Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  “Is that important?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think it was gas for the generator,” she said. “Yeah, I remember now. After the theft, Professor Trudle kept the site lights running all night, and that meant that the generator ran all night, too, so we needed gas. Also, I wanted to clean up. We used the showers at UNM-Gallup.”

  “So, when you and Steve went to Gallup, Professor Trudle was left alone with the congressman and Faye?”

  “And Nick.”

  “And Nick. What do you know about Nick?”

  “I think Faye said he was a writer. I didn’t know him well. Only to say hi. His father called me after they went missing. He accused me of knowing where Nick was. He said that my sister was involved in the scandal with Edgerton and that they had pulled Nick into it. He was an old man and wanted to blame someone.”

  “How did he get your number?”

  “You don’t have any idea how big the media coverage was back then, do you? That was my fifteen minutes of fame.”

  He thought about his conversation with Gillian only the week before. “What were your fifteen minutes like?”

  “The first two weeks, I had reporters camped outside my apartment. They were at my parents’ house, too. And I received so many phone calls. Some threats, some support, mostly crazy people. My parents received calls, too. And some letters.”

  “Did any of the calls or letters have details about the disappearance?”

  “My sister was either sunbathing on some South American beach or she was abducted by aliens. One person said that Edgerton was secretly an intergalactic ambassador. I don’t know if people like that ever realize how much their foolishness hurts.” She wiped at her brimming eye with the back of her hand and then picked up the accordion folder next to her and placed it in front of Joe. “Here are the letters and some newspaper clippings. I thought they might help.”

  He took his time going through the material. She waited patiently. He asked more questions about the case, about her sister, and about the congressman. When he felt he had covered everything, he asked for her opinion on what had happened. An opinion often provided good insight into how that person’s mind worked. If she mentioned the Illuminati, he was out of here.

  “I think someone killed them. I don’t know why. Maybe because of that casino bill he was working on. Maybe because of some other bill. Maybe it was random. I don’t know. But I do know my sister is dead, because there is no way she would just run away and cause me and my parents to worry all these years.”

  “Is there anyone you suspect?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “I always thought Faye’s boyfriend, Bobby Lopez, could have done something to her. He always seemed a little … controlling. The jealous type. He works for the Albuquerque Police Department now. I saw him last year. We had some vandalism here. The creep actually hit on me.”

  Joe asked a few more questions about the boyfriend. When he’d finished, she asked, “Will you call me when you identify the body?”

  “Yes.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Please find my sister, Agent Evers.”

  “Sierra,” a man’s voice said.

  They both turned. In the doorway stood the ponytailed man Sierra had been talking to at the security desk. Joe had pegged him as a bohemian. But now, he got a better look. Not bohemian. Ponytail was the guy on the cover of every romance novel, only he didn’t have a torn shirt—yet.

  Ponytail spoke. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but if we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late.” He stared at Joe.

  Joe thought the guy was going to lift his leg and mark his territory right then and there.

  “That’s fine, Ms. Hannaway,” Joe said. “I have enough here to work on.” He shoved the letters and envelopes back into the accordion folder. “I’ll make copies and get the originals back to you.”

  SEPTEMBER 30

  THURSDAY, 8:35 P.M.

  JOE EVERS’S APARTMENT, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Joe reclined on the couch, feet up, a beer within easy reach. The Edgerton file was spread out around him, along with an empty bean burrito wrapper.

  Sierra suspected Faye’s boyfriend, Bobby Lopez, so he started with him. Lopez had served six years with the 101st Airborne Division and was part of Operation Urgent Fury, the U.S. invasion of Grenada in 1983. In June 1987, he received an honorable discharge and returned to Albuquerque, his hometown. According to his interview, he’d met Faye at a Veterans of Foreign Wars event. They started dating. Three months later, he moved in with her. He was unemployed at the time. The day Faye disappeared, he was at home watching soap operas and The People’s Court. Not much of an alibi. He was familiar with firearms and had tactical training. Joe wrote “Bobby Lopez” on his legal pad and jotted a few notes.

