Ernie went on: “You honest? Good, ’cause he’ll like you. Big and mean. I guess art’s a tough business. You interested?”
The next day, Ernie gave him a ride up to Santa Fe to meet Mr. O. “That’s what he likes being called: Mr. O. I guess it’s because his last name is Othmann. You know, that begins with an O,” Ernie said.
Several smart remarks came to Books, but he kept quiet. He was good at keeping quiet. And anyway, Ernie was doing him a favor.
After a quarter-mile drive from the front gate, Ernie parked the halfway house’s ten-year-old passenger van in front of a huge Southwest-style home. The place was peaceful, tucked away in its own little part of the desert. This was somewhere Books could make a fresh start. Not like the big city. Not like city life anywhere. This is what he needed. No matter what, he wanted this job.
His interview had taken place in the study, where Books was heading now. It had been short.
“I hear you worked for some people in Philadelphia.”
Books nodded. He’d learned years earlier that the less he spoke, the better.
“People tell me you understand loyalty. Is that true?”
He wondered, What people? but only nodded.
“I have a special job that recently opened up. I need someone I can count on. Someone I can trust. A bodyguard. You interested?”
Books held back a smile. Another nod. It seemed the proper response for a bodyguard.
“Okay, we’ll give it a go for a few weeks, see if we get along. How’s that? If we do, you stay here and live in the house. The pay’s good. Two a week, plus room and board.”
At first, Books thought two hundred a week was chump money, even with room and board, but it was better than living at the halfway house. A week later, he got his first paycheck and realized that Mr. O.’s two was followed by three zeros. He decided he would be staying on as long as Mr. O. would have him.
But now, Mr. O. was no longer that cool dude he’d met seven years ago. The crazy had set in. He constantly talked about his father, who had died long before Books came along. And he was hitting the powder more and more. Just the year before, he and some artist tramp had spent a Bolivian weekend together in his room. Come Monday, she wouldn’t wake up, so Books spent the rest of that day finding a safe place to dump her. He also spent two hours bleaching her—in and out—after Mr. O. admitted to having had sex with her that morning, thinking she had only passed out. The police had come around looking for her, hearing that Mr. O. had been with her on Friday, but they went away. Mr. O. never skimped on spreading his money around. He had several officers he could reach out to throughout the state—not to mention lawyers.
Books had been frugal over the years, saved up most of his salary. He thought it was a good time to leave. Cut out before his boss lost it altogether and brought Books down with him. But Ernie had been right: Books was honest, and he was loyal. He would see his boss through this mess before he left. It was a matter of honor for Books. But afterward, he would be heading for Ecuador.
When he walked into Mr. O.’s study, he was daydreaming about opening a little coastal restaurant catering to tourists, maybe calling it Rick’s Café, like in Casablanca. They’d shown the movie in prison.
“That motherfucker Evers isn’t letting this shit go!”
Books debated whether he should serve French or Italian food.
Mr. O. paced the room, powder on his upper lip like a Hitler mustache. “Motherfucker. Who does he think he is? He comes in my fucking house and accuses me. Fuck him! And fuck that William Tom. That son of a bitch should have died ten years ago.” He stopped pacing and looked at Books, eyes wide, finger pointing. “David, you need to take care of this. You need to take care of it now. He’s coming after you, too. For Eddie.” He spun around and jacked a finger at the painting of his father. “And you shut the fuck up. I can handle my own shit.”
Books decided on an American menu for Rick’s Café.
OCTOBER 6
WEDNESDAY, 10:35 A.M.
WINDOW ROCK JUSTICE BUILDING, WINDOW ROCK, ARIZONA
The interview was going well. Joe had the answers, and Samuel Becenti seemed to have the interest.
“You’d be working here in Window Rock,” Samuel said. “Do you plan to commute, or would you move out this way?”
“I’m in an apartment right now, but if I got the job, I’d move to Gallup.” He picked at a piece of lint on his pressed pant leg. The crease was sharp. Yes, he felt good about the interview. “There’s nothing holding me there. I’m actually looking forward to a move.”
