by Aimée Thurlo
Al looked at him curiously. “Don’t tell me the shooters decided to blow themselves up. This isn’t Afghanistan.”
“No, it isn’t, and if suicide was on their mind, why not just drive right up to us and push the button?”
“The dark red pickup. It’s gone. I saw a woman looking over just before the shooting started,” Nakai broke in. “This can’t just be a coincidence—it was all too well timed.”
“You think you could identify the woman?” Al asked.
“Probably not enough to make an arrest. All I recall is that she had black hair,” Nakai replied.
“Good-looking?” Charlie suggested, already with someone in mind.
Nakai nodded. “Come to think of it, yeah. I got that impression.”
“You know what I’m thinking, brother?” Charlie said, looking over at Al. “We were followed, and we led that bitch and her people right to her next target.”
“Yeah. I have no doubt now that Sheila Ben was behind this.”
Charlie nodded. “With the loss in manpower, she’s now getting personally involved. After that necklace screwup, she’s also making sure nobody in her crew is going to be in a position to point fingers.”
“What the hell you two talking about?” Nakai asked, then groaned loudly.
“Tell you later, Fred. Al, get the first aid kit out of my glove compartment,” Charlie ordered, looking down at Nakai’s leg. “This is one life we can save tonight.”
Chapter Twenty
Al knew most of the responding officers—a mix of county deputies and tribal cops and one of the county fireman, so he did the talking.
Charlie stayed with Nakai until the EMTs loaded the bodyguard up and took him away, getting what description he could of the woman’s image Fred had seen briefly. It could have been Sheila, but it would be up to the local investigators to get an ID from a photo array or whatever.
The burning sedan had been extinguished quickly once the firefighters had arrived, and now the locals were checking the wreckage and trying to locate the scattered debris, which littered the highway, the parking lot, and had even been blown across the highway onto casino property.
Inside the café, which was semi-open air due to the blown-out window, Charlie wrote his statement as a Navajo cop sat across from him. Al was still outside, talking to one of his supervisors.
Sensing he was being watched, Charlie looked toward the door and saw his mom and dad standing just inside. “I’m okay. I’ll be done here in a few minutes and then we can talk.”
The tribal officer turned to look, saw Charlie’s father, then stood. “Judge. Mrs. Henry,” he said respectfully, waving his hand toward an empty table. “Have a seat, if you’d like.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Begaye, I think we’d rather stand,” Al Senior replied, looking at Charlie’s mom, who nodded.
The officer turned back, saw that Charlie had stopped writing, then looked down at the paper. Charlie slid it over and the officer read it for a while. “Very detailed. You never got a good look at the woman in the old pickup, then?”
Charlie shook his head. “Just the vehicle and two shapes inside, the driver and passenger. Mr. Nakai gave me these details of the woman. When he’s interviewed at the hospital, maybe you can match this up with what he later recalls.”
“Then we’re done. Thank you, Mr. Henry, once again. You may leave unless my supervisor outside has some other questions for you. He’s the detective talking to your brother.”
Charlie stood, suddenly tired, and noticed the blood on his sleeves and hands. So much for shaking hands, something most Navajos weren’t too fond of anyway.
Sergeant Begaye had seen his reaction. “There’s a restroom where you can wash up a bit,” he said, pointing across the room.
The manager of the café, who’d seen a sudden increase in business despite having to clean up broken glass, stood as Charlie walked in that direction. “Extra towels and soap in there, Mr. Henry. Grab a cup of coffee on the way out, okay?”
Charlie nodded at the gesture. By the time morning came around, everyone in the Four Corners would have heard all about last night. He could see the headlines now. Tribal casino manager murdered in Navajo Nation shootout. Tribal cop and war hero brother kill suspected gunmen in fiery blast. So much for trying to live a normal life.
Of course there was no way he and Al’s pistol shots had caused that explosion, and before long the forensics would find that the vehicle was a mobile bomb. Of course, then Homeland Security, FBI, and the State Police might get involved.
