand,” Joe said, somewhat incredulous. “Why would the director of Navajo Antiquities want to stop an investigation into stolen Navajo artifacts?”

  “Because I think he stole them.”

  Joe closed his notepad.

  Trudle continued: “William visited my site the morning of the theft. I was required to call his office after a find, so that they could inventory the items with us. He arrived alone, made his inventory, and then left. He was amazed at what we’d found, as was I. Later that day, I ran into Gallup to purchase more packing material. We’d found much more than we’d expected. Massive pots. Preserved bones. What looked like painted stones with pictographs that seemed to tell a story. We never got to examine them, though. When I returned that night, everything was gone.”

  “Why do you suspect William Tom?”

  “Because I saw him driving back on six oh two when I was returning to the site. It was about nine o’clock at night. I saw his truck, a Suburban.”

  “He could have been working late.”

  “When I confronted him the next day, he denied it was his truck. But I knew his truck. It had Department of Navajo Antiquities printed on the side.”

  Joe opened his notepad again.

  “When I got back to camp,” the professor continued, “our most important finds were gone. My two assistants had been in their tents. One had fallen asleep and the other had been listening to music. Neither heard or saw anything. William Tom was the only one outside my group who knew of the find and knew what those artifacts were worth.”

  “Worth to whom? It seems like a big risk for someone like him. How much are we talking?”

  “Artifacts are worth whatever a collector is willing to pay for them. Maybe a few thousand dollars, maybe some financial help for a presidential run. I later found out that he was very close to Arthur Othmann, who was one of his campaign’s biggest supporters. A lot of Santa Fe money. Do you know who he is? Arthur Othmann?”

  The name sounded familiar. Joe shrugged.

  “He’s somewhat known in archaeology circles as a collector of Native American art and antiquities. He’s tried to finance several of our digs. The Othmann Gallery in Santa Fe sells legitimate art, but I’m told he also sells to the black market. At least that’s the rumor. I think that was who Tom sold the artifacts to.”

  Now Joe placed the name. Arthur Othmann was the subject in Stretch and Sadi’s investigation.

  “You said these artifacts changed your life. How?”

  Professor Trudle stood and walked over to his bookcase, where he pulled a slim volume off the middle shelf.

  “This is what is known as the ‘Trudle Turkey,’” the professor said as he handed Joe the book.

  Joe read the title, Anasazi Lineage to the Aztec. He recalled his own knowledge of the ancient ruins in New Mexico and Arizona and the people who supposedly built them. “You believe the
Anasazi were connected with the Aztec Empire?”

  Professor Trudle removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Most mainstream archaeologists don’t believe that, but some items found at El Morro and Chaco Canyon point to that lineage. What I found were two massive pots that had residue inside consistent with the boiling of humans, a common ritual in Aztec ceremonies.”

  “That’s very interesting.” Joe wondered how the interview had gone so far off topic.

  The professor put his glasses back on and beamed. “Yes, it is. But I lost the proof when the artifacts were stolen. All I had was a scraping of the residue. The actual pots would have supported my theory. Luckily, my assistant had taken some very good photographs. I used them in the book. As a matter of fact, she was the reason Congressman Edgerton visited the site.”

  “Who was your assistant?”

  “Sierra Hannaway, Faye’s younger sister.”

  Joe took in the information. Why wasn’t that in the file? It would have explained why Edgerton went out to visit the professor and why Faye went with him. It would have punched a crater-size hole in the illicit affair angle.

  “Was Sierra there when you met with Edgerton?”

  “Yes, but only in the beginning. She left soon after they arrived, for a supply run to Gallup. She was with Steve. Steve Mercado. He’s a professor here now, in this department. And he’s a friend.”

  “So what happened at the meeting?”

  “Nothing. We talked about protecting Native American antiquities and he told me he wanted to use the theft as an example. He was working on what would become the Native American Graves and Repatriation Act, NAGPRA. We spoke for about an hour, I showed him the site, and he left.”

  “Who was there that day?”

  “The congressman, Faye, a man who stayed with the car, and Sierra and Steve. But as I said, Sierra and Steve left soon after.”

  “Anyone else? Perhaps someone visited the site that day, a passerby? Anyone?”

  “No. No one.”

  “Any vehicles? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  The professor said no. Joe tried several variations of the question, but there seemed nothing otherwise unusual that day or during the visit.