  He spent the next hour going through the file, identifying everyone of interest to the investigation. He added their names to his list. He planned to conduct a follow-up interview with each of them. He hoped they were all alive. Time had a way of thinning out witness lists in a cold case.

  By his third beer, he had eight names written on his sheet. Not many. All of them had been interviewed by the BIA agent who’d headed the case, Malcolm Tsosie.

  Joe had transferred to BIA from the old Immigration and Naturalization Service, INS, long before it was rolled into Homeland Security after 9/11. During Joe’s first year with BIA, Malcolm had been put on suspension, so they’d never met. Back then, Joe had been assigned to the Mescalero Apache reservation and was living in Roswell. He’d spent little time in Albuquerque, where Malcolm worked. Like Joe, Malcolm had also left under a cloud. If he remembered correctly, Malcolm had been investigated for excessive force. He’d been on the Laguna reservation, interviewing a victim, when the victim’s neighbors began fighting. A domestic. Malcolm and another agent attempted to break it up. The irate husband punched Malcolm, so Malcolm hit the man on the head with an expandable baton, putting him in a coma for eight days. When the man came to, he had no recollection of the incident, but Malcolm had already come under investigation by then. Apparently, it wasn’t his first violent encounter. Rather than face a review board, Malcolm had quit. No retirement. Nothing. Malcolm was roughly Joe’s age, so he was likely still working. Dale might know how to find him. They’d been partners at one time.

  Reading the original investigation reports proved disappointing. All the interviews seemed to focus on Edgerton’s affair and the investigation of casino gaming corruption. The day Edgerton went missing was the same day the Committee on Standards of Official Conduct, later renamed the House Committee on Ethics, announced it was opening a probe into allegations of bribery and corruption by Edgerton and Ellery Gates, a congressman from Oklahoma. Gates was mentioned in a number of the news stories about Edgerton. The congressional probe had focused on their joint sponsorship of the Indian Gaming Regulatory Bill and a number of significant money transfers to offshore accounts and to Gates’s reelection campaign fund. As Joe had learned the day before, the source of the money was the nonprofit group Indigenous Peoples Self-Governance Foundation, which turned out to be a front funded by three international gaming corporations and two Oklahoma tribes. The corporations wanted favorable access to gaming on tribal lands. The tribes wanted less oversight. Both goals were compatible. A three-year investigation resulted in an opinion of corruption against Edgerton, but he was never found, so he never responded to the charges and never faced punishment. Ellery Gates, however, did face his peers. He was expelled from the House and fined by the IRS for failing to pay taxes on the income. No prison. Lucky bastard. The evidence against him was solid.

  But now, after finding Edgerton’s vehicle and a skeleton, Joe wasn’t so sure the congressman had run off with the money. The case appeared much more sinister.

  Joe read over his notes.

  1. Bobby Lopez: boyfriend of Faye, former military, unemployed at time of disappearance, now police officer (jealousy?)

  2. Grac
e Edgerton: wife (jealousy?)

  3. Kendall Holmes: Edgerton’s chief of staff, now senator (congressional inquiry? involved in bribery?)

  4. Ellery Gates: traveled to New Mexico day of disappearance, involved in bribery, powerful, now living in Texas (protect himself in bribery inquiry?)

  5. William Tom: director of Navajo Antiquities, later president of Navajo Nation (theft at archaeology site?)

  6. Hawk Rushingwater: real name Dwight Henry, American Indian Movement, radical, sent vague threats (make example of Edgerton? prove himself?)

  7. Dr. Lawrence Trudle: UNM archaeologist, last to meet with Edgerton, had artifacts stolen (motive unknown)

  8. Sierra Hannaway: younger sister of Faye Hannaway (motive unknown)

  The list was interesting but incomplete. He added another name.

  9. Indigenous Peoples Self-Governance Foundation: bribed Edgerton and Gates, any one of the corporations or tribes (protect themselves in the investigation?)

  He looked at his list again. Several good leads, but Stretch was right: Look for the simple motive. Bobby Lopez fit that nicely. Jealousy.