Maybe, though, the explosives used could be traced. At least Al was in a position to recommend which direction to look.
He’d already made a quick call to Gordon and his pal was doubly alert. If Sheila and Clarence were resorting to explosives now, how much more of the stuff did they have, and who was advising them on bomb construction?
* * *
Charlie left his parents’ home right after eight the next morning and pulled into a parking slot in the alley behind FOB Pawn just before lunch. When he walked in through the back, Ruth was in the office entering records into the system.
“Charlie, glad you’re back—and safe!” she said, turning around and standing as he entered the office. For a second she seemed like she was about to hug him, but finally reached out and touched his arm.
“Gordon told me about it. The news got it all wrong,” Ruth said.
“It’ll take awhile for the facts to come out. You and Jake haven’t had any problems, I hope?”
“Gordon’s watched over us like a momma pit bull.”
“Are you calling me a bitch?” Gordon said, stepping into the office.
Ruth laughed.
“See you’re back in one piece,” Gordon said, giving Charlie a punch on the shoulder. “Your brother too.”
Charlie nodded. “We still need to step up our security,” he said, looking at Ruth. “You might want to consider taking a few days off.”
“No, I feel safer here than alone in my apartment. And from what Gordon’s been saying, neither Jake nor I are likely targets from this crazy lady and her son. It’s not like they’re going to come in the front door…” she began, then stopped abruptly, looking up at Charlie, clearly remembering that had already happened once.
“Not likely,” Charlie assured. “That didn’t work out for them last time. Just keep an eye on the monitors for anything odd outside in the alley or out front, and don’t take any chances.” He turned and saw Jake standing there.
“I got that, boss,” Jake said, nodding. “Good to see you back at work and … intact.”
Gordon turned to the big ex-wrestler. “Why don’t you and Ruth take lunch now? Charlie and I will hold down the fort. Okay with that, partner?”
“Good idea. Anyone out front?” Charlie asked.
“Nope,” Jake responded, “but there was a kid about nineteen eyeing that Xbox at the far end of the display, and I’m guessing he’s going to come back and make an offer. I quoted him sixty bucks, and he said he had to go find an ATM. I told him we’d hold on to it for a couple of hours—after that, it was on the market again.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
“Where we going?” Jake asked Ruth.
“Frank and Linda’s? Their sandwich bar?” Ruth suggested, referring to the mom-and-pop grocery with the sit-down deli area as she grabbed her purse.
“Works for me,” Jake responded. “You two stay out of trouble,” he said to Charlie and Gordon, pointing to each of them.
“Yessir,” Gordon responded, saluting.
* * *
As soon as Jake and Ruth were gone, Gordon took a look out front, saw no one in the shop, and nodded toward the computer. “Your brother sent a copy of some surveillance footage taken from the truck stop and casino cameras.”
“Show me.” Charlie nodded toward the monitor.
Gordon sat down, and with a few clicks of the mouse an image appeared of the parking area in front of the truck stop café. In the
background were the outlines of parked big rigs. After a few seconds Charlie pulled up in the Charger. The rest of the video from this angle showed the arrival of Bitsillie’s car—closest to the camera now—the Crown Vic pulling up to the right of the screen, and all the rest. At the end of the segment the sedan exited the viewing field, and briefly, after that, a bright flash came from that same direction, lighting up the area.
“There’s a different angle from the fuel pumps you’ll wanna see,” Gordon said, clicking on another file. This time, they could see the old pickup pulling in, then parking. As the sedan with the shooters came into the lot, the pickup slipped out behind it, moving toward the street. There was little to see except the gun flashes coming from two different weapons, then the black sedan pulled out, bounced off the stop sign, swerved out into the highway, then raced off, weaving. Immediately there was a big explosion originating from the trunk of the vehicle, and it veered across the highway in flames. A second explosion, probably from the fuel tank, finished it off.
“Clearly, our pistol slugs didn’t cause either explosion,” Charlie said. “Tribal authorities have called in federal explosives experts to check out the wreckage.”