Samuel appeared pleased. He wrote something on his notepad.
A knock at the door. Samuel gave a perturbed “Come in.”
A man in a Navajo police uniform entered. Joe didn’t recognize the face, but he recognized the name on the name tag. Calvert Cornfield. Chief Cornfield of the Navajo Nation Police Department.
“Hello, Samuel. I stopped by to say hi to your guest here.” He walked into the room and held out his hand. “Hello, Joe. I heard you were interviewing today. I spoke to your supervisor last week. I hope you got the message.”
Joe stood and shook hands. “I did. Nice to meet you, Chief.”
“I’m sure.” Cornfield turned to Samuel. “Well, as I said, I wanted to stop by and say hi. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Samuel, if you can, call me later. I’d like to talk to you about something.”
“Sure thing.”
Joe could only smile, a goofy, good-for-nothing smile. The kind that surfaces when you’re too stunned to think of anything else to do.
“Well, let’s see. Where were we?” Samuel looked up from his notepad. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” Joe said. “Nothing at all.” Exactly what this interview would amount to now.
OCTOBER 6
WEDNESDAY, 11:38 A.M.
INTERSTATE HIGHWAY 40 EAST, MCKINLEY COUNTY, NEW MEXICO
The phone number came up as blocked, which made Joe anxious. He was still concerned about Melissa and the break-in.
“Hello?”
“Are you investigating Congressman Edgerton’s disappearance?” a male voice said, the words delivered low, methodically.
“Who’s this?”
“Someone with information.”
“Okay,” Joe said. He clicked off the Tahoe’s radio. “What’s your name?”
“No names. I don’t want anyone to know I’m helping you.”
Joe scrambled for something to write on. “I need to call you something.”
A pause. “Call me Eddie.”
“Okay, Eddie. What’s the information?”
“Is there a reward?”
“That depends on the information.”
“Can we meet? I don’t want to talk over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“I’m scared. And I want to know I can trust you.”
Eddie didn’t sound scared.
“How did you get my number?”
Another pause. “We met once. You gave it to me.”
“If we met, why won’t you give me your name?”
This time, no pause. “I told you, I’m scared.”
“Come to my office. It’s safe there.”
“No, it’s not. I live in Jones Ranch. Can we meet there?”
“First, you need to tell me what the information is.”
“I know who killed that driver.”
“How do you know?”
“The person who did it told me.”
“Who told you?”
“Uh-uh. Only in person.”
“So far, nothing you’ve said makes me think you know anything about the case.”
“Forty-five-caliber.”
It was Joe’s turn to pause. That hadn’t been released.
“When do you want to meet?”
“Tomorrow.”
Joe would be with Bluehorse tomorrow, taking a crack at Rushingwater and his troupe of afternoon freedom fighters.
“How about we meet now?”
“Tomorrow.”
Eddie was too smooth. Too sure of himself. Tomorrow would be better for Joe, too. Tomorrow he would have Bluehorse for backup, perhaps the squad.
“Okay, four o’clock. Where?”
“Jones Ranch Road. Where you found the vehicle.”
“Why there?”
“Because I need to show you something. Something buried.”
“Okay, Eddie. We’ll meet on the road. How will—”
Click.
At the very least, this guy knew next to nothing and was playing him. At the most, he had information to identify a killer. And at worst, it was a setup. Eddie was a player. But what was his game?
OCTOBER 7
THURSDAY, 2:00 A.M.
RESIDENCE OF WILLIAM TOM, FORT DEFIANCE (NAVAJO NATION), ARIZONA
Books had been watching the house since midnight. A light at the back had stayed on till one o’clock. It was now two. He’d taken care of the dog that ran free about the place by sprinkling sleeping pills on ground meat. He liked dogs and never hurt one unnecessarily. He felt bad about that kid-diddler’s dog the other week, but the damn thing had felt obliged to protect its owner, which was too bad. And owner was probably too generous a description of that arrangement. The dog obviously hadn’t been cared for; it simply existed in close proximity to that jerk. Books rarely felt regret. And never for people. But animals were different.
