He closed the knife and tossed it on the island counter, not wanting it in his pocket when the police arrived. He didn’t know how they would view an American who had been involved in an assault and was concealing a knife in his pocket. It might complicate his account of what had happened. He removed his necktie and secured Snap’s hands. Then he sat down next to him and checked the man’s pulse. He was alive. He’d have to secure Handsome, too. If he hadn’t killed him.
“Is Cedro okay?” Joe said to Daniela. She knelt next to her husband, pressing a dish towel against his bloody face.
She nodded. Tears ran down her face. Her left cheek and forehead were bruised. Blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.
“Call the police,” Joe said. “I’ll take care of him.”
She hesitated, looked at Cedro, then stood and hurried off.
Joe started to get to his knees.
Something crashed into his back. Before he knew what was happening, an arm wrapped around his neck, then another pressed up to the side of his head, the same as he had done to Snap. A rear naked chokehold. His breathing became difficult. Pressure built in his head.
“Dale lied,” a familiar voice said. “You’re not a loser. You’re a pain in the ass.”
Malcolm.
What was he doing here? It didn’t make sense.… Then again, it did. It made all the sense in the world. Holmes had sent him here to silence the lawyer.
Joe grabbed hold of the forearm around his throat and pulled. Malcolm wheeled back and tightened the hold. Joe’s vision blurred. He willed himself not to go unconscious.
“It’s nothing personal, Joe.”
It wasn’t going to end like this. Not like this. Not on a kitchen floor among strangers, so far away from Melissa. His vision faded to gray.
He raised his left hand to his chest, groped under his suit jacket, found what he was looking for. He pulled it out. He was weak, so weak. The voice in his ear was now echoing in his head. He raised his right arm and jabbed backward, hard.
Malcolm roared in pain and let go of him.
Joe fell forward on his knees and gasped for breath. The blood rushed to his head and white spots appeared in front of his eyes. In a moment, they cleared and he saw the frying pan he’d thrown earlier. He grabbed the handle and got shakily to his feet.
Malcolm screamed as he pulled Joe’s gold-plated pen from his right cheek. Fury blazed in his eyes, all the fury of a man who’d just been stabbed in the face. He held up the bloody writing implement, and his intent became clear. It was crazy, almost perverse, but it prompted Joe into action. He was not about to let himself be killed by Christine’s gift. He swung the pan with all his strength, all that he had left, and it struck the former BIA agent on the left side of his head. The bell tolled again, and Malcolm fell to the floor. He did not move.
Joe surveyed the savagery around him.
Unlike the movies, this was how violence played out in real life. Sloppy and ugly. Nothing choreographed. A vaudeville tragedy. No applause. No curtain calls. No roses. Only blood and pain and soon-to-visit nightmares.
He hobbled over to Cedro, who was sitting up but not looking well, and took a seat on the floor next to him.
“You doing okay?”
The lawyer gave a weak nod.
Daniela returned, holding a phone in one hand, several towels in the other. She saw Malcolm lying on the floor but said nothing.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Joe said to Cedro.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Who did you open the account for?”
“You are a persistent gringo.” Cedro’s mouth and cheek were swollen, so his words were not so well formed. “He said his name was Arlen Edgerton, but later I saw a photograph of the missing congressman and knew it was not him. This many years later, I fear I cannot describe him to you. I’m sorry.”
Joe hung his head. All this, for what? Pointless. No, not pointless. He had Malcolm, and that would tie Holmes to the corruption and a motive if he could flip the former agent, but Cedro’s testimony would have tightened the case, connected the three murders to Holmes as well as to the casino money. A witness from the past was powerful. And to Joe, it was somehow the key. He needed to hear it from the lawyer, to place Holmes here, to know the truth; even it were circumstantial to the murders, it would prove to Joe he had the right man.
“I was bluffing about the terrorism angle.”
Cedro smiled.
They listened to the approaching sirens in silence. Soon emergency vehicles were outside, police officers and medics inside.
“There is one thing I remember about the man,” Cedro said as he was lifted onto a stretcher. “He had two different-colored eyes. Like the dog.”
NOVEMBER 1
MONDAY, 8:03 A.M.
BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
Dale froze in the doorway to his office, briefcase in one hand, a Starbucks in the other.
“When did you get back?” he asked.
Joe reclined behind Dale’s desk, feet up, papers and folders pushed to the side, two model cars seemingly discarded on the floor. “I caught a red eye.”