“Any idea about the shooters?”
“Last I heard they were still looking for enough remains to ID. No luck yet. You mentioned casino cameras?” Charlie asked.
“Next video. They have better cameras, but the distance and lighting are problematic. Take a look.”
This video presented the entire incident from a distance of several hundred yards, and all they could really see were the involved vehicles from the opposite direction.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments, then Gordon asked, “You think the wounded bodyguard—Nakai, will be able to ID Sheila Ben as the woman in the pickup?”
“When I brought it up, he didn’t think so. Did you get any word on the plates from the two vehicles? I noticed the angle and lighting were good enough in the second camera video for them to show up.”
“Al mentioned in his cover letter that the plates were stolen, so, no, it doesn’t help much.”
The bell in the front of the store rang, and both of them glanced over as a young man in a denim jacket came into the shop. “I’ll handle that,” Charlie said. “Time to get back into the groove.”
* * *
Another customer came in a few minutes later, so Gordon joined him out front. Before long, there were several people in the shop, three waiting around with stuff in boxes. They kept an eye on these people at first, despite the fact that two were women in their late fifties and the third a man who looked like he hadn’t gotten off the sofa in the past thirty years except to grab another beer. If they were working with the Night Crew, Sheila and her son had gotten to the brine at the bottom of the barrel.
About the time the last of that bunch cleared the shop, Jake and Ruth returned, coming in the front, laughing and clearly having a good time. Charlie was pleased—they’d been pretty grim when he’d left for the Rez the other day. Hopefully, the business wasn’t going to be involved in what was still to come for him, Gordon, and probably Al.
Neither one of them had had lunch, so Charlie and Gordon left their two employees and walked down to Frank and Linda’s. The grocery-deli combo was a long, narrow room, with shelves stacked high in two narrow rows on either side of a wider central aisle. From where they sat at a small bistro table, munching burritos and Cokes, they could see the length of the store, right out the front door onto the sidewalk.
Halfway through his second burrito, Charlie saw a familiar face. It was Detective DuPree, who spotted him at about the same time. Charlie waved him down the aisle.
Gordon looked over and saw who it was. “Hey, DuPree, join us for lunch while we catch up on current events.”
DuPree strode to their table with a puzzled expression on his ruddy face, then looked over at the deli counter. “Why not? I’m going to be here for a while.” He located the chubby Italian owner, who was wearing a long white apron and cap. “What’s good today, Frank?” he asked.
Charlie looked over at Gordon, who shrugged. They listened to the two men talk, quickly learning that DuPree’s father, a longtime law enforcement officer, had known Frank and Linda for years when the deputy had patrolled this part of the county.
A few minutes later, DuPree, armed with a bowl of Frito pie, joined them at the small table. “It’s time to share information, boys. You first, Henry.”
“Basically, I believe that Sheila Ben is behind the death of Cordell Buck, that she arranged for the attempt on Lola Tso and the shooting of Nolan Bitsillie last night, and then proceeded to blow her hired gunmen to pieces to make sure they couldn’t identify their employer. This is based upon all we’ve learned so far, culminating in last night’s events.”
DuPree nodded. “That’s one of the theories sent my way via the tribal police chief and the investigating officers, including your brother. I understand Sheila wanting to retrieve the squash blossom necklace—which probably tied her to Buck’s death—but why did she kill the silversmith in the first place? And why Bitsillie? Was it because the man got her job at the casino?”
“More like how he got the job. She was fired a couple of years ago for doing the nasty on her casino office desk with Cordell Buck,” Charlie explained. “Actually, she was bought off with a handsome severance check.”
“Unusual. Who ratted her out?” DuPree asked.
“It was filmed on a concealed camera—probably planted there by Cordell Buck’s cousin—Nolan Bitsillie. The video was sent to the tribal president anonymously, and he handed it over to the tribal board who oversees casino operations, wanting them to make it all go away. None of this was ever made public, though. Sheila was just paid off and quietly removed.”
“And Bitsillie got the job. Nice setup. But if this is such a secret, how did you find out, Charlie?” DuPree asked.
“My father, a former judge, is on that same tribal board. He saw the video and was sworn to secrecy. But once Al and I became targets, he decided we needed to know the details. He helped me put it all together.”
“We’re talking revenge here, payback major league,” DuPree replied, nodding. “Seems like a little overkill, though. Robbing Cordell Buck, I get that, but killing him, then robbing his grave? Is Sheila nuts?”
Charlie thought about it for a moment. He was no shrink, but he’d been around people that could be sent over the edge with just one tiny push. “Maybe there’s something we don’t know about yet that triggered the killing itself. And why wait over two years before gunning him down?”
“Blackmail?” Gordon suggested. “How about if Buck had approached Sheila recently, trying to squeeze some money out of her? He obviously plays the tribal casinos. Maybe he’s been on a losing streak.”
“Okay, he could have been threatening to make her humiliation from the casino incident public unless she paid him to keep quiet,” DuPree concluded. “But wouldn’t that revelation also put Buck in the spotlight?”
“So? He’d probably get more high-fives than criticism from men,” Charlie suggested. “Besides, Buck was a silversmith, while Sheila owns a family restaurant. It could really hurt her image—him probably not at all. Or maybe Buck had found out about the Night Crew and he threatened to expose Clarence.”
“Okay, motive notwithstanding, if Sheila really did off the men who set her up, how do we catch her?” Gordon asked. “Are we getting any actual evidence from all of this?”
“What about the old pickup, the dead shooters, Sheila’s whereabouts, the explosives, stuff like that?” Charlie asked DuPree.
“The lab boys are all over it, including the FBI crime lab. Several agencies are working on the evidence, including a detailed analysis of the surveillance tapes. The best witness concerning the woman in the pickup—Nakai—is under guard at the Shiprock Medical Center. He’s set to be interviewed by the feds either this morning or afternoon,” DuPree explained.
“Sheila went too far th
is time,” Charlie said. “The woman is a piece of work—good-looking, but cold as hell. She came up to me earlier in the evening…”
“What? You holding out on me, Charlie?” DuPree asked, leaning forward. “I want details.”
Charlie explained how the not-so-subtle threats against his family came out when the subject of Clarence’s safety came up.
“Her son is her weak spot,” Gordon suggested.
“Yeah, but you two better stay away from her and Clarence. Word’s come down just this morning that the feds have been working the auto theft ring from the Mexican end of the pipeline, looking for an informant. Unfortunately, we still don’t have enough to arrest all the players. Until we do, we don’t want anyone else hurt, like your family, Charlie,” DuPree said, this time softening his tone.
“Agreed. But we can keep looking for the other women involved, right?” Charlie asked.
Gordon looked at Charlie curiously for a second. “You still have no idea where Lola is?” he added, switching to DuPree.
The detective shook his head. “Not at this time. There are photos and BOLOs all over the Southwest, and we now have a description of the vehicle she fled in. She’s got to turn up somewhere. That shot-up bar owner, Schultz, still insists he has no idea where she was headed.”
“So you have no problem with us going in a different direction,” Charlie concluded.
DuPree looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Why do I think you’re up to something, Henry?”
“Me?” Charlie asked.
“Him?” Gordon echoed.
“Never mind. Just stay away from Clarence and Sheila, okay?” DuPree stood. “And let me know what, if anything, you learn that’ll help the case.”
“If you’ll do the same,” Charlie responded, holding out his hand.
DuPree took it reluctantly, then shook. “Okay. Deal.” He turned to Frank, who was working behind the counter. “Good to see you again, pal. Say hello to your father for me?”
“Will do, and to your pop as well,” the proprietor replied.
DuPree was barely out the door when Gordon looked over. “This detail slipped by DuPree, but I picked up on it. On the way back to the shop, you gonna tell me what other woman we’re going to be looking for?”