A car pulled up. A woman got out, swaying. Books couldn’t see her face from that distance, but she appeared young from the way she moved and from her high-pitched giggles. The driver pinched her ass, then drove off amid shushed hoots and hollers from the other occupants. When the vehicle passed the spot where Books hid, concealed behind a sagging juniper, the moonlight penetrated the car’s darkened interior and he could make out the silhouettes of three men. He turned his attention back to the woman.
She remained where she’d been pinched for another minute or so, seeming to gather herself. Her swaying slowed like a metronome winding down, as did her fits of giggles. She turned slowly toward the house, as though the simple effort had required significant concentration and even more deliberation. The woman made her way to the front door, albeit in a not so straight path. She stumbled once and cursed before making it inside. The lights in the house stayed off.
He waited.
An hour passed. All was quiet.
Now it was time.
He put on his gloves, then made his way to the front door. He had to step over the snoring dog, which lay across the narrow stone path at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp and was probably what had tripped the woman.
He had his lock-pick gun out, but he found the door slightly ajar. Drunks often made things easy for people like Books.
He crept inside and surveyed the darkened room. The woman was passed out on the couch, snoring louder than the dog. She stank of alcohol and sex. The room was empty.
He pulled out a plastic bag and headed down the hall to the bedrooms.
OCTOBER 7
THURSDAY, 1:22 P.M.
INDIAN ROUTE 64, CHINLE, ARIZONA
Joe took 7 to Chinle, then turned north on 64.
“What do you think about our mysterious Eddie?” Joe asked.
Bluehorse didn’t answer right away. “If Eddie’s Navajo, I can see him being scared. We don’t like getting involved with outsiders.”
“He didn’t sound Navajo.”
Bluehorse shrugged but said nothing.
Joe pulled to the side of the road. They were about a mile from Rushingwater’s turnoff. He got out and put on his bulletproof vest under his shirt. Most investigators rarely wore them on interviews, unlike police officers, who never knew when they might arrive at a gunfight. Joe didn’t want to take chances with Rushingwater’s group.
He got back in the vehicle and they continued on 64 in silence until Bluehorse told him to turn left.
The road needed grading. The Tahoe bounced along, slipping in and out of well-traveled ruts. About a half mile in, they came to a double-wide with smoke rising from a narrow metal chimney jutting from the roof. The trailer looked a lot like Eddie Begay’s: crappy.
Two men lounged out front on green plastic lawn chairs. Joe pulled to a stop twenty feet from the trailer and thought of two Eddies: Stretch and Sadi’s Eddie Begay, and his own mysterious Eddie. But he didn’t have time to ponder the coincidence. The two men sitting outside stood and walked into the trailer. Were they retreating because they didn’t like visitors, or because they wanted to get their guns?
Joe and Bluehorse climbed out of the Tahoe, but they kept their doors open in front of them. Bluehorse wore his uniform. The people inside would know they were law and order.
Joe reached under the steering wheel and pushed the release button to unlock the roof rack above the front seats. It held a loaded M4 assault rifle with penetrator rounds.
A man wearing a red bandanna around his head, a black T-shirt, and a pair of well-worn jeans appeared at the trailer’s entrance. Joe recognized him from the mug shot taken in 1989 for assaulting an officer. The name on that photo read Dwight Henry. He looked the same, only older, and now with two long braids, one coming down over each shoulder.
“You are trespassing on my land, the land of my ancestors,” Rushingwater called.
Joe wanted to laugh. Who spoke like that?
Bluehorse said, “Ya’at eeh, Rushingwater. We only want to talk.”
“I have no business with a bilagáana.”
Joe noticed that while Rushingwater spoke, his body stayed motionless. Physically, he wasn’t conveying a threat. He was acting for the others inside the trailer.
Movement at one of the windows.
Joe put his hand to his gun. He whispered, “Ten o’clock.”