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 10:40 A.M.

  ALBUQUERQUE POLICE HEADQUARTERS, 400 ROMA AVENUE NW, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Joe sat in Captain Carmen Chavez’s corner office at police headquarters. Their friendship went back years. They’d first met at a regional police shooting competition. Joe was good, but Chavez had proven better. She’d won four of the seven revolver matches, becoming the first female officer to ever achieve that honor. Several National Police Shooting plaques hung on her walls. “Good guy?” Joe asked. Chavez oversaw personnel, including Bobby Lopez.

  “He’s a sexist pig with a bad attitude and a worse temper,” Chavez said. “He’s had so many excessive-force complaints made against him that I keep his file in my desk. It saves time when I need to send it to IA.” She shook her head. “Somehow he gets out of them.”

  A knock at the door.

  “That’s the prick now.” She stood and came around the desk. “I’ll let you talk to him in here while I grab a cup of coffee.”

  She called Lopez in and made the introductions. Joe showed his credentials and gave him a business card. They shook hands. Lopez’s grip was a little too firm, his eye contact a little too long.

  “I guess you can have a union rep if you want,” Chavez said. “But Joe’s questions concern a matter prior to your employment. It’s your call.”

  When he learned it was about Faye Hannaway, Bobby agreed to talk.

  Chavez nodded to Joe on her way out. He got the message: Good luck.

  Lopez’s gaze followed the captain’s backside out the door. Chavez had this guy pegged.

  “Thanks for talking to me. Can I call you Bobby?”

  “That’s my name.”

  Bobby dropped into the seat across from Joe and reclined as though not having a care. He was intimidating, with his tightly cropped blond hair slicked back, his compact frame, no neck, and powerful arms. Joe guessed steroids. The man before him looked like a G.I. Joe action figure. His name tag read B. LOPEZ.

  “Is Bobby short for Robert?”

  “Nope. Bobby Joe.”

  “Where’re you from, Bobby?”

  “I’m from Grants, Joe.”

  Joe decided that trying to build rapport with this asshole would only waste time. “What can you tell me about Faye?”

  “She ran off with that Edgerton fuck and left me on the hook for her apartment. She’s a whore. Did you find her?”

  “No, but I hope to.”

  “Drag her ass back here to New Mexico so everyone can see what a cunt she is.”

  Bobby had charm. “I take it you didn’t care for her?”

  “You must be a college boy.”

  Joe smiled. “Everyone seems to think Faye was having an affair with Edgerton. What do you think?”

  “She’d spread her legs for anybody. I screwed her the night we met. That’s why I moved in with her. Easy. Not someone you would take home to Mom, but okay in the sack.”

  Joe leaned forward, moving into Bobby’s space. “I read in the file that when you met her you were unemployed and living at a veterans shelter. Then you moved in with her. I guess she was a free ride in every sense, right?”

  Bobby was silent for several seconds. “Yeah, I got out of the army and was having difficulty finding a job.”

  “Discharged after Grenada. Did you suffer from PTSD when you got back?”

  “Is that important, or are you just a nosy prick?”

  Joe waited.

  “I wasn’t nuts. I had problems finding a job. So what? So did other guys. Grenada was a big cluster fuck.” He rubbed the back of his forefinger over one eyebrow, then rubbed again. “Our friggin’ commander ordered us to jump at seven hundred feet. No point in carrying a reserve, ’cause you don’t have time to deploy it. So we carried extra ammo instead. We came in low and hot. The drop zone was an airfield. Do you know what it’s like to hit asphalt and concrete coming in that low with extra weight? More than half my unit took leg injuries on landing. A big fucking cluster. All to get out a bunch of Commie students. Most didn’t even wanna leave.”

  “That piss you off?”

  “Hell yeah. A big fucking waste.”

  “Did Faye’s affair with Edgerton piss you off, too?”

  Bobby’s nostrils flared. “Is that supposed to be your big interview technique? Surprise questions? Catch me off guard?”

  “Wanted to see how you’d react.”

  “Do you have any real questions, or are you going to waste my time with bullshit?”