Dale knew about Malcolm in Mexico City. Joe could practically smell his fear. He wanted to drag this out, wring out every ounce of pleasure from this confrontation, menace Dale like a cat menaces a cornered mouse. And today, for a change, Dale would be the mouse and Joe would be the big fat tabby with a mean disposition.
“What are you doing behind my desk?”
“Seeing what it’s like to be an asshole.”
“Get out of my chair.”
“It may not be your chair much longer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not me. Malcolm. He’s been talking. Apparently, he’s got a phobia about Mexican jails. And I can’t blame him. The prisons down there really suck. He wants to be extradited back to the States. So it’s been pretty much a tell-all down in Mexico City. He’ll talk to anyone—the federales, the FBI, State Department, me. Hell, when I left, he was chatting up the guy mopping the floor at the police station. I don’t think he wanted to go back to his cell.”
“What’s that have to do with me?”
Joe came around the desk. “You set me up, you son of a bitch.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about putting me on the case, giving Malcolm updates about the investigation, and blocking me every time I tried to talk to him or the senator.”
“You’re crazy. I—”
“You protected a murderer and almost got me killed.”
“The senator sits on the committee that oversees the BIA. He’s entitled to know—”
“Bullshit. You traded information for the promise of a promotion. But what I don’t understand is why? You had a pretty much spotless career, not stellar—none of us do. So why? Why now?”
Dale didn’t respond at first, but when he finally did, there was a visible droop in his shoulders.
“It didn’t seem so wrong at first.”
“That’s what Stretch probably thought. But he knew exactly what he was doing and why: money. So he could afford to be superdad with trips and cars and tuition. The problem with him was that by the time I came along, he was already in too deep to Othmann to refuse. But you were different. You didn’t owe Malcolm or the senator. So why?”
“I watched you finish your career with nothing more than a pension and a kick out the door. I didn’t want that. The senator was going to owe me a favor. But I wouldn’t have done it if I had known he was involved in Edgerton’s death. I thought it was just politics. You know me. I wouldn’t have protected a murderer.”
Joe said nothing.
“What are you going to do now?” Dale asked, defeated.
Joe walked over to the bookcase beside Dale’s desk, grabbed hold of one side, and shoved. The wall unit and the rows of model cars crashed to the floor. Die-cast parts flew acros
s the rug. He crushed several under his foot as he strode to the door.
“We’re even.”
NOVEMBER 2 (ELECTION DAY)
TUESDAY, 10:52 P.M.
EDGERTON FOR GOVERNOR HEADQUARTERS, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO
Grace Edgerton stood onstage, looking out over a roomful of volunteers and supporters who had come tonight to be with her while the votes were tallied. Now they cheered at the announcement. And Grace was moved to tears of joy, but her tears were not just for winning the governorship. That morning, she’d been notified by the FBI only minutes before their press release. Kendall Holmes had been arrested for the murder of her husband. The news went viral. The election alone would have paled in comparison, but the combination of the two overwhelmed her.
She stepped to the podium to deliver her acceptance speech. The applause and whistles and hoots continued.
Chris Staples, who stood to her right with Paige Rousseau, both clapping and smiling, leaned toward her and shouted to be heard.
“They love you, Madam Governor!”
Yes, they did. And she loved them. And it was only then, after all these years, that she realized how much she still loved Arlen. And that this election, like all the others over the past twenty years, were her way of honoring him and his memory, a way to carry on his work.
She raised her arms in the universal gesture of victory and imagined Arlen standing next to her as she accepted the governorship of this great state.
NOVEMBER 13
SATURDAY, 9:48 A.M.
FAIR HILLS CEMETERY, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
Grass had not grown over the grave. This was hard country, after all. Fine things struggled in New Mexico. Joe never thought of grass as a finery, but its delicate blades and small stature and its thirst for water that outpaced rainfall put grass at a disadvantage in this harsh region. So Christine’s plot remained barren. But it didn’t matter. She was not below that brown dirt. She resided in Joe’s heart and was part of Melissa’s existence. She lived on through them.
Her headstone was modest. Nothing fancy. Christine hadn’t liked fancy. She’d preferred plain and unobtrusive. So Joe had selected a simple marble slab with the epitaph BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.
“Miss you, Mom,” Melissa said. They had walked hand in hand to her grave.
Joe listened to his daughter’s words in silence.
Then she let go of his hand and went back to the car, leaving him alone with his wife.
Minutes passed. He felt at peace. It was a new sensation, one that he hadn’t known since her passing. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it.