“I see it,” Bluehorse said. “Rushingwater, this is Joe Evers. He’s a BIA agent. We won’t take—”
One of the men who had been sitting in a lawn chair came around from the left side of the trailer. A big guy. He held a rifle in his right hand, barrel up, the butt resting on his hip. The trailer had a back door. Not good. Someone else could flank them if they weren’t careful.
Joe drew his weapon and held it by his thigh. Bluehorse did the same.
“Mr. Rushingwater,” Joe said. “We didn’t come looking for trouble. I understand you’re doing some important work for your people. Work with the United Nations. Is that true?”
“Yes, I petitioned with the United Nations. What is your point?”
Joe kept his eyes on the man with the rifle. “My point is, I am a federal agent. If this situation escalates, I know, and you know, that it would end your work with the UN. Neither of us wants that to happen.”
Rushingwater was silent a moment. “Nightwind is my war chief. There is no need to be concerned of him if you came here intending me no harm.”
Joe looked directly at the man called Nightwind. “No matter his position in your organization, I’m still a federal agent. He needs to put down his rifle.”
Rushingwater said, “Let me see some ID.”
Joe took out his credentials and held them up. The large blue BIA letters would be visible from a distance.
“Nightwind, put down your rifle,” Rushingwater said.
The war chief placed his weapon on the ground.
Joe advanced.
“I’m securing the rifle,” he said. “You’ll get it back when we leave.” When he was ten paces from Nightwind, he ordered, “Step back.”
Nightwind obeyed, but he didn’t look happy. Nor did he look relieved. Joe was sure that if Rushingwater had given the command, Nightwind would have opened fire. Joe picked up the rifle, keeping his Glock pointed at the ground. He didn’t want to appear threatening to the person or persons behind the window.
The rifle was a Remington .22-caliber Apache rifle with a fourteen-cartridge clip, a common firearm in the area. Joe moved back to the vehicle, holstered his weapon, dropped the rifle clip, and ejected th
e round in the barrel. He put the clip in his pocket, then laid the rifle on the front seat.
“Do you want to talk in our car or inside your trailer?” Joe said to Rushingwater, not giving him the option to talk outside.
“What do you think?” Rushingwater said.
“We need to do a security sweep first. I’d feel more comfortable, and it would lessen the likelihood of an accident or a misunderstanding.”
“You mean search the house? No.”
Another man stepped into the doorway behind Rushingwater and whispered something into his ear.
“That’s Sleeping Bear,” Bluehorse said.
Rushingwater spoke again: “Fine, you can come inside. But Nightwind will accompany you on your security sweep.”
Joe and Bluehorse approached the trailer cautiously. Rushingwater and Sleeping Bear stepped outside. Bluehorse stayed with them while Joe conducted a sweep of the trailer with Nightwind.
The interior was surprisingly neat, though it smelled like marijuana. But he wasn’t the pot police. Besides, it usually made people mellow, which was good.
In the living room, three men sat squeezed together on the couch like hellish lovebirds. In the corner sat a cheap assemble-it-yourself desk with a hutch, the cubbyholes stuffed with papers. Above the desk was a map of the Navajo Nation, with colored pins stuck at various locations.
“I need to check the couch,” Joe said.
The lovebirds stood and walked to the other side of the room.
“You gentlemen have any weapons on you?”
They said they didn’t.
He asked to check. They agreed. He did. Nothing.
Even so, this was foolish. He and Bluehorse should have hightailed it as soon as the rifle came out. But Joe was tired of being pushed around in this case. Too many other people seemed to be calling the shots. He’d had enough. He wasn’t about to let these two-bit freedom fighters kick him in the balls, too.
He checked the sofa and found a shotgun under the cushions. He removed the shells.
“Any other guns?”
They all shrugged. That meant yes.
“Where?”
Again all three men shrugged.
Joe did a walk-through of the trailer, which consisted of a kitchen, living room, three bedrooms, and a nonfunctioning bathroom with a five-gallon bucket on the floor. He found another shotgun behind the door of the middle bedroom. It was unloaded.
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