  “Tell me what you were doing the day Faye went missing.”

  “It’s in the file. Read it. You got a degree.”

  Joe embraced the silence; it was often an ally during interviews.

  “I don’t remember,” Bobby said. “It was over twenty years ago.”

  “Everyone else seems to remember that day.”

  “I don’t care about anyone else. I don’t remember.”

  “Why are you different?”

  “I said, I don’t remember.” Bobby’s attention drifted to the desk. He seemed to find Captain Chavez’s files interesting.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “I was drinking back then. And doing weed. I don’t remember.”

  “Convenient.”

  “It’s the fucking truth.”

  “Unemployed. Drinking. Drugs. A real catch.”

  “What?”

  “Did you beat her, too? Offer her the deluxe package?”

  “Fuck you.” Bobby got up, yanked the door open, and walked out.

  Joe silently chastised himself. He’d allowed the creep to get to him. Joe wasn’t a tenderfoot. He knew better.

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 11:11 A.M.

  GALLUP DISTRIBUTION, ROUTE 66, GALLUP, NEW MEXICO

  A crowd of about seventy Native Americans milled along the sidewalk of Gallup Distribution. The facility, a small warehouse, distributed beer to regional bars and liquor stores. A few nonnatives also joined in the milling. It had rained earlier, so the ground was still wet. Some of the people carried umbrellas. They looked bored.

  Cars passed by, tooting their horns in response to the hand-painted signs the protesters carried: HONK! TO STOP THE GENOCIDE; ALCOHOL IS KILLING OUR NATIVE SONS & DAUGHTERS; STOP THE CONSPIRACY, JOIN NAVAJO NOW.

  Bluehorse wasn’t sure if the honkers agreed or were making fun of the group. While he watched from his unit, which was parked at a gas station a little ways down Route 66, a metallic blue Toyota with extended chrome rims and tinted windows swerved close to the sidewalk where the protesters circled. The Toyota hit a small puddle along the curb. Water sprayed, people jumped back, and cries of anger followed. An empty soda or beer can flew from the Toyota’s passenger side. The sound of it bouncing along the roadway carried all the way to Bluehorse. The off
icer in the Gallup PD patrol car parked next to his vehicle also had been watching the protesters and turned on his flashers and took off after the troublemakers. Bluehorse put his Tahoe in drive and headed over to the now partially wet group.

  He pulled into the lot beside Gallup Distribution. Two employees standing by the front door waved to him, probably hoping he would move the group along.

  Curious faces looked over from the protest group—unfriendly faces. Before getting out, Bluehorse checked the driver’s license photo for Dwight Henry, aka Hawk Rushingwater. He spotted him. Dwight stood to the edge of the crowd, drinking from a bottle of water, carrying a red bullhorn, and staring at Bluehorse. Dwight’s was one of the unfriendly faces. So was the big heavyset man’s next to him. The big man wore a black T-shirt that read MY ANCESTORS SURVIVED THE LONG WALK.

  Bluehorse approached Dwight. The big man stepped forward, standing in front of his little leader.

  “Dwight Henry?” Bluehorse asked.

  “This isn’t the rez,” the big man said.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “You don’t have any authority off the rez, Mr. Police Officer. The white man makes sure of that.”

  “I thought your group was about protecting people’s rights. Who needs authority to talk to someone?”

  A skinny Navajo walked over. He wore thin wire-rim glasses and a polo shirt. “Hello, Officer. How can we be of help?”

  “I need to talk to Dwight. Who are you?”

  “I’m Sleeping Bear. And if you would, please refer to Dwight as Hawk. We use our spiritual names.”

  “Fine,” Bluehorse said. He looked around the big man to Dwight. “Can we talk for a few minutes, Hawk?”

  People started to drift over. Eavesdroppers.

  “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a protest?”

  “When would be a good time?”

  The horn blasts from passing vehicles diminished now that the sign holders had left the sidewalk to gather around Bluehorse’s little party.

  Rushingwater stepped forward to stand beside his bodyguard. “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t think you want to discuss it in front of all these people.”