“You know I miss you,” he whispered. “Every day. Every night. Every time I see Melissa.” A crow cawed from somewhere behind him. “I’m seeing someone now, but I’m sure you know that. She’s nice. Broken, like me. I think that’s a good thing, good for both of us. We can help each other.”
A breeze floated by and carried with it the soft scent of sage. “Dale’s on review, so they asked me to stay and run the squad. But I’m not sure if I want to go back. And I have another offer. The new governor wants to appoint me as her border security adviser. Fancy title. I told her I don’t know much about border security, but she says she trusts me to do the job.”
He smiled. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s trusted me.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS NOVEL WAS INSPIRED by an actual event that occurred in Chi Chil Tah (Navajo Nation), New Mexico. Several years ago, I was investigating a missing-person case with Navajo criminal investigator Larry Etsitty. While canvassing a community for leads, we were given information about an abandoned vehicle in the nearby woods. After a somewhat long and dusty hike through a thinly populated forest of scraggly junipers and oaks, we came upon a long-forgotten and fully stripped sedan. Three large bullet holes marred the windshield, and another pierced the driver’s door. While the vehicle was never linked to a crime (except being the victim of abandonment, vandalism, and target practice), the scene stayed in my mind and eventually grew into this novel.
Few stories are written in a vacuum. They are the result of many interactions and much research. This book is no exception. My interactions involved working with the individuals who investigate violent crimes on the Navajo reservation. I would be remiss not to thank them for accepting me into their circles and sharing their personal experiences and views with me, whether at a crime scene or over coffee afterward. Many of those revelations made it into this book, in one form or another, or simply influenced the tone of the narrative. I offer my thanks and gratitude to all the officers and criminal investigators on the Navajo reservation and specifically to the following individuals: senior criminal investigators Larry Etsitty and Malcolm M. Leslie; criminal investigators Denise Billy, Darryl Boye, Christopher Tsosie, Robert James, and Charles VanOsdell; and evidence-recovery technicians Donovan Becenti and Randall Bluehouse. To the FBI agents and staff who work in Gallup, New Mexico, and who must handle the worst of the worst and see the most tragic of tragedies on a daily basis, I offer recognition of their difficult tour of duty.
As for the research that went into this book, I want to thank Richard Malone and Amy Wyman, investigators with the New Mexico Office of the Medical Investigator; plastic and reconstructive surgeon Nathan S. Taylor, M.D.; Professor David A. Phillips, Jr., University of New Mexico, Department of Anthropology (Archaeology); Professor Michelle D. Hamilton, Forensic Anthropology Center, Texas State University; Cindy Josley, Jenelle Yazzie, and Carol A. York, who helped me with Navajo language and traditions; the fine docents at the New Mexico Museum of Natural History & Science who took me into their work space and shared stories of the museum; and the many law enforcement officers and agents who answered my questions and provided me insight. While I took some liberties with the material presented, the accuracy and realism are accredited to these individuals. Where the information is wrong, I am solely to blame.
And finally a warm thank-you to all the individuals who brought Dark Reservations into the light: Ann Hillerman and Jean Shaumberg of Wordharvest, who host a truly wonderful conference and make everyone feel a part of their family; executive editor Peter Joseph, associate editor Melanie Fried, and the professional staff at Thomas Dunne Books and Minotaur Books who worked so hard to make my novel shine (many thanks to you, Peter, for your editorial guidance and sage publishing advice); Elizabeth Trupin-Pulli, a most genuine person and a most marvelous agent; David Shifren, Randall Silvis, and Victoria Thompson, my Seton Hill University writing mentors who transformed me into a writer; freelance editor Michael Dell, whose editing and story advice made my novel so much stronger; my Seton Hill writing community and writing group buddies who make the job of writing fun and not so lonely; and my early readers, Carla E. Anderton, Frank A. Fisher, Jennifer Felts, Rebecca Glover, Matthew Hellman, Mark Hoff, Stephen Marshall, and Laurie Wood Sterbens, who kept me on my authorial toes and challenged me to do better.
If I have forgotten anyone, please know you are very much appreciated and the oversight is my memory and not a reflection of your contribution.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Fortunato was a captain in the U.S. Army who worked in military intelligence and served at the Pentagon during the early part of the global war on terrorism. He is now a special agent with the FBI and has earned an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. A native of Philadelphia, he currently lives in Michigan with his wife and three daughters. This is his first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedi
cation
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
DARK RESERVATIONS. Copyright © 2015 by John Fortunato. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph © Brian Leddy
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07419-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8583-7 (e-book)
E-ISBN 9781466885837
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: October 2015
Dark Reservations